Promise Unfulfilled, for Skywatch

These days, all eyes look skyward. 

We search for clouds with meaning and substance. 

We look with hope for thunderheads carrying rain. 

We look with anxiety at the fire maps. 

We make lists of what we would take if we ever had to leave. 

We wait for the monsoons.

*****

To see what other cloud seekers are finding, please visit Skywatch Friday.

The Las Cruces Report for August, Part 1: Misery

Flies in the early morning light

Click on the photo to enlarge it. If you concentrate really hard and look at the air about halfway up the trunks of these pecan trees surrounding our house, you will see what I was trying to capture--millions of flies, swarming around in the early morning. Millions more of their brothers were perched on the side of our house and flying around my eyes and into my ears on that same day; the day I was outside sweating and swatting and trying to do a little gardening at dawn.

You probably can't see them, but take my word for it: August has been a month of bazillions of flies and of heat and stickiness. Oh, and mosquitoes, too. Pretty miserable for us here in the Pecan House with few window screens, no air conditioning, and a swamp cooler that promises nothing during monsoon season. Poor us! However, I keep thinking about all the people in the world who do quite nicely without any a/c, not to mention all the people who lived here in the Mesilla Valley before there was electricity and before the city obligingly sent out trucks to spray against mosquitoes and the dangers they carry.

Human misery aside, the feeling of living in a rich and fertile oasis in the midst of the desert has never been so strong. That hot sunlight and all of our afternoon rains have worked their magic on the local field crops and the cotton plants down the road seem to grow a foot a day. My poor struggling roses, looking so pathetic in their first year, have sprung to life with new leaves and a second blooming. The vitex (Texas lilac) has grown over two feet in height since it was planted in early July and is blooming again, too. The hollyhock seeds that a friend gave me are coming up all through the garden, promising lots of flowers for next year. The Farmers Market is overflowing with bounty: Corn, grapes, honey, sweet melons of all kinds, and peaches--juicy, wonderful, ripened-on-the-tree peaches.

There is one more crop being harvested, but its importance is so great that it deserves a report all its own. Tomorrow, Green Gold.*

*****

*Thanks, Pat!

About Those Monsoons

We all talk about the monsoon season in the summer here, but I've never understood the actual mechanics of this weather phenomenon. Here is a quote that explains the monsoon season from Understanding the Southwest Monsoon, an article by the University of Arizona's Zach Guido for the Southwest Climate Change Network:

In Arizona and New Mexico, monsoon storms typically begin in early July after several complex and dynamic weather phenomena collide. By July, the Four Corners region has baked in the sun for months. Air has risen like a helium balloon, creating a low pressure trough in the lower atmosphere. Off the coast of Baja California, the sun’s energy has boosted ocean temperatures to around 85 degrees Fahrenheit. But the ocean has a moderating effect on the air and has kept it at temperatures below those over the deserts of the Southwest. This temperature imbalance becomes large enough that a change in the high and low altitude atmospheric movement occurs. The winds aloft over the Southwest, near an altitude of 30,000 feet, take a U-turn westward, opposite their trajectory for nine months. They carry with them moisture from the Gulf of Mexico. At approximately the same time, the near-surface air over the Gulf of California rushes northward into Arizona and New Mexico, carrying with it moisture from the gulf.

The moist air flowing into Arizona and New Mexico hits the mountains and rises. As the air ascends, it expands and cools. The air temperature decreases, falling below the dew point temperature—the temperature below which the air can not hold all the moisture and condenses to form rain. Thunderstorms begin. Vegetation grows. Humidity increases over land. Then more rain falls, creating a cycle that continues until the temperature difference between the land and sea is reduced, sometime in early fall.

Although the article was written about the monsoon season in 2008, it contains plenty of useful information about monsoons in general in this part of the world. The rest of the website contains constantly updated information about weather patterns, models, and changes in the Southwest.

Heating Up

We're sitting under a large upper level ridge of high pressure that will be hovering over us for several days to come. This means that we will be experiencing triple-digit temperatures--104 to 107--for several days and that our nights will be in the mid-70s, rather than providing their normal cool relief.

In this kind of weather, everything gets done very early and the rest of the day is spent staying cool, away from the sun, and drinking lots of water.

Sometime during the night, irrigation water was let into the orchards surrounding our house. It gives an illusion of coolness and ensures that the trees get a nice drink of water, too.

I've just been learning to use my new little Canon PowerShot camera for the first time today. I bought it for its lightweight portability, which will come in handy when taking bike rides. I love its beautiful green color! My other camera, bigger and heavier, is getting used to some new tripod shooting experiences. Fun!

