Last Sunday the sky showed occasional clouds: though the weather was hot, there were hints a sea change would occur soon. By afternoon we realized that the humidity and heat Northern Michigan had experienced for some days would violently exit, because the new front roaring in from Wisconsin had a nasty ‘bow’ signature that signified intense wind. The color purple (degrees worse than red) imbedded on our computer’s schematic storm depiction, was an ominous signal that 100 mile-an-hour prolonged gusts, intense rain and constant lightning were imminent.
‘Expect considerable tree damage and possible flooding. Quarter-sized hail will accompany this storm. Seek shelter immediately!’
Jolted by the blunt warning I rushed out to tie thick covers around my garden statuary, made sure the garden doors were secured, and reentered the house to grab a flashlight. Then Joe and I stood by the big kitchen window to await events. Bryn-dog whined, sensing our unease.
The air outside was calm. And still. Not a leaf moved. No birds sang. A quick glance at the radar showed that the front was here. Yet, aside from the eerie half-darkness, all was still.
Suddenly the sky turned green and black. There came a whoosh and a roar: instantly every growing thing outside was blown violently eastward. Sheets of rain, riding on tremendous wind, blasted the garden into a blur of motion: large objects whizzed by, prompting the three of us to run for the basement. At the bottom of the stairs we paused to listen. The noise outside was awful. Intense rain and hailstones pummeled the kitchen window. We knew the secret garden’s giant tulip tree hovering over the house was shallow-rooted and could easily topple, crushing the kitchen. Nervously we retreated deeper into the basement’s cooler air and watched the computer graphically illustrate the storm’s track and power. Lightning logos filled the screen.
Weather systems tend to split to the north or south as they approach Grand Traverse Bay. Today, though, was very different. The city was experiencing a direct hit.
Two loud CRACKS made us jump: was the 70-foot tree coming down? I dared to creep up for a quick peek as another tremendous rush of wind and rain shook the house. Constant lightning pierced the blackness; smaller thumps against the house indicated how the powerful gusts could snatch up and fling around any unsecured object.
Power faltered for a few minutes before coming on again.
Finally, though, the wind lessened, while intense rain continued to fall. The storm had passed through. But there was more. Soon a second wave blew in, bright red, but thankfully showing no purple.
Much later, after the lightning ceased, we went outside and looked around.
The fountain was buried under leaves, twigs and branches. Much bigger branches littered the lawn. Large and small plants lay at an angle, or were pressed flat. Every bloom on the large hibiscus tree had vanished. One large branch had been torn off our tulip tree and hurled across the garden so violently that part of a section of the eight-foot-high fence was torn out along the bottom, pierced by that thick spear, which was wedged in tightly. A large branch dangled awkwardly from the front garden’s lilac tree, still held to it by flimsy strips of bark. We found tree branches in our yard that had come from neighbors’ yards down the street. One enormous limb of the neighbor’s huge red maple tree next door missed that home by inches, landing instead on their large back yard deck. Hannah Park had some large trees down. Sixth Street was littered with branches. Many trunks showed evidence of lightning strikes: their innards were charred and blackened. We hopped on our bikes to tour other streets. Some venerable trees’ huge trunks had been savagely twisted and wrung, as though by monster hands.
Alleys were littered with branches, rubbish bins, lids and other detritus. Cars’ roofs were bruised, and some were blanketed by branches. Power lines were entwined in downed trees, or lay coiled on the ground, still alive, menacing unwary passersby. We took great care to ride slowly.
Our twenty-foot long river-moored Rinker boat was incredibly lucky: one huge tree had toppled into the water an inch from its stern, and another huge willow had fallen into the river, barely missing the bow. It was the only boat ‘captured’ by trees.
Sirens wailed: police, the fire department and city workers tried to be everywhere at once.
Traverse City had been dealt quite a blow.
I spent Monday morning laboriously sawing off the monster branch firmly wedged into the fence, doing a few feet at a time. (It would be a week before anyone could chop it gone with a chainsaw. There wasn’t one to spare for 100 miles and I didn’t want to wait.)
There were lots of stories passed around at the Garfield Township dog park (which, incidently, had its own damage. Large, tall, slim birch trees had crashed down, severing the park’s heavy chain-link fence in two places like knives through butter- an awesome display of wind-power). A friend, a volunteer usher for the Film Festival, had been working at the Opera House when the storm hit. The film was about knee replacement, and a number of people watching it were in wheelchairs, or needed canes. The power went out right in the middle of the presentation, so elevators wouldn’t work. The theatre was plunged into darkness. Storm noise added to the confusion. No one knew what was happening. No one could leave. A few frightened people cried. The power remained off. Getting patrons outside to their cars was a long process.
