Perspective | What it’s like to be a tornado chaser and how it’s done (2024)

But everyone is out there with the same goal: witness one of the most mystical, mesmerizing and damaging pageants of nature’s fury. The movie “Twisters,” starring Hollywood actors in hot pursuit of tornadoes, isn’t that far off in its portrayal of chasing, but the film glosses over some of the hard work and challenges involved.

Here’s what it’s really like to live the life of a storm chaser.

Storm chasing realities

Imagine throwing a pot of water on the stove and trying to predict where the first bubble will pop up. Storm chasing is a bit like that — the sun is cooking the lower atmosphere, and we’re trying to figure out how it will convect, or transfer heat.

But it’s not easy. The Earth is a rotating system with uneven heating, wild topography and bodies of water. Every level of atmosphere behaves differently, with different wind speeds and directions, temperatures and humidity. And we’re trying to predict where a vortex may form that may be only the width of a football field.

It’s as much an art as it is a science. New storm chasers, and even inexperienced meteorologists, may hew close to weather models and “official” outlooks, afraid to trust their gut. Veterans can sniff out the atmosphere’s sneaky surprises.

No matter what, storm chasing is frustrating and disappointing about 80 percent of the time. There are many long days spent in the car without seeing a tornado while eating gas station food and ending the day smelling like rainwater and sweat. But 20 percent of the time, it’s the most amazing thing in the universe. And that’s what keeps us going out there.

How I chase storms

Being a good storm chaser means being intimate with the atmosphere at all hours.

Days in advance, I’ll begin plotting what region of the country I might need to be in. northern Plains or southern Plains? Ozarks or Corn Belt? About a day or two beforehand, I can usually narrow down what state I’ll target. The night before, what part of the state — central or eastern Nebraska, for example. I drive there, book a cheap motel and start analyzing the latest weather maps.

The next morning, I wake up early, scarfing down my complimentary budget breakfast as soon as it opens at 6 a.m. After reviewing weather models — or future simulations — and the latest data (temperature, humidity, winds, etc.), I hit the road by 10 a.m.

Around noon, I start narrowing my target to a zone perhaps a few counties wide. Models become less useful, and real time observations — what’s happening now — matter more.

Where will winds near the ground come more from the east, increasing low-level rotation? Where is the humidity — which helps fuel storms — highest? Where is the nearest boundary, where clashing air masses can help the air rise and spin? Once I have completed my analysis and identified a location, I get into position.

Then it’s a waiting game. Often, it entails sitting beneath blue skies until the “cap” breaks. That’s a lid of warm air at higher altitudes that prevents warm, moist air from rising. Only once the lower atmosphere is sufficiently sun-baked does that air near the ground have enough buoyancy to rise and shatter the cap.

Intercepting a tornado

As storms bubble up, it’s a game of using real-time observations to determine which storm will be most primed to intensify and survive the longest.

If I am poised to intercept a healthy storm, I drop into position. Many storms move at 30 or 40 mph, so failing to keep abreast of a storm can mean falling behind. That can quickly end a chase.

I try to position east of storms. Most move northeast, so being to the east offers me an ideal vista. From that position, rain and hail are visible falling to the right of the storm, with warm, moist air spiraling into the updraft. From that updraft, a wall cloud — a long-hanging rugged cloud — emerges. That’s the visible manifestation of the storm’s rotation. It’s where a tornado may eventually sprout.

Before long, a cone-shaped lowering may appear from the rugged lowering where scuddy clouds consolidate. It burrows toward the ground. Sometimes dust is kicked up at the surface where the invisible circulation reaches the ground. Once that happens, a tornado is born.

How close I dance with danger depends on how quickly and predictably the tornado is moving.

If the storm is moving fast, then it is harder to safely keep up with and catch a good view, but its motion is more predictable. For a fast-moving storm, you only get one close pass; after the twister sweeps past you, it usually is hard to get out ahead of it again.

If a tornado is moving more slowly, then it’s easier to get close and have time to maneuver carefully — yet slow-moving tornadoes are often more erratic.

Staying safe

No matter how enticing a storm is, the end goal is always living to chase another day. Tornadic storms are seemingly sentient at times, throwing the entire fury of the atmosphere at those daring enough to venture close. Bombardments of giant hail and pinpoint lightning strikes make getting close to a tornado perilous — and the tornadoes themselves can quickly become shrouded in rain or make unexpected moves.

I always have multiple escape routes in mind as storms close in. That also means planning for routes in the wake of the tornado that may be blocked by debris or falling trees. If I lose radar coverage or a visual of the tornado, I’ll abandon the storm.

No storm chase comes without risk. But experienced meteorologists and storm chasers take precautions.

After the storm

By the time I drive to a hotel after a chase, I’m usually soaked in rain and exhausted. Pulling into a hotel parking lot, a weird feeling washes over me. The chaos and beauty of what I have seen seems like a distant memory, replaced by the twinkling stars found in clear night skies behind the storms.

Stepping into the crisp night air, crickets chirping, I take a deep breath — before venturing indoors to prepare for the next chase.