Strong winds and dry conditions have created blinding dust storms in Nebraska, Kansas and Oklahoma today.
I-35 just south of the Kansas border has been shut down after a multi-vehicle pile-up. I'm hearing there are injuries and perhaps even a death.
Cognizant of the wind threat today, and recognizing the wind would be worse this afternoon and evening, I returned to Wichita from the farm this morning. Fields were already blowing by 9 a.m., but highways weren't obscured for more than a second at worst.
Things had deteriorated significantly by the time my brother was driving back late this afternoon. He said the dust had dropped visibility to zero several times on his drive home, and he still had another 60 miles to go.
Days like today offer hints of life during the Dust Bowl, and always remind me of this classic song:
Showing posts with label wind. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wind. Show all posts
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
A touch of breeze in Kansas today
Folks who choose to fly a kite in Kansas today would be wise to take a passport.
As I was driving east on Central from City Hall late this morning, dust was roaring north on Broadway so thick it looked like a dirty veil soaring 20 feet high. I could see farther east, or I would have stopped and called the newsroom with a news flash.
Trash swirled in the eddies of Wichita's humble structure spires. People bent into the wind, at times seeming to walk in place if they were going against gales that tickled 50 miles an hour.
Even inside the newsroom, an open door produced a howl straight from an Edgar Allan Poe story. It was as if the building were protesting the wind's sullen mood.
And if you were out in Wichita's central corridor, then March truly seemed to be roaring like a lion.
"It's spring in Kansas," a meteorologist told me.
And she was flexing her muscles a bit today.....
As I was driving east on Central from City Hall late this morning, dust was roaring north on Broadway so thick it looked like a dirty veil soaring 20 feet high. I could see farther east, or I would have stopped and called the newsroom with a news flash.
Trash swirled in the eddies of Wichita's humble structure spires. People bent into the wind, at times seeming to walk in place if they were going against gales that tickled 50 miles an hour.
Even inside the newsroom, an open door produced a howl straight from an Edgar Allan Poe story. It was as if the building were protesting the wind's sullen mood.
And if you were out in Wichita's central corridor, then March truly seemed to be roaring like a lion.
"It's spring in Kansas," a meteorologist told me.
And she was flexing her muscles a bit today.....
Monday, March 23, 2009
Reflections on the wind
I hadn't been to the family farm since Christmas, so when I went out there last week I wanted a first-hand look at what chores had been done - and what work still begged our attention.
Steve, my twin, had done a very good job of clearing brush down behind the shed along the creek that meanders through our homestead. I walked to the Sawmill Creek to see how much water was in it following what sounded like a dry winter.
Not only was there no water in the creek, the bed was so dry the dirt was like powder. I crossed to the south bank and began walking along the trees that had grown up along the edge. A biting south wind slapped my face as I walked, sending a shudder down my spine.
I spotted some trails carved into the prairie next to the trees, and just out of curiosity I began following one to see where it would take me. The ruts were deep and vertical, telling me they had been gouged out by hooves --- most likely deer, since we no longer have cattle or horses on the place.
The ruts carried me close to the water's edge - if there had been water in the creek, that is - and also cut the strong south wind to a teasing whisper. Suddenly, the day seemed transformed. Protected from the worst of the wind, the day seemed pleasant: sunny, with just a touch of breeze.
As the path curled up the slope and away from the trees and the creek bed, the forceful wind made its presence known once again. I was reminded of something my oldest sister, Mary, said as we'd braved a harsh east wind the evening before while checking out the west end of the creek and the small bridges spanning it so an irrigation pivot system could cross.
Even as the wind made us quicken our pace and shield our faces (with her granddaughter tucked inside layers of clothing like a kid in a kangaroo's pouch), she talked about how much she missed the wind when she moved to northwest Missouri. The wind, the prairie, the sky. She talked about how the wind could define a day with its strength, shifting directions, and whimsical whirls. She went on about the subtle beauty of the prairie and how she loved feeling grounded by the soil. And she loved how the undulating prairie gave proper homage to the vastness of the skies, as if it realized what a remarkable stage the heavens could be - whether it's sunrise or sunset, approaching storms or the grandeur of the stars at night.
For true people of the prairie, trees and mountains feel confining. It's as if the sky becomes their compass (as it was for centuries of seafarers), and without it they feel adrift.
The deer tracks dipped down to the creek again, and as I followed them the wind spun around to blow again from the east. Down in the trees, following an east-west stretch of the creek, it was as if there was no wind at all.
By the time I emerged again from the woods, the wind was out of the south again. For me, a south wind symbolizes spring and summer in Kansas. It carries the moisture that feeds the spring storms, as well as the dry air that cures the maturing wheat in the nation's bread basket as summer arrives.
Those characteristics capture the dichotomy that is a Kansas wind. It's such an integral part of what defines the state, at times giving and at times taking away. Even as I shivered at times on that walk in the woods, I remembered all those simmering summer days on this land when it was the wind that offered blessed relief from the heat.
Steve, my twin, had done a very good job of clearing brush down behind the shed along the creek that meanders through our homestead. I walked to the Sawmill Creek to see how much water was in it following what sounded like a dry winter.
Not only was there no water in the creek, the bed was so dry the dirt was like powder. I crossed to the south bank and began walking along the trees that had grown up along the edge. A biting south wind slapped my face as I walked, sending a shudder down my spine.
I spotted some trails carved into the prairie next to the trees, and just out of curiosity I began following one to see where it would take me. The ruts were deep and vertical, telling me they had been gouged out by hooves --- most likely deer, since we no longer have cattle or horses on the place.
The ruts carried me close to the water's edge - if there had been water in the creek, that is - and also cut the strong south wind to a teasing whisper. Suddenly, the day seemed transformed. Protected from the worst of the wind, the day seemed pleasant: sunny, with just a touch of breeze.
As the path curled up the slope and away from the trees and the creek bed, the forceful wind made its presence known once again. I was reminded of something my oldest sister, Mary, said as we'd braved a harsh east wind the evening before while checking out the west end of the creek and the small bridges spanning it so an irrigation pivot system could cross.
Even as the wind made us quicken our pace and shield our faces (with her granddaughter tucked inside layers of clothing like a kid in a kangaroo's pouch), she talked about how much she missed the wind when she moved to northwest Missouri. The wind, the prairie, the sky. She talked about how the wind could define a day with its strength, shifting directions, and whimsical whirls. She went on about the subtle beauty of the prairie and how she loved feeling grounded by the soil. And she loved how the undulating prairie gave proper homage to the vastness of the skies, as if it realized what a remarkable stage the heavens could be - whether it's sunrise or sunset, approaching storms or the grandeur of the stars at night.
For true people of the prairie, trees and mountains feel confining. It's as if the sky becomes their compass (as it was for centuries of seafarers), and without it they feel adrift.
The deer tracks dipped down to the creek again, and as I followed them the wind spun around to blow again from the east. Down in the trees, following an east-west stretch of the creek, it was as if there was no wind at all.
By the time I emerged again from the woods, the wind was out of the south again. For me, a south wind symbolizes spring and summer in Kansas. It carries the moisture that feeds the spring storms, as well as the dry air that cures the maturing wheat in the nation's bread basket as summer arrives.
Those characteristics capture the dichotomy that is a Kansas wind. It's such an integral part of what defines the state, at times giving and at times taking away. Even as I shivered at times on that walk in the woods, I remembered all those simmering summer days on this land when it was the wind that offered blessed relief from the heat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)