Tracking Summer Storms

It’s midsummer and thunderstorms frequently broil through the area in late afternoon or early evening. The day’s heat gets stored in atmospheric bubbles and then is violently blasted back out as lightning, thunder, and rain. They are intimidating events, but very welcome, in that they bring most of our treasured summer precipitation.

When I’m outside I can hear the storms forming, way off to the west. Occasional low rumbles of distant thunder alert me to the approaching fury. The sky might later turn an ominous gray, as swirling clouds appear. Many of these storm cells are small—only a mile or two in size. Most of them will miss us, zipping by to the north or south. Some will form and shoot their wad before reaching our area; some are still building their fury as they pass overhead, later to release their built-up tensions to the east. And then a small portion have our name on them, exploding right overhead.

On some stormy evenings I will lie peacefully soaking in the outdoor tub, tuning warily into those early warning rumbles. I feel quite vulnerable in the tub—naked and at the mercy of the storms. I lay there, trying hard to estimate the path of a storm from the thunder grumbles I hear and the roiling clouds I watch. Will this one go on by to the north? Am I watching the edge of a passing storm cell—a near miss, or is it coming right down my alley?

I hate to truncate a tub soaking—I require an hour or more to fully let go, and it seems as if those blasted storms always appear shortly after I submerse myself. A light rain begins and wind gusts start to swirl. My emotional state—just beginning to come down—jacks up a notch. It’s thrilling to witness a storm envelope you, but I’d far rather prefer that this one veer to the north or south.

I don’t have the courage of John Muir, who once thrilled to a passing thunderstorm, while clinging to the upper branches of a tree—swaying crazily back and forth. Increasingly alert as the storm approaches, I ready myself, bunching my leg muscles like a cat—ready to explode from the water, grab my towel, and bolt for the house; as I pray that a storm bolt isn’t aimed at me. Would I be safer to hunker down and weather the storm in the tub?