Extreme Tornado Tours: Tour 5 2022

Calm skies with a hint of ominous wonder lurking in the background over Lake Thunderbird State Park in Norman, Oklahoma.

I'm standing in a single-file ladies' room line at what might be our last gas station stop for a while. I scan the aisles for rare, throwback snacks to add to my collection that sits baking in the sun in my plastic bag bindle. My snack and souvenir accumulation grows with every stop we make. Maybe I'll rescue the last bag of Cheetos hanging over a shelf's ledge, just glistening under the fluorescent lights, and dying to be mine.

It's freezing in this tiny gas station. They must be pumping 80,000 BTUs in this place—enough to freeze meat—but I dig it because I'm happiest when I have goosebumps. As I inch closer to the porcelain promised land, familiar faces make their way out of the restroom, commenting on its cleanliness status, "It's not bad! Meet ya at out there!" More familiar faces extend the line behind me. We smile and comment on the assortment of gas station goodies and goonies: sheets of Rice Krispies Treats the length and height of a pillow, children with mullets, and adults with forehead tattoos.

What a unique treat it is for a solo traveler like myself to be traveling in the company of 15 strangers turned friends. Usually, when I'm on the road alone, I smile at unfamiliar faces and make connections with strangers that get the green light from my instincts. But now, I'm rolling 16 deep with a newfound family of men and women from different walks of life.

And somehow, I'm comfortable enough with each of them to be my quirky question-asking, unique observation-making, happy-go-lucky, easily-excited-by-inclement-weather self. I'm not sure if my comfort level is more of a product of these great people I'm with, all of us collectively, or where I am on my own journey—maybe it's a little of everything, but I'm loving it and so happily surprised by it.

I'm always the "me" I like best when I'm out on the road, traveling free. And I never knew that "me" could shine through if I weren't flying solo, tearing up the streets in my own rental beast. This is the first time I have ever been a passenger on a grand adventure—touring with a group of people. Besides my fear of getting motion sick on the road, my main concern with embarking on a trip like this was that I couldn't picture myself spending so much time with people I didn't know. I could never even see myself spending this much time with people I know and love because I tend to require ample alone time to feel fully recharged and fully me. 

But I shocked myself when I still wanted to hang with this crew after spending ten hours in the van with them. When it came time to crash at the hotel—finally time for some quality me time—I didn't want or need it! I threw my bags in my room, changed into my PJs, and ran right back down to the lobby to be with my people.

It's a really unique and special feeling to look around a room and see so many people I'm looking out for and who are looking out for me. It's energizing, surprising, and making my day just to be at a gas station fueling up for some fun with my thunder buddies, as Richard calls us. 

"Are you gonna buy anything here?" one of my fellow first-time chasers, Jen, asks me. "Of course. You know I buy something everywhere we go," I reply. Jen tells me that she really wants a couple of banana Laffy Taffy candies, but she can't bring herself to charge .75 cents on her card. The fact that they even have Laffy Taffies sparks wonder in me for what other obscure gas station goodies might await.

We inch one step closer to toilets and possible tornadoes to follow. Laura exits the bathroom, and she instinctively reads my searching gaze. "It's totally fine. Pretty nice actually, but freezing!" It's an unspoken understanding that whoever experiences the restroom first will report back to those wondering what conditions lie ahead in there.

We do our obligatory bathroom things, then raid the candy aisle. Jen modestly collects three yellow taffies while I palm a fist full of Tootsie Pops, a pharaoh-size Snickers bar, and some white cheddar popcorn to wash it all down with. Honorable mentions I passed up include limited edition patriotic Hostess cupcakes, cookies and creme Twix bars, and Gingerbread Snap'd Mountain Dew.

The girl ringing up our junk at the counter asks if some crazy weather is coming and if we're here to chase it. I reply with a resounding hell yes! I'm really starting to love the fame that comes with the image I didn't realize all 16 of us are portraying as we trek from town to town, truck stop to truck stop, tornado watch to tornado warned territory. We get those inevitable "Y'all storm trackers?" greetings with grins from locals we'll probably never see again, and it makes me feel oh-so-cool.

Another epic greeting we get is the concerned citizen asking, "Why are you guys here? Is something bad gonna hit here soon?" I love hearing this question, and I love it even more when our tour director, Nick the Awesome, as I've decided he shall be named, takes these questions. 

His replies are always genuine, sincere, and sensitive to whatever weather situation might ensue and how this has the potential to be alarming and even dangerous for residents of wherever we may be. Any public relations rep would give Nick two big thumbs up for how he answers concerned questions like that. Whereas if I were to let my words take the wheel, I'd probably blurt out, "F*** yeah! Sh*t's about to get nuts here!" and that wouldn't be helpful for anyone.

We make our way back out to the vans, where the wind is really whipping up. There's still a bright blue sky behind the fastest-moving clusters of clouds I've ever seen. A few of the fellas are gathered around my van's front seats. Goodie! They're definitely looking at radar. I fling myself into my "little knees" seat behind my driver friends and their much longer knees.

