Warren Faidley, Storm Chaser

W o r k i n g i n t h e E y e o f V i o l e n c e

WORKING IN THE EYE OF VIOLENCE

Two enormous white clouds billowed in the sky ahead of us, their fluffy crowns rising and spreading into the slate-blue heavens. They joined at the bottom, where they had turned nearly black, and beneath them a blaze of yellow and ocher light silhouetted the modest peaks of the Santa Rita Mountains, south of Tucson. "We may be lucky tonight," said Warren Faidley, in the driver's seat of his fourwheeler. "Let's hope we get a megastorm." While other people might have turned around and headed for shelter, Faidley pushed down on the accelerator, sending the vehicle hurtling over bumps and careening around curves. "It looks ideal," he said, his voice tinged with excitement. "We should be there to set up while there's still some light." It had already been a long day for me, but it was a normal one for Faidley, who makes his living chasing storms and photographing them. At 37, he is the world's most noted storm photographer - and perhaps the only one doing it full time. He chases nearly 150 storms a year: lightning over Arizona, tornadoes in Texas and the Midwest, hurricanes in Florida. His remarkable photographs have appeared all over the globe, including in such publications as National Geographic, Life, The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, and Popular Science; in television specials and in motion pictures. But he was pursuing this storm with the intensity of a reporter on his first assignment. "Look at it," he said. "It's a beauty!" His day had started at his home in Tucson at 7 A.M., when he tuned in to the PBS morning weather program. It was August, the middle of Arizona's summer monsoon season, and he was hoping to hear about weather disturbances in Mexico. He had smiled at the report, which indicated unstable conditions. "It could be a good day," he said. "I'll have to keep an eye on the dew point." With that, he disappeared to run out to his vehicle, where he has installed a complete weather station. All through the day, between cleaning up the odds and ends of the previous night's photographic adventure and checking at the photo lab to see what those photos revealed, he alternated between the weather instruments and the ladder on his balcony, which gives him a clear view to the southwest. At about 4 P.M., his activity became more intense. He checked the satellite weather report, then started to organize the gear in his vehicle. By seven in the evening, he had just about made his decision. The clouds from the southwest were building, the heat was intense, and the dew point was up. "One more look," he said, dashing up the stairs to the balcony, and then up the ladder. Faidley's long and intimate experience with storms has taught him to read them like perhaps no other person. He knows what they're going to do, and where they're headed-most of the time, for Mother Nature delights in keeping a few surprises up her sleeve, and some of them are monstrous. Now we were approaching the cloud, and it was beginning to tower above us. Faidley usually likes to leave about an hour of travel before sunset, driving toward the storm clouds. Sometimes he pulls over and just watches, trying to decide which of his many favorite shooting locations would be best. That's important because Faidley doesn't just "shoot" his lightning photos. He looks for specific scenes, much like a painter. "I feel that I'm an artist," he said, "painting with light."

IT WAS EASY TO SEE WHY ARIZONA

IS CALLED THE LIGHTNING CAPITAL

OF THE UNITED STATES. FLASHES WERE

STREAKING OUT OF CLOUDS

IN THE DISTANCE, TRACING NARROW

YELLOW RIBBONS THROUGH

AN EVIL-LOOKING CLOUD MASS.

FROM THAT DISTANCE, WITHOUT THE

SOUND AND FURY, IT WAS A FLASH

DANCE. FARTHER AWAY, OVER PHOENIX,

MULTIPLE FLASHES LIT UP THE SKY

LIKE DISTANT FIREWORKS ON THE FOURTH OF JULY.

He drove with confidence on a road that barely existed, arriving finally by a ledge that gave a view of the distant lights of Tucson. The big clouds had united and were passing over to the south of us, headed for the city. "Great," murmured Faidley, "let it be a monster storm." With a driven efficiency, he set three still cameras and a motion picture camera on tripods, then began to set the focus, range, and timing. "Now," he said, leaning against the vehicle and staring into the storm, "we wait for the blast. It won't be long."

It was easy to see why Arizona is called the lightning capital of the United States. Flashes were streaking out of clouds in the distance, tracing narrow yellow ribbons through an evil-looking cloud mass. From that distance, without the sound and fury, it was a flash dance. Farther away, over Phoenix, multiple flashes lit up the sky like distant fireworks on the Fourth of July.

But Faidley explained that being called the lightning capital doesn't mean Arizona gets the most lightning storms. "Florida has that distinction," he said. "It's just that this is the best place for scientific observation. And," he added, "the best place to take photographs."

As we talked, a veil formed beneath our giant cumulonimbus cloud, extending to the mountain peaks below it. "Already raining there," I said to Faidley, drawing on my years of experience on the sea. "Good thing we're not over there. We'd be soaking wet."

"That's not all," he said. "That's a virga, a rain shaft. It also creates a path for lightning." As he said this, a narrow, jagged flash cut through the veil. "See what I mean?" he said. "That's why I stay out of the rain."

