The Path of the Monster of Spring

Today, I hand a chance to drive to the airport in Jasper and take my airplane up to fly around for a while.  Even a few weeks away from the cockpit weighs heavy on your nerves.  As I push in the throttle, and speed to take off, my mind rechecks all the things I must be sure to do right then.  The air is smooth and the very slight chill gives the propeller a little extra bite.  The climb out is brisk and invigorating.  It all falls together.  I am comfortable at the controls, flying with my brainstem, coordinating the controls like my flight instructor required so many years ago.  I had nowhere special to go today.  A plane not flown regularly becomes old quickly, it needs regular exercise, as does the pilot.

On April 27, 2011, the Dread of Spring visited Alabama.  A cold front crossed the State spawning super cells and tornados.   I was in Honduras at the time, out of touch with the rest of the world.  I'd not spoken to Alison in two days.   I called her on the morning of the 28th, totally unaware of the events of the previous day.  "There were big storms yesterday" she said.  Her voice was broken and I feared the worst for our home and family.  She assured me that everything was fine at our home and that the kids and grandkids were OK.  I breathed a little easier, but there was still some doubt in my mind.  My gentle wife was not above a white lie to protect me, 1500 miles from home.

The storms had been catastrophic for many areas of the State.  Many were killed and million of dollars of damage done by a twisting monster of wind traveled across the hills and woods of Alabama decimating large and small towns.  Tuscaloosa, Cordova, Cullman, Arab and many other barely wide spots in the road were beaten and ripped beyond recognition leaving a path almost 200 miles long.  A scar upon the land that will be evident for decades.

I flew the short distance to Cordova out of morbid curiosity.  More than two weeks after the storms, there has been a lot of clean up.  There was no mistaking the damage.  Even from 3500 feet above, it was easy to see the wreckage.  Piles of junk that were once home, forests flattened, and the path of the tornado clearly evident over the low hills.

I followed the trail to the north for several miles.  I marveled at the straightness of the path, barely wavering as if with a destination or purpose in mind.  It destroyed everything in its path, except a few places where it seemed to jump over a small home or patch of forest.  There was no rhyme or reason.   I turned and headed toward Tuscaloosa, some sixty mile southwest, across the valley of the Black Warrior River,  I followed the path of the storm as it had gouged it's way through woods, over coal mines, ponds and farms.  Trees, like scrambled matchsticks, land scraped to bedrock, piles of former homes and some lucky blue tarp covered homes along the way.  I could see the city of Tuscaloosa in the distance.  The brownish gouge in the land leading the way directly to it.  I'd seen enough.  I turned back toward Jasper to land.

After I spoke to Alison the morning after the storms, here voice seemed to hide something.  Was there tragedy in our life that she could not bear to tell me?  I wasn't sure until I was home over a week later and saw for myself that all was well.

Who can portend to understand the random violence of the storm monster, nor the reasons for it?  

The tornado path into the distance.