Ominous Approach

The forecast had called for afternoon storms. This was a surprise to no one, as temperatures had rocketed up into the low 80’s. The air was heavy with humidity, as if we had suddenly jumped to July for the day. The mosquitoes loved it—just as much as they loved trying to bite us.

Brilliant sun accented by the staccato notes of puff clouds danced by in the azure sky as we kept an eye on the heavens during the day. At Farmstead Creamery, I kept the weather radar up on my computer, watching as popcorn cloud formations began to seed and form and grow.

It is no small thing if a nasty storm heads for the farm. There are animals on pasture to bring inside or batten down in place, greenhouses to close up so the wind does not turn them into a kite, signs and decorations at the Creamery to lay down or stow away so they don’t become hurled about like shrapnel.

It is no fun expectation when the weather report says that the day’s thunderstorms could include strong winds, hail and an isolated tornado. Here in the woods up north, tornadoes are quite rare, but we have watched funnel clouds form overhead before, thankfully retracting back up into the thunder boomers as they reach the coolness of the Chequamegon National Forest.

We certainly have seen hail. Once, it was so strong and loud, I was terrified the skylight would bust inward in our home, and we’ve certainly had to repair damages to the thin film plastics of greenhouses and watched garden plants be turned to Swiss cheese.

I was in the very back of our aquaponics greenhouse when it arrived, up on a ladder picking miniature red and orange bell peppers. It kept sounding like a pickup or delivery truck was pulling into the parking lot of Farmstead Creamery, and I would dash off the ladder to the sidewall, to see if I needed to come out front to help a client. But no one was there.

At length, my bin full, I threaded my way between all the verdant growth back to the door on the north end, and looked up in shock. There, approaching like a huge oval came the thundercloud, black in its underpinnings, the leading edge like a ring of talons rolling downward. “That’s not good” escaped my lips, even though I was alone.

I dashed the bin inside and began hauling things in for cover. Fortunately, we had already removed the umbrellas and collapsed the bug tent we’d acquired this year so that at least one of the picnic tables could be a protected space from all the little biters.

Mom had been working in the garden and looked up as well. She knew that Kara was way out in the pasture mowing the fence line. Memories of all the times we’d been out that far with hay baling equipment are still raw even though years have passed, and the fact that storms like this can creep up on you and just pop out over the treetops means it was possible that Kara couldn’t see this coming, and the noise of the mower and wearing ear protection might mean she would miss the rumbling thunder that grumbled like the clouds were having a continuous conversation with themselves.

Streaks of lateral lightening flashed, and Mom raced for the truck to tear out into the field and retrieve Kara.

I had rushed back out and was cranking down the sidewalls of the aquaponics greenhouse as the wind hit, dashing at my face and rattling the front canopied awning, which fortunately is staked to the ground and tied to the building. All the hummingbirds that have been frequent flyers at our feeders dashed for cover. Rain began to spit as the storm rim rolled right over us.

Once we all made it back inside, hoping desperately that the lights would stay on, we huddled around the radar, watching the angry system with its boxes of warnings. Fortunately, as often happens for our farm, its rage softened right before reaching us, and we were buffeted with winds and heavy rains, but no hail or tornadoes touched us. It looked horrifying, but we skirted through unharmed.

Storms like this remind us how small and fragile we are, and how quickly things can go from one state of being to another. When nature is angry, it’s important to keep an eye on the sky, so you can be ready and prepared and safe as much as possible. Keep track of those summer storms, be safe, and we’ll see you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery. 715-462-3453 www.northstarhomestead.com