While he scurried around again, fine-tuning his cameras, I thought about the close calls Faidley had told me about. In 1988, soon after quitting a photojournalist job at The Tucson Citizen, Faidley was out in a storm, aiming his camera at a fuel depot only 400 feet away. He had just framed the shot, set the f-stop, and opened the shutter, and then stepped back a few paces when a light-ning bolt hit the nearest light pole. It knocked him off his feet and etched brilliant afterimages in his brain, but otherwise his timing had been perfect: his camera recorded one of the closest shots of lightning ever taken. When it was published in Life magazine, it launched him successfully into his career.

The photo also proved a boon to scientists. Philip Krider, director of the University of Arizona's Institute of Atmospheric Physics, said the photo provided valuable new information to the body of knowledge about the physics of lightning.

Faidley has encountered other dangers, too, including webs full of black widow spiders, rattlesnakes, flocks of bats, armed drug smugglers, and careless cowboys plinking at cans and toads with .45 caliber revolvers. And once he thought he was being approached by a robot or a space alien when a figure emerged from the darkness wearing a large pair of night-vision goggles.

But now he had no time to reflect on those episodes. He knew we were about to witness one of Nature's greatest pyrotechnic displays, and he was again making adjustments on the instruments of his art. After a moment, he backed away a few yards and heaved a great sigh. “Any minute Now,” he said. “Let the heavens explode.” As though in answer to his plea, a brilliant zigzag of light appeared beneath the black canopy of cloud, then another, and still another. “Oh, beautiful,” Faidley murmured under his breath. Then, seconds later, a gigantic roar filled the air, and a shock of percussion shuddered through my body. I didn't feel frightened, but exhilarated. Faidley's enthusiasm had been contagious, especially after what he and others had taught me about this spectacular phenomenon.

The zigzag flash is a “stepped leader,” and it is caused by electrons bursting from the bottom of the cloud toward the ground, which has become positively charged. Each burst blasts another branch, averaging about 50 yards long, which creates the jagged appearance of the streak. It looks instantaneous because the stepped leader travels at a speed of 270,000 miles per hour.

WORKING IN THE EYE OF VIOLENCE

(LEFT) Tucson's “A” Mountain offers a superb view of a lightning storm, looking north toward the Santa Catalina Mountains. (Time exposure) (RIGHT) Bolts of lightning seem to rain down on Casa Grande. (Time exposure) (BELOW) This severe storm near Marana will produce thunderbolts for several hours. (Time exposure) When the stepped leader nears the ground, positive charges are drawn from the ground to meet it. These electrical sparks are called “upward streamers.” They are most likely to shoot up from tall objects and create a “lightning channel,” which may be only an inch wide but several miles long. It is actually this return stroke that creates the most damage to objects on the ground. There may be three or four return strokes in one channel, which make it flicker. When the channel finally empties, a “dart leader” from another part of the cloud may seek out the same channel, and the fireworks repeat themselves. The storms carry an awesome power, sometimes the equal of 10 atomic bombs.

That was what was happening then, and Warren Faidley was enjoying every minute of it. He went back to reset his cameras every few minutes, verbally encouraging the storm, urging it on to greater heights. It was a full 20 minutes before the spectacle ended, and Faidley was elated. With his usual quiet efficiency, he gathered his equipment and loaded it into the vehicle. It could still rain and rain hard. Finally he came to the driver's seat of the vehicle, plopped down, and took a deep breath.

“Well,” I said, “how was it?” “It looked pretty good,” he said. “We'll see tomorrow.” Then he turned to look at me. “Did you like it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was beautiful.” He started the vehicle, and we drove away from our viewing ledge, but he was still craning forward occasionally to look up at the sky. He didn't want to miss an opportunity. But the giant cloud had moved on past Tucson, and a star or two peeked around the edge of a heavy mantle. Finally, when we were back on a paved road and signs of civilization began to appear, it was obvious that the hunt was over - for that evening, at least. Faidley was relaxed and in a philosophical mood.

“You know,” he said, “a lot of things have changed. Most of my best spots used to be closer to home. 'A' Mountain, right in the middle of Tucson, was my favorite spot. I could see 360 degrees around the city. And there were always two or three other lightning photographers there. Now” - he paused and waved his hand toward the new buildings to his left “too many things have cut off the view.

“But Mother Nature is still here,” he went on, “and she's still producing miracles. As long as she continues that, we're in business.” His business is called Weatherstock, an agency that specializes in images of weather-related phenomena. He also has eight agents representing him worldwide.

“When I look at my photographs,” he mused, “I have a deep feeling of satisfaction because I know I've captured something beautiful and powerful that would otherwise have been lost forever from our world.” It won't be lost-not as long as Warren Faidley keeps chasing storms.

Tempe-based Stan Smith, an Arizona State University professor emeritus, had tried, until being assigned this article, to avoid thunderstorms, for he spends months each year at sea on his cruising yacht.

Warren Faidley served as technical adviser and consultant for the recently released Warner Brothers-Universal motion picture Twister, starring Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. Some of Faidley's 35mm footage appears in the film. He lives in Tucson.