STORM TRACK: September 30, 1984 (Volume 7 Issue 6)

Not all the satisfactions to storm chasers are limited to confrontation with a swirling tornado, shredding trees and grinding across the prairie. They also appreciate other things, such as intricately patterned cirrus streaks brushing the sky; cloud towers that define a cold front a continent wide; the gray-slate skies of winter that mark the passing of a season; and in the spring Olympian-forged sunsets radiating flame against cloud walls, flickering with distant lightning. In fact, one of my most memorable weather encounters was not with any cloud filled sky but, rather, in its absence!

Driving across west Texas on I-20 between Fort Worth and Abilene one clear, sunny day, I was returning from a fruitless Arkansas chase of a passing front the day before. The approaching high pressure cell was elongated north to south and extended from Canada almost to the Gulf. Its massive influence had cleared all but the lingering low clouds on the eastern horizon as I moved through northerly winds across Texas from Fort Smith that morning. There would be no more severe weather that day, and I'd be lucky even to pick up a thundershower in the western Panhandle tomorrow. Thus, I was relaxed and simply taking in that great Texas landscape, so open and vast, recalling the rich history of the early west. While driving, I idly regarded a few apparent cottonwood seeds floating across the highway from the north. By this time, the wind had become light, not more than 3-5 MPH. Except for a few high cirrus, the sky was clear that afternoon, as the center of the high approached. A corner of my mind contemplated how to tell its passing, as I eagerly anticipated the return of southerly winds with their moisture, heat, and the promise of a new cycle of storms. I again saw cottonwood seeds floating from the north and was fascinated. There were no windmills or smoke tails curling up anywhere on the horizon to otherwise betray that moment. The traffic was strangely absent and I was alone, the tires humming steadily across the pavement and the gently rolling hills.

Then, there, within 10 miles of the last northerly drifting seed, I saw another, gently floating from the south. An invisible wall had been passed -- almost a continent wide. No clouds, no blowing dust, no other sensible sign, other than the smallest fragment of life, gently riding, tumbling on the merest current of air. The wind did not change again that day, except to grow. The break was clean and complete: southerly winds the rest of the afternoon, picking up that night to a steady 15-20 MPH from the southeast, and the quickening pulse of anticipation. Yet, how profound and subtle the transition. However many more tornadoes I am fortunate to see, I will never forget that clear, quiet day in west Texas, when a great air mass passed over, and a tired, dispirited man was changed by the least of nature's signs -- a mere cottonwood seed drifting on the wind.