June 2nd, 2024. My little Lockney storm.

5:53am. Woke up and immediately checked the Storm Prediction Center outlook. Forecast models and the HRRR were next in line. Last night wasn’t looking bad, advertising a possible dry line setup out in west Texas. Everything became a green light. One pour over later and some optimism for the day, I left Midlothian and hopped on the 20 going west. First time I ever took that route actually. I’ve always been further north.

I arrived in Lubbock for the first time. Beautiful warm, blue skies with a strong breeze. A small city out in the middle of nowhere. Like Amarillo… but not.

I ran through forecasts again with pretty consistent greenlights between Lubbock and Amarillo, with the dry line setting up just east of the Texas/New Mexico border. Planning to play along the I27 corridor, I initially setup shop in Littlefield. Patient, and certainly optimistic. At this point, I’m literally the dude in the middle of nowhere with his head in the clouds.

Staring at the dryline, now visible with a patchy line of cumulous stretching from north to south, I leaned on the front of my car and watched for any clues. Any hints of a tower starting.

There were a few spots along the line trying to punch through, with a northern column showing some possibility. I drove further north towards Happy, becoming absolutely invigorated with the possibility of being on a storm soon. I cannot overstate the power of anticipation. You’re at the top of the rollercoaster hill, but don’t know if you’ll go down. The view, the adrenaline and excitement. But you’re not guaranteed the rest of the ride. It’s an interesting place to be in.

Before this day, all of May for me was a swing and a miss. Yes, the last blog about my first tornado was a success, but quite a bit of it was being in the right place at the right time. I was becoming slightly more familiar with the different aspects of supercells, but in a very top of the iceberg manner. I didn’t really know what the pieces of a storm look like when it’s in front of you. Further, how that relates to data and vice versa. Storm photography is an incredibly serious endeavor, and I did not want to be out of my depth. For the respect and admiration of the photographers that truly live and breathe this stuff, I wanted to earn my stripes. Just as they did. Feeling that pressure and fear in those moments was enough to keep me away from shots I was trying so hard to get. It’s genuinely heartbreaking. You’ve driven 380 miles, yet 10 miles around the storm will absolutely make or break your entire chase. You swung as hard as you could have, yet here you are empty handed knowing others are getting to witness some incredible moments “just over there”. The beastly beauty on May 19th in Oklahoma being a prime example. However, in a weird way, I’m glad I wasn’t textbook those times. I’m glad I screwed up and learned first hand, while keeping myself safe. It would have been too fast. I wasn’t confident enough to pull off the textbook notch shot, especially with volatile setups in May. And I shouldn’t be; I didn’t have experience!

Missing May very quickly led me to believe this:

The good news is that 80% of my job is just showing up.

The bad news, is that 80% of my job IS just showing up.

Close does not count.

60 or 600 miles, you’re either there, or you’re not.

You can be incredible at capturing moments. But if the moment isn’t in front of you, there’s no magical fairy to drop a supercell perfectly in front of your incorrect decisions. Even if you’ve driven all damn day to your target. Even with the best of intentions and predictions. Even if you’ve sacrificed a lot to be there in the first place. Having that context was sobering.

“When you start seeing that radar signature, GO TO THE DAMN PLACE. JUST, GO.”

Yes, sometimes chases just don’t work out, but I was determined to control the one variable I could; ME.

Even if it ends up a lack luster day, I want to drive home knowing that I truly left everything on the field. That I won’t have that nagging voice. Even if somewhere else ends up being the better setup, I can be at peace knowing I gave it my very best shot, and the day just didn’t work out.

Radar signatures start popping up, with the most confidence inspiring being the one I was on. I began to feel something strange. I was ACTUALLY there, within 5 miles orbiting the new storm, now having a better idea of where to be.

Radar was a green light. But it just looked… terrible. I couldn’t make anything out. It was more or less a wall of gray. No visible base or anything really. I figured it would shape up at some point, but I wasn’t sold.

I turned around and got a quick glance south.

Clear blue skies were surrounding this completely independent updraft, anvil spreading out, overshooting top; all the things. Even though the storm I’m already on has more promising data, I became a pure hopeless romantic for the damn southern storm.

As I was driving down the 27 towards Plainview, I couldn’t see anything other than the thin rain curtains. I knew a hidden beauty would be somewhere in there. I just had to find it.

I arrived in Plainview and drove past the old silos and processing facilities. It looked like Texas, dammit! The few buildings turned into farmland in almost an instant. I got past the little rain curtains and finally positioned in front of the updraft base.

Although small, elevated, dainty, and hanging on by a mere thread, the goosebumps started. Nobody around me whatsoever. Just a small, cut down farm field, dirt roads, wind on my back and a little storm taking shape. This updraft was fun sized at best, but when watching its motion, I had hope. I instantly fell in love with its curling structure. As a formal storm chaser, you’re on to the next. That storm is history, and fair enough! I saw lots of other cars heading up towards Happy, chasing what ended up being the Silverton beast that dropped tornadoes and a seven inch hail stone. Wild.

Yet here I was, little optimistic Shaun with his little, optimistic storm.

I bit. Hard. I gave up any last second chance to change targets.

It just didn’t feel right to leave. I saw regret coming from a mile away, and took a risk.

The outflow boundary that was advertised in an earlier forecast distinctly showed up on radar, and it was about to rip through my storm. What the hell would it do? Not a clue. With boundaries, they can either fan the flames or crush them. Really depends.

I hopped back in the car and drove east, ending up between Floydada and Lockney. I was occasionally getting glances of the updraft in my rear view mirror, but nothing clear. I took a left and drove north to position closer to the notch.

I’m tearing up writing this. This was the first time I’ve actually chased, and positioned, and did the thing. I remember that feeling in great detail.

I was there.

Driving on that northbound FM road, I saw a scene I really liked with golden wheat fields and a line of windmills. I was still too far south from being in the vault, but loved the shot. I wasn’t sure if there were any windmills further up the road, and loved the perspective they gave to the scene. To me, if the storm is beautiful, but the landscape isn’t harmonious to the scene, then its a perfectly crafted sword with a dull edge. It just doesn’t really work. I’ve taken many, many of these flawed photos, even just with my mere two years into it. Having a landscape, foreground especially, that compliments the scene really helps to bring the image to life.

I made another left onto a dirt road directly adjacent to the field. In my eyes, the scene was just incredible. And I finally earned it. I did the damn thing, by no accident. Even if it was with a fluffy, friendly supercell, I actually did it. And you know what, I enjoyed it too. It was fun. It’s why I absolutely love watching storms. The moments you come across are so exceptional, strange, powerful and beautiful at the same time. All the while being completely alone with Mother Nature as your dance partner. Nothing really compares.

The elevated, angled base took on beautiful, wind sculpted curves. Nothing on the horizon, and a beautiful sunset right behind. No other chasers, or locals, in sight.

Me and my storm.

She finally withered away at sunset. I pulled into a small gas station and waved her goodbye.

A storm I thought would be a patch on radar for 30 minutes turned into my favorite spring chase of 2024. Almost 3 hours of peaceful horizons, warm breezes and unique scenes with this small supercell. I drove to Wichita Walls later that night.

Walking towards the hotel lobby with my duffel bag, backpack and tripod in hand, a gentleman smoking a cigarette outside welcomed me in. After some quick, casual conversation, I walked towards the elevator. I remember just how quiet and oddly peaceful it was. Comfortable and strange in a complimentary way.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Until next time!