Judy's so sweet—only with my permission, she's been calling me "little knees" or "kneesy" because I'm small enough to fit perfectly in that little special spot, up close and personal with my guides, the dashboard that hosts rapidly ripening bananas, and the windshield that collects insect carcasses at a rate no wipers could ever keep up with. 

I love being close to the action. I love being close to my guides. I love when the laptop is out sitting between them, showcasing colorful radar displays. Even when the radar isn't working because mountains are in the way, Nick and Trey indulge me by putting that bad boy on display where I can admire it and hope that a red or pink box appears, indicating a tornado warned area or an actual tornado on the ground.

Nick, Trey, Kevin, and Alec are speaking English while pointing to maps and radar images on their devices, but I understand maybe 7% of what's being discussed. I read the room and sit quietly, laser-focused on keywords, and favorable reactions, absorbing the intensity that's building within all of us. I love hearing one of them say, "I really like what I'm seeing over here." Then my eyes bug out of my head to see what they're liking.

That's how I learned—in laymen's terms—that a small colorful blob of radar that's isolated from a massive mess of vibrant radar holds more potential for a tornado or supercell we can actually see. We want discreet cells so the good stuff—the stuff we want to see—doesn't get lost in the clutter. My guides could explain this way better than I currently can, but their knowledge is essentially professor-level, and I've only been through a few days of "school" so far. 

As we wait for the sun to bake the atmosphere, our guides determine our target areas. More chasers pull in to fuel up as we pull out and speed up. It's a fun chaser culture experience for a newcomer like me to be among the swarm of bees searching for nectar so they can fulfill their life's purpose: making honey, aka storm-chasing.

From Marshall, Minnesota, we head northeast into tornado-warned territory near Renville, Minnesota. It's Memorial Day and we've all got newspaper headlines and YouTube video descriptions bubbling in our brains. Memorial Day 2022: The Most Historic Weather Event in History, Memorial Day 2022: The Last Day of Minnesota's Existence, Memorial Day 2022: The Day Mother Nature Eradicated Minnesota from the Continental U.S., Memorial Day 2022: The First-Ever Triplet Twisters Decimate Minnesota.

Chase mode has officially been activated, and so has my adrenaline. My heart mimics the beat of Hells Bells by ACDC. My palms and pits are getting sweaty. For a second, I feel like I might throw up, but in a good way, if that's possible. I munch on Tums. I take a deep breath, then start to giggle maniacally. There are vibrant radar graphics updating, shifting, and ROTATING on the screen in front of me.

We're doing 70 mph, and it's legal. And to my left stretching horizontally as far my eyes can see, there's a creamy, dreamy, black-meets-white, monstrosity of weather running parallel to the farmland beneath it. This wall of weather is a supercell—the first I've ever (knowingly) seen. I want to hug it! I want to cartwheel through it!

I won't get too greedy because it's awesome in its own right, but I really want to see it send a big, black, beefy tornado just ripping through the wide-open country. I want to watch it whip the trees up into a frenzy. I want to hear it roar like a freight train's coming and watch it dance and perform on a grassy stage set just for us.

My inner Helen Hunt is thrilled beyond words as the sky darkens while brightening beside me, and my brain entertains all of the extreme possibilities. Words and phrases I probably only partially understand flash across my mind like the lightning to the west that's captured the attention of all six guests in the back. "Storms should be firing mid-afternoon," "full cap erosion," "double helical vortices."

As instability increases in the atmosphere, happiness increases in the van. Our guides occasionally crack their windows just an inch and stick a few fingers out to gauge how warm and moist the air is. I think they also use their wizardy ways to send a few signals to the weather gods.

We're all just dying to see softball-sized hail hammering the windshield—even our guides are hopeful for this outcome. These are the kind of extreme weather enthusiasts that have gathered here today.

We pull alongside some railroad tracks to hop out and get a quick view of the storm that's quickly gaining on us. We've got two to three minutes max to hop out and snap a few quick pics, and then it's back to go-time.

What a wild and wonderful experience it is to be on this quest for chaos with the first people I've ever met who share this passion for electricity and extremity in the sky. These are the first folks I've ever known who grab their keys the minute they hear a severe storm is in the area. And the first who, like me, get an instant thrill when that little cloud and lightning graphic appears in their weather app with a high percentage. Most of the folks I'm traveling with—guests and guides—are well-seasoned weather watchers who use much bigger and badder (more technical, accurate, and informative) apps than the one that's built into every iPhone.

"Ok, everybody, back in the vans!" Waves of grass rise and crash like the ocean meeting the shore as super strong winds sweep the plains around us. Sometimes we don't have much time to interact with a storm because we're trying to get ahead of it. It's like we want it to chase, but not overtake us. This particular tornado-warned supercell was barreling towards us doing over 80 mph, and we had to get ahead of it to have the best view of it without getting pummeled by extreme winds and rain. 

As we attempt to outrun the storm, it's fun as hell watching it chase us—like being in our own Twister movie, but better because it's real life. The intensity in the van is almost palpable. 

