CHASED BY STORMS

You don’t have to storm-chase out here, the storms chase you

I love that observation from my 15-year old daughter.

We were four weeks deep into the trip of a lifetime to the US, and barely a day had gone by when we weren’t blessed by some kind of biblical rainstorm. An unusually active monsoon season meant the air was hot and humid where it’s normally incendiary and dry.

Yes, there were a couple of days when the temperature hit 109F (I usually cease to function above 70F), but as someone who’s experienced 115F and upwards in this part of the world, it was pretty extraordinary to see a foot of rain on the streets of Phoenix and the mercury hovering apologetically in the high 70s.

In one memorable encounter, we drove headlong into a savage haboob in New Mexico, surrounded by lightning, punishing winds and swirling dervishes of clouds. These savage lands and righteous weather dominate the frayed ends of humanity that find themselves in the firing line.

As we slowed to a crawl a semi-truck crossfaded into view, hazard lights on. Two cars had pirouetted into a ditch, and lay there, mangled and upended. Above us a news chopped circled recklessly in the violent, dusty winds. To our right lay a forlorn gas station with onlookers shaking their heads in disbelief.

Minutes later we were on our way through a sand-coloured deluge and heading deeper into the storm.