this land, part iii

I have always loved cities and mountains for their ability to block out the sky. A wide open sky renders me vulnerable to the relentless sun during the day, to the vastness of starry space at night. I cannot wrap my mind around it any more than I can grasp it in my hand. It is sublime, terrifying.

Ironic, then, that one of great pleasures of a road trip, for me, is watching the skies change with the topography. I grew up in the mountains of Utah, where the sky is a straightforward and brilliant blue, punctuated by cotton ball clouds. When it rains, they take on an aspect of charcoal but retain their reassuringly friendly form. In West Virginia, we had pale blue skies with long wisps of clouds, and when a storm was brewing the wisps would accumulate until they were opaque and heavy, dumping gigantic splotches of rain onto the windshield.  In the Midwest, we saw layer upon layer of incongruous shapes and textures, various heights and shades mixing together, sometimes flat and sometimes roiling, as fronts from north and south, east and west, collided.  And in Kansas, well...

A week before we left NYC I woke up at two a.m. in a sweat. Tornadoes! Was this tornado season? Was that a thing? Earlier that evening, a Pinterest search for Hays, Kansas, one of the likely stops on our route, had resulted in one promising looking restaurant and several pictures of single and double twisters. The longest stretch of our drive would be across flat, sparsely inhabited Kansas and eastern Colorado, with little chance of finding a cellar in case of a storm. I recalled two summers spent in Minnesota and the occasional evenings when the sky would transform in a few minutes' time from its typical grey-blue to a menacing emerald. Tornado watches and warnings would be issued, at which my friend's family would shrug, This isn't Kansas.

Still in bed, I reached for my iPhone. Tornado statistics. When there were earthquakes in San Diego I used to comfort myself in this way, with numbers. Earthquakes are really not as bad as you think, once you have the statistics. Tornadoes were probably not as prevalent as I thought.  Or... Kansas averages twenty-two tornadoes in June (National Climactic Data Center), and those are only the ones that are seen by human eyes? And there is no way of predicting them with any accuracy?  Headlines from the end of May were no more comforting: After two days of storms and tornadoes, Kansas is forecast to get hit again (The Kansas City Star), Multiple tornadoes reported in Kansas (Fox News), and best of all, More massive tornadoes leave trail of destruction in Kansas (CBS News). Public service sites mentioned that, while tornadoes can devastate neighborhoods, deaths from tornadoes are few; typically only those in cars, trailer homes, and other lightweight structures not heavy enough to withstand the winds are at risk. Reality was not helping my anxiety.

A few days on the road had dulled my worries. We had a lovely dinner at Julian in Kansas City, Missouri, I grabbed green tea and local Christopher Elbow chocolates at the Roasterie next door, and we got our wiggles out (some of them) at a pleasant neighborhood park. Earlier, we had found ourselves in Independence, Missouri, a town of significance in Mormon history. We went to the visitors' center there and had a look at the temple of the Community of Christ (formerly RLDS) across the street, which is one of the most unusual structures in North America, resembling a steel-plated alien spacecraft in the shape of a drill, or in Steve's opinion, a fortress from the Superman movies. The Community of Christ also claims Joseph Smith as its founder, but it separated from what is now considered mainstream Mormonism at his death. It had been a good mini-detour.

As we left Kansas City, storm clouds were visible ahead of us. I checked the weather on my phone. Yes, a rainstorm, but nothing terrible. Winds were low and it was already starting to clear in Salina, three hours away, where we were planning to spend the night. We stopped for fuel and it was as though the entire sky was sporting a dark wooly cap, with brilliance peaking out from underneath it at the horizons. We drove on.

It began to rain and we watched with relaxed delight as bolts of lightning ripping through the sky to our right. It looked like the storm would veer around us somewhat, on its way to Kansas City. Soon, Topeka was behind us and the rest of Kansas opened before us, vast and devoid of shelter. Tornado watches for central Kansas started to pop up on my iPhone just before I lost reception. I turned on the radio, hoping for both news and distraction, finding neither. We turned it off again.

Off to our right the sky cleared and we could see the sunset, fiery orange and brilliant against the clouds. It was stunning, celestial. To our left and above us the sky was increasingly apocalyptic, the clouds crackling and intensely electric, casting great white bolts of lighting to the ground with ceaseless frequency. A wall of darkness moved across the sunset, obscuring it from view, and we were plunged into night prematurely. I uttered a silent prayer and told myself that God is aware of the sparrow, and us. I clung feebly to the thought, though the scene before my eyes was a persuasive display of the sweeping power of nature and our little family's insignificance before it. I told myself that my fear was simply lack of familiarity, that the blizzards and hurricanes and gun crimes that threaten NYC, yet cause me nary a worry, are far more destructive than the odd Kansas tornado, but my white knuckles were unconvinced. We made an attempt at an audiobook, but it was impossible with the deafening thunder and we decided to let the storm have its way. We rode in silence.

For an hour, maybe more, we drove on through sheets of rain and searing lighting, simultaneously enraptured by its beauty and and alarmed by its savageness. I eyed the sea of glowering clouds, vigilantly searching for the slightest sign of funneling, though what we would do in that case was by no means obvious, since even such mean shelters as ditches and overpasses were nowhere to be seen on the bare ribbon of highway that stretched out before us. There were still a few tractor-trailers on the road, and seeking solace wherever I could find it, I reasoned that, were there any true danger, the drivers would have heard something on their CB radios and abandoned the highway in search of refuge. We passed the occasional farm or freestanding house and I envied the inhabitants' ability to regard the storm from the safety of a solid structure, evening routines undisturbed by the magnificent turmoil outside. We drove on.

As we neared Salina, small white dots began to glimmer in the velvety black and the torrents eased to a light mist. By the time we pulled up to our hotel, the air was warm and clear, and insects were emerging from their hiding places. We gave each other subdued smiles and assumed the business of checking in for the night. Half-an-hour later, I lay in my bed with nature silent outside the window and the sleeping bodies of my loved ones around me, and gave thanks for the marvels we had seen and our safety in the midst of them.

p.s. I will never be a storm chaser.