We enter a small, sleepy town with traffic lights and bends in the road, and I'm reminded of Trey's words from our morning weather briefing, "We're gonna have to stay well ahead of these storms to get what we want today." Unfortunately, all we needed was the slowdown of a few traffic lights to be out of sync with the supercell that was hot on our trail. That's how storm-chasing goes sometimes. There isn't always a route that's conducive to the path the storm's on, there aren't always roads that lead you right to where you want to be, sometimes a tornado is wrapped in rain, and you can hear, but can't see it.

We head southeast to be closer to our target for tomorrow while still following the string of severe storms slated to fire right around now. Suddenly a new tornado-warned target appears on the radar. Maybe we're gonna get lucky after all! The deeper into Minnesota we drive, the more I'm reminded of how much easier this chase would be if we were back in Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains. Too many curves in the roads, too many trees, and not enough clearings with views for miles up here in Southwestern Minnesota.

It starts to rain, and thunder and lightning begin to crack. Now we've got ourselves a show in the van. We're like a bunch of restless kids who just had a DVD popped in, and now our eyes are glued to the glass with high hopes for absolute mayhem. The rain really picks up, and I realize that this is one of the first days I've seen our guides in action like this. I wonder where their nerves are at, assuming this is probably child's play to them.

I remember times I drove through comparable rain and times I sat out the rain on side streets until visibility improved. But the feeling I had as a passenger in my van was a lot like how you'd feel if you suddenly had an allergic reaction at your allergist's office. Or like the feeling I had when my dad picked me up from the after-prom party I was very ready to be picked up from. The feeling is safe. What better place to be, and whose hands and vans could be more capable than those of Extreme Tornado Tours?

It hit me too that these are the best chances I could ever have to see the wildest weather on the planet with my own two eyes. When I took myself on a solo tour of Tornado Alley during this same week at the height of Tornado Season, my chances of actually seeing anything were exponentially lower, and my potential danger levels were considerably higher because I most certainly did not know what I was doing. Even with all of my research and prep—nothing could compare to chasing with the pros. Extreme Tornado Tours made the odds ever in my favor for encountering the weather of my dreams, and my mom's nightmares.

Radar indicated that we were zeroing in on our target area, and our guides walkie-talkied to each other to find the nearest viewing spot. The only clearing we could find was in the parking lot of a power plant which naturally only added to the thrill of the chase. I remembered how our guides described the conditions of today's storms, "It's what we call a loaded gun in the atmosphere—large CAPE (Convective Available Potential Energy)—very unstable—that's what we like to see." 

Suddenly that I'm-so-adrenalized-I-might-puke feeling was upon me again. I asked Spike, my fellow chaser who's also an electrical engineer (or wizard), if we were safe to sit so close to…electrical stuff. He explained why we were safe and just how heavy-duty the protection for high-tension wires is. My nerves suddenly transformed into American pride and Nikola Tesla love.

"Alright, everybody, code red—let's get a quick view." My heart still pounds like a woodpecker on wood as the lightning picks up in the clouds. I'm smiling and giggling maniacally as I hurtle out of the van crushing gravel beneath my sneaks as I search for anarchy in the sky. 

We 16 chasers form a row in the rain as we aim our cameras and phones at a big gray mess in the sky about a mile away, moving at least 80 mph at us. It's a scintillating, sexy sight. We stand in silence as we watch and wait to see a funnel appear and hear it roar.

There's an entity of weather with loose form and it's moving so quickly towards us, the speed reminds me of a low-flying plane. The closer it gets, the more the rain picks up, and the thunder intensifies. We're called back into the vans for safety, and we bounce in just in time to get decimated by the downpour.

Through the wave of the windshield wipers swiping furiously, I'm staring out to where we just stood, wondering what is moving towards us. It doesn't look like the tornados I've dreamt of or the textbook twisters you imagine when you think of them, but something huge, stormy, and messy was coming right at us and eventually flew right over our vans.

So did we see a tornado that day? You decide. Look at the photo below and see what you think. None of us thought we saw a tornado that day until we took a closer look at the photos after our trip. It very well could've been a tornado wrapped in rain, so it was hard to see. And not all tornadoes look like those big sexy, scary things you imagine when you think of them.

And that's storm-chasing. Sometimes you see something wild in the sky, sometimes the storm's moving faster than you can keep up with. Sometimes there are no roads that lead to the storm you're after. Sometimes you get stuck in the mud. Sometimes a tornado's wrapped in rain, and you can't see its bodacious shape. Sometimes you've really got to pee, and there's only a random smelly barn to hide behind, and the wind's so strong you spray your ankles and the back of the barn.

I got so much more out of this adventure than I ever could've imagined. Countless truck stops, McDonald's dinners, peeing behind barns, and all-night lightening sightings with my thunder buddies made this the trip of a lifetime and one I look forward to recreating for many tornado seasons to come.

May 30th, 2022: Buffalo, Minnesota. Photo credit for this shot goes to our Tour Director Nick Drieschman.