Living an Airstream you tend to be more attuned to the weather. Perhaps that’s because you’ve got less “house” surrounding you and therefore feel closer to the elements. Two inches of fiberglass sandwiched by aluminum sheet is all that protects you from the threat of rain, snow, high winds or hail, and when precipitation comes down it makes a musical racket above your head. Whatever is happening out there is something you can’t easily ignore.
This freaks people out at first, especially the first time they hear hail nuggets pinging off the aluminum, but eventually (I’ve found) the weather becomes an old friend that visits regularly, and rarely is it something to fear. I particularly appreciate the sight of far-off lightning in the summer, which in the summer monsoon season of Arizona far outshines Fourth of July fireworks. Now, out of the Airstream, I still pay more attention to the weather than I used to.
All summer I’ve been waiting for the perfect thunderstorms to come through Tucson. By my definition, the perfect thunderstorms are those that arrive after sunset and dance around the city about twenty miles away. They are discrete cells, surrounded by clear air, and often arrayed in a line that slowly marches by. When this happens, we can see the lightning show but avoid the rain and high wind, and conditions are perfect for nighttime photography.
Eleanor had wanted to be here for such a night with hours of lightning. There was one lovely evening when we drove up the mountain to an overlook and watched a few distant storms, but I’ve written about that already. The “perfect” line did not occur before she flew back to Vermont, much to her regret.
Last night I began to see rapid flashes through the closed shades on the windows. I had to go look from the front step, and sure enough it looked like a line of storms had set up to the south and west of Tucson. I could see at least three distinct storms, each flashing like fireflies so often that the sky lit up every 15-20 seconds.
Even though I was dressed for bed, I had to grab the tripod and set up the camera. My usual lightning photography gear is the Nikon D90, tripod, Tamron 10-24 super wide angle lens, and a headlamp (so I can see to adjust camera settings). In this case, it was augmented by silk pajamas as I stood out on the concrete sidewalk in front of our house and snapped over a hundred time exposures ranging from 12 to 30 seconds.
Unlike my session last summer, I opted to let the exposure run a little longer, so that the sodium lamp glow of Tucson would give the sky an orange-pink cast. This made a few lightning strikes over-expose, so after a particularly good and distinct bolt I would cover the lens with my hand until the timer ran out.
Lightning photography is fun because you never know what you’ll get and it’s a constant chase game. The storms move across the sky, some peter out and others gain strength, and all you can do is try to guess where they’re going to hit next, set up an exposure, and hope for good luck. Southern Arizona monsoon storms help out by providing lots of lightning — much more than we get in the northeast — so even an amateur has hundreds of strikes to work with.
The storms continued all night. I finally wrapped up my photo session around 11:30 when things seemed to be waning, but in the middle of the night a new set came through and woke me several times with ear-splitting crashes and house-shaking booms. At dawn another set came through, finally bringing us the first rain of the night. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, the ground was wet, the sky was gray, and the air felt like a Florida summer morning, ripe with humidity and the smell of things growing. It will stay like that for half the day, and then things will clear up back to the normal clear blue skies of the desert … until the next time.