A Supercell of my Own

 The distribution maps for the Northern Illinois Cicada brood threw me for a loop. There were counties highlighted all over the Northeast corner of Iowa- a little slice of the driftless region, an area I hoped I could not only find the magic cicadas but also locate some trout as well. But the brood proved elusive in that area as Emily and I zig zagged our way ever northward through Iowa, stopping near rivers, creeks, and ponds, and driving wooded roads with the windows down hoping to hear the low drone of a million horny bugs. We weren't hearing it though, nor did the ground reveal signs that there'd ever been any cicadas anywhere we went- the emergence holes, nymph casings, dead individual, the wings from those that had fallen prey to birds -and it was beginning to drive me crazy.

I'm a cicada addict. Periodical cicadas, making up a handful of species and 13 different broods that emerge on the same schedules. 12 broods are on a 17 year cycle, three are on a 13 cycle. This year, the Great Southern Brood (a 13 year brood) and Northern Illinois Brood  (a 17 year brood) emerged in coincidence. I wanted to be there for at least some of it. My fascination with periodical cicadas arose young, and I was always bug obsessed. When I was 5 years old Brood VIII emerged in Western Pennsylvania. The memory of the sound, and finding dozens of casings at the base of each large tree in my grandparent's yard was easily ingrained in a young naturalist's mind. When the Brood II emergence in CT didn't result in an abundance of cicadas within immediate proximity to home, I was very disappointed. I'd later learn that development had severely impacted this brood and that it is no longer very broad in distribution. In 2021, I made the short trip south to fish and observe Brood X in Maryland, my first time seeing the bugs since 2002. It was thrilling. Being that I have both a cicada addiction and wanderlust, the Midwest called. 

But Northeast Iowa was disappointing me in terms of bugs. It became clear the distribution was just patchy here, and a third addiction was calling me west, one that had nothing to do with cicadas or fish. The sky had a lot to say that day, but not where we were. If we wanted to hear what it was going to profess, Emily and I had to go further west. 

So across the flat plain of Iowa we went on a highway so straight and uniform it was numbing. Thin, grey clouds and a light shower gave way to sun, humidity, an a wind so strong it periodically threatened to blow us away. We stopped for gas station at the exit for Parkersburg. I only know that Parkersburg was a town in Iowa because in 2008 a massive tornado tried to wipe it off the map. Along a 43 mile path and over 70 minutes, the Parkersburg-New Hartford EF5 killed 9 people and changed the lives of those who it didn't kill forever. I only know about a lot of otherwise small, insignificant towns because they were hit by tornadoes. In fact, though I didn't know it yet for sure, we were going to pass through quite a few more on this drive. Stepping out of the gas station off the Parkersburg exit I was blasted in the face by hot southerly wind. This wind could fuel more tornadoes. That's why we were going west. 

The terrain changed notably as we approached the Missouri River, which serves as the border between Iowa and Nebraska. I'd never been to either of these states, and though the middle of Iowa had been most dull from the highway Nebraska would get much less so. Once we crossed the river and got off the highway we were greeted by rolling hills, lush green farmland, and some of the most beautiful old barns I've ever seen. Overhead, the signs of storms were becoming clear. Anvils are the spreading tops of thunderstorms as they hit stratospheric stability. Basically, they rise to a layer of air they can't punch through easily. On big supercell storms like these ones were, especially in a place so open and expansive in terms of views, the anvil is an imposingly big thing that denotes the massiveness and power of the storm making it. I was behind the wheel at this point and trying to navigate us quickly to one of these storms before it made a tornado. The roads were doing everything I needed, and I thought I'd picked a pretty good storm. It was looming larger and darker by the moment now. It was coming Northeast and we were going Southwest, so both parties gained ground. Soon we passed by Pilger, a small town where in June of 2014 (just a few days to the date as we were driving through, in fact) a freak of nature occurred as two concurrent EF4 tornadoes traveled along a nearly parallel course of destruction. The town would suffer incredible damage. As I glanced at the water tower my brain flashed images from other storm chasers that had been there then, of two dirt and debris filled funnels, of airborne roofs, of nature doing something completely astonishing. I couldn't even drive in 2014, but I was completely obsessed with storm chasing. I would set out on my bike some days, leaving the safety of the house behind in favor of a better view and better places to take pictures of the sky anytime a thunderstorm came. Now I could really chase and found it hard to believe that I was not only driving through these towns where notable tornadoes had occurred but headed toward a supercell of my own in Tornado Alley. 

I was getting us in a good spot and doing so quite quickly. We stopped to take a brief look on route 31 east of Madison. Our storm was tornado warned. It had a huge base and dark, evil core and wasn't being interfered with by other storms yet. It looked very good. Emily and I switched. I now had to do to many things to drive safely, what with the radar, map, and sky all calling my attention. There's nobody I'd rather have driving me towards an impending tornado though. 

We continued west, then turned north to get close to the storm's path. Not far north of Madison we left the main road, climbing a gravel hill of 831st Rd. At the top of that rise was one of the most spectacular views I could ever have hoped for. A perfect funnel lowered from the storm's rain free base, back lit by a yellow and orange sky with the dark base overhead and the rain core just to its north. In the foreground was a grove of trees and a beautiful red barn. 

Though it lasted only a few minutes, this little tornado south of Battle Creek, Nebraska was my first outside of the northeast and far and away the prettiest I'd ever seen. It also didn't do anything in the way of damage, other than kicking up a bit of dust and blowing some crops around. As it roped out and withered into the ether in the distance, Emily and I cheered, jumped for joy, and kissed. But it wasn't over yet. The storm was still tornado warned, and pummeling the town of Norfolk with heavy rain, hail, and strong winds to our north. 

We jockeyed with the rear flank, staying just ahead and south of its track. For a brief time it carved out a stunning mesocyclone. 

Around the same time, a storm just to the southeast of us, which I'd been watching carefully on radar, was making a tornado of it's own near Clarkson. Simon Brewer and Justin Drake, who had been on the same storm as we were still watching initially, had bailed before the Battle Creek tornado but caught the much more powerful and longer lived Clarkson tornado from close range. You can watch their video of that amazing tornado here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_igTrkv5_Q

I soon decided that we should try to hook-slice that storm as it crossed the main road, as it was looking much more tornadic than ours. Emily handled the heavy rain of the rear flank with stern focus and intensity, and the storm's area of rotation crossed the road a few miles ahead of us. We got ahead of it and positioned south the the storm's now thoroughly saturated rotation. This was what is called a high precipitation supercell, the whole rear flank was loaded with heavy rain that would likely conceal any tornado. It was still strikingly colorful and beautiful. 

Though it made another attempt with a fat, short lived funnel cloud, our storm was running out of juice for rotation. A big line formed, and we stuck with it into the late evening hours. We crossed the Missouri River back into Iowa with it, and it spiderwebbed the sky over the motel we found with lightning well into the night. The storms of the Great Plains are a whole different animal. Not to throw shade on our storms here in the northeast. But their size, intensity, and longevity is just not comparable. Getting to experience them was a longtime dream achieved.

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