Skywatch Friday: Tornadoes on My Mind

We've only lived here in eastern New Mexico, right on the western edge of Tornado Alley, for a couple of years. When we get scary skies, I start to feel anxious and start scanning for the greenish tints that mean watch out! Take shelter!

Was the sky really this green on the stormy day when I took this shot? No, but this is just exactly how it felt to me.

Take a look at other skies, both stormy and peaceful, all around the world on Skywatch Friday.

A Scary Sky for Skywatch Friday

This storm came in a week or so ago. I got the dogs and cats safely inside and made sure that my tornado closet was ready, then went out to take some photos and to listen for the tornado siren (just in case!).

At the same time, Beez was driving home from work and spotted what he thought looked like a funnel cloud. Unfortunately, he didn't get a picture of it, but it was confirmed later that evening that such a cloud had formed, but nothing had come of it.

However, when I read the newspaper the next morning, there was a story about some localized weather action in Tucumcari, about 80 miles away. The article reported that 3 people on the street saw a funnel cloud, were enveloped by a strong wind, and heard a sound like a train. They rolled under a nearby pickup truck for shelter. Others in the area reported watching three dumpsters being picked up by the wind and carried at a height of a telephone pole to some distance away before they crashed to the ground.

And my storm? The clouds got more and more fierce looking--and then they just drifted away to the east, taking their threats (and promises of rain) elsewhere.

Be sure to click on the Skywatch Friday button on the side of this blog to view this week's photos of amazing skies all over the world.

Practicing Texan

Clovis Tornado, 2007 (Photo by Roger Hatcher, AP)

We'll be approaching tornado season soon out here on the High Plains. They say that tornadoes are formed near here and that they head on out east to Texas, usually. Usually, that is, until last year when one hit Clovis, resulting in two deaths and lots of property damage.

With tornadoes on my mind, I thought I'd look back at something I wrote last June before we moved from New Hampshire. This was also before we knew exactly where we were headed, and didn't realize that we would end up with the best of eastern New Mexico and west Texas, all in one place here in Clovis.

Now that I live in a sturdy brick house, I have an interior closet all staked out for my tornado shelter. I'll just hope for the best, but here is how I saw the situation from back East. Please understand that all my tornado opinions are from Internet research and not real life experience. If I experience a tornado in person and live to tell the tale, I'll surely write about it here.

Ah'm own get me a safe room. That doesn't make any sense as written; you have to practice saying it out loud. Ah'm own get me a safe room. Yup, yer gittin' hit. After reviewing the tornado maps of the past several years I realize that if we move to either west Texas or east New Mexico, we are going to be in the high risk range for tornadic activity. That means that we will need a good shelter. Now, as I understand it, there are two kinds of storm shelters. The first is the regular storm cellar--the kind seen in The Wizard of Oz. It might be under your house, but is usually built out and under your backyard and bermed up with the excavated dirt. There are several problems with this type of shelter. The first is that people tend to wait until the last possible moment to go down into one. I have my ideas as to why, which I'll get to in a moment.

Once it is clear that a tornado is truly on its way, it becomes increasingly dangerous to make your way across your backyard to the shelter because of flying debris, so you face the real possibility of getting injured on your way. The second problem with these outdoor shelters is that unless all cracks are tightly and completely sealed up, you run the risk of sharing your shelter with unwelcome guests, such as snakes, mice, rats, and, well, you fill in the blank with your favorite nightmare creature. Imagine fleeing a life-threatening storm to find yourself sealed in with a whole family of rattlers. Well, don't imagine it, or you'll have the same nightmares that I do. I also lie awake at night trying to figure out how I would gather the three cats, stuff them into cat carriers, leash up the two dogs, and move the whole kit and kaboodle into an underground shelter, where unknown creatures are lurking. Nope, that rules out the storm cellar for me.

That leaves me with the other alternative: The safe room. The safe room is a steel-plated shelter that can be added to the center of a home during new construction, or be built into the corner of a room in an existing structure. A bathroom or closet can, as I understand it, be built as a safe room with steel walls during new construction. Wherever it is built, it is bolted into the cement of the home's foundation, contains a ventilation system, and can be wired for electricity or telephone. It can be sheetrocked over to blend into the room. So, Ah'm own get me a safe room. Ah'm own put me in some bottled water, plastic bags, a bucket and toilet paper, a battery-operated radio and lantern, some litter for the cats, and some canned food and a can opener. Ah'm own conduct me some tornado drills with the dogs, and hope I can gather up the cats when the time comes.

To see a safe room, go to http://www.texasshelters.com/post.htm.