I’m not particularly satisfied with this photo, but when it comes to shooting lightning, I’ll take what I can get.

Nasty weather paid a visit to the Northern Plains yesterday as I made my way home following an overnight visit to Oklahoma City. While friends were bagging tornadoes in Minnesota, I was rotting on the tarmac at Chicago O’Hare, wishing the storms would just go away. Of course, once in the air, we were rewarded with a magnificent sight as the pilot zigged and zagged between storms, atomic bomb updrafts all around. It was a religious experience, so to speak.

As for the landing… well, that was a religious experience of a completely different sort.

Given the proper environment, supercell thunderstorms may exhibit a tendency to split into two distinct storms: one rotating cyclonically, the other anti-cyclonically. Generally, the cyclonic storm remains dominant, whereas the anti-cyclonic storm rapidly shrivels and dies. However, these anti-cyclonic martyrs often make for good photography as they dissolve from bottom up, racing away from their cyclonic counterparts.

In the photo above, an anti-cyclonic split takes its last breath as the sun sets, lost in its own mammatus-laden anvil canopy. By the time the sun vanished for good, so had the storm.

This prairie dog didn’t seem particularly concerned with my presence. It remained transfixed on the neighbor’s back door, like a stray cat waiting to be fed.

Growing up in Texas, I came to regard fireworks as the sort of thing seen only on the most special of occasions. Why? Well, during the warm season, my corner of Texas - it’s a big state, after all - was a tinderbox of dry grassland, dead lawns, and goofy McMansions (in Mediterranean style, no less) with wood shingles. When a simple cigarette butt tossed from a moving pickup is enough to ignite the sort of conflagration that draws TV news choppers and every fire department within a hundred mile radius, there’s not much use for rocket’s red glare or bombs bursting in air. Of course, there’s no shortage of folks who nonetheless risk setting their backyards ablaze each 4th of July (Texas is a “red” state, after all), but, for the most part, the shooting off of fireworks is generally left to professionally-trained pyromaniacs.

Should you find yourself rolling into a town of virtually any size in Texas, you’ll no doubt find evidence of the state’s pervasive fireworks paranoia. Underneath the city limits sign, the out-of-date population sign, the youth curfew sign, the “Drug-Free Community” (if you say so) sign, and the “Home of the [insert local high school mascot, most likely some sort of very large cat]” sign, expect to find the “Possession of fireworks within city limits is punishable by $5,000 fine and a swift kick to the head” sign. So, if you’re still anxious to put an eye out with a Roman Candle, make sure you do so on unincorporated land. Note that rural fire and medical services often leave a little something to be desired.

Things are different here in Nebraska, however. For the most part, fireworks are available year round, although sales are “officially” limited to the week or so leading up to the 4th of July. And, since watching corn grow gets old by about the second week of June, you can bet folks of all ages take advantage of the firework-friendly environment. While this past New Year’s paled in comparison to the one I spent in a Honolulu highrise a few years back (clearly, the locals were stockpiling for the coming revolution), there were still loud reports from surrounding neighborhoods once the clock struck midnight… and 1AM… and 2AM… and 3:17AM, for that matter. With a view here at home that spans the entire Omaha metropolitan area, the ringing in of the new year was as colorful as it was annoying.

But what of the 4th of July? According to friends and family, it’s worse. Exponentially. And you know what? I believe them. Why? Because fireworks just went on sale today, and it already sounds like New Year’s. Perhaps they’re celebrating Custer’s Last Stand.

More baby birds.

Of the previous brood, only two survived long enough to leave the nest. Hopefully, these guys will have better luck.

Kind of creepy looking, aren’t they?

I’ve been busy processing some of my older photos with the help of Fred Miranda’s powerful Photoshop plugins - with excellent results! This picturesque tornado occurred near Attica, Kansas on May 29, 2004. Bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, the tornado may look benign. In reality, it was a giant drill press, slowly drifting across the countryside. Thankfully, it didn’t drift in our direction.

It looks as if this year’s chase season in the Plains has pretty much come to an end. Despite a dismal May, the first half of June proved exciting in western Kansas and the Texas Panhandle. Unfortunately, Nebraska remained quiet. Clearly, I picked the wrong year to play close to home.

Still, surprise events can and do happen in the Central and Northern Plains late in the season - even when under the influence of strong ridging. Just ask Mike Hollingshead.

I hope it appreciates the water.

Summer has arrived, and it’s hot as… well, Texas. And here I thought I had made my escape.

I’m an Uncle. How about that? Welcome to the family, Madison Christine.

A few minutes later, I was standing in the middle of a downpour. Soggy sandals are not made for running.

An impressive thunderstorm shelf cloud approaches Bellevue, Nebraska after dark.

“You’ve got to love [movie/TV show/song/book/ice cream flavor].”

I’m not entirely sure why, but this phrase irks me so. Perhaps it’s the imperative “you”. Or perhaps it’s the idea that I should automatically share your interest in whatever the subject may be. The contrary opinion is inconceivable.

I suppose it’s just a common turn of phrase, but I nonetheless cringe when I see it - even if do happen to love [movie/TV show/song/book/ice cream flavor].

It feels an awful lot like Summer all of the sudden.

I hate Northeast Kansas.

It felt great to be on the road again, and despite some concerns with the day’s setup, I couldn’t help but be optimistic. I got off to a late start, leaving Omaha around 2:00 PM, headed in the general direction of Topeka. The first good storm of the day developed directly in front of me as I crossed the state line, forcing me to skirt around the back side of the core in order to get in position on the updraft. From the north, the storm looked rather mushy, so I didn’t expect to see much; however, as I emerged from the core, I was surprised to find a decent wall cloud over my right shoulder.

A few seconds later, I spied Amos Magliocco and Eric Nguyen on the side of the road. They had real-time radar data, and being data poor, I decided to join them for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, the storm was showing signs of becoming outflow dominant, and as we topped off our gas tanks on the outskirts of the Kickapoo Indian Reservation, we came to the collective conclusion that the storm was, essentially, shit. Furthermore, it was rapidly approaching the Missouri River valley, which is horrendous chase territory (to say the least). With new storms developing to our immediate southwest, we opted to break off and try our luck elsewhere.

Five minutes later, the storm did this.

We spent the remainder of the day driving in circles, chasing unimpressive, grungy junk in the same general area. Eventually, the capping inversion gave way as upper level energy arrived, and storms went up from Nebraska to Mexico. Hello, squall line!

Eventually, we drifted south to Topeka and made our last stand - at Cracker Barrel. Dinner was enjoyable, at least. It’s been a year since I last saw Amos and Eric in the flesh, so it was nice to catch up over iced tea and cornbread.

Unfortunately, the squall line refused to pass Topeka until after dinner, forcing me to fight heavy rain and strong wind much of the drive home. As I emerged from the rain, however, I was surprised to see lingering sunlight on the western horizon - at 10:00 PM. Typically awash in city lights, I guess I’ve never stopped to consider just how long twilight lasts this time of year. I should have stopped for photographs, but I was tired and anxious to get home.

My luck in Northeast Kansas over the years has been nothing but horrible, and yesterday was, unfortunately, more of the same. Spending time with chase buds was a bright spot, I suppose, but it can’t dilute the feelings of dejection and disgust that come with missing a photogenic tornado by mere minutes thanks to one’s poor judgment. Such things happen from time to time, of course, but in a difficult year such as 2005, it’s an especially bitter pill to swallow.

Oh well. On to the next system…