For a while, going anywhere in the Grand Traverse area was a challenge.
Other places, like Glen Arbor, were devastated. Twin tornadoes were captured on a friend’s cell phone, spinning against a green sky very near the Music House on M-31.
The next two mornings the air was filled with the snarl of chain saws as people began to free streets and personal property of fallen timber. I saw lawn chairs bobbing in the Bay. Some streets remained impassable. Parts of the area still had no power.
Two days later, as I continued to clear the secret garden, there came another loud, cracking sound: a big ‘widow-maker’ branch plunged to earth from high up in the wounded tulip tree, landing exactly where I’d been standing just seconds before. This close call imbedded a new rule in my mind: always inspect big trees for severed branches that haven’t quite dislodged after powerful storms. They’re easy to spot days later, as their leaves, many in an upside-down position, begin to wither and turn brown.
A week later, things are looking much better. Now our city faces a new challenge: it must haul away a veritable forest of destroyed trees.
And we must adjust to their absence.
‘Expect considerable tree damage and possible flooding. Quarter-sized hail will accompany this storm. Seek shelter immediately!’
Jolted by the blunt warning I rushed out to tie thick covers around my garden statuary, made sure the garden doors were secured, and reentered the house to grab a flashlight. Then Joe and I stood by the big kitchen window to await events. Bryn-dog whined, sensing our unease.
The air outside was calm. And still. Not a leaf moved. No birds sang. A quick glance at the radar showed that the front was here. Yet, aside from the eerie half-darkness, all was still.
Suddenly the sky turned green and black. There came a whoosh and a roar: instantly every growing thing outside was blown violently eastward. Sheets of rain, riding on tremendous wind, blasted the garden into a blur of motion: large objects whizzed by, prompting the three of us to run for the basement. At the bottom of the stairs we paused to listen. The noise outside was awful. Intense rain and hailstones pummeled the kitchen window. We knew the secret garden’s giant tulip tree hovering over the house was shallow-rooted and could easily topple, crushing the kitchen. Nervously we retreated deeper into the basement’s cooler air and watched the computer graphically illustrate the storm’s track and power. Lightning logos filled the screen.
Weather systems tend to split to the north or south as they approach Grand Traverse Bay. Today, though, was very different. The city was experiencing a direct hit.
Two loud CRACKS made us jump: was the 70-foot tree coming down? I dared to creep up for a quick peek as another tremendous rush of wind and rain shook the house. Constant lightning pierced the blackness; smaller thumps against the house indicated how the powerful gusts could snatch up and fling around any unsecured object.
Power faltered for a few minutes before coming on again.
Finally, though, the wind lessened, while intense rain continued to fall. The storm had passed through. But there was more. Soon a second wave blew in, bright red, but thankfully showing no purple.
Much later, after the lightning ceased, we went outside and looked around.
The fountain was buried under leaves, twigs and branches. Much bigger branches littered the lawn. Large and small plants lay at an angle, or were pressed flat. Every bloom on the large hibiscus tree had vanished. One large branch had been torn off our tulip tree and hurled across the garden so violently that part of a section of the eight-foot-high fence was torn out along the bottom, pierced by that thick spear, which was wedged in tightly. A large branch dangled awkwardly from the front garden’s lilac tree, still held to it by flimsy strips of bark. We found tree branches in our yard that had come from neighbors’ yards down the street. One enormous limb of the neighbor’s huge red maple tree next door missed that home by inches, landing instead on their large back yard deck. Hannah Park had some large trees down. Sixth Street was littered with branches. Many trunks showed evidence of lightning strikes: their innards were charred and blackened. We hopped on our bikes to tour other streets. Some venerable trees’ huge trunks had been savagely twisted and wrung, as though by monster hands.
Alleys were littered with branches, rubbish bins, lids and other detritus. Cars’ roofs were bruised, and some were blanketed by branches. Power lines were entwined in downed trees, or lay coiled on the ground, still alive, menacing unwary passersby. We took great care to ride slowly.
Our twenty-foot long river-moored Rinker boat was incredibly lucky: one huge tree had toppled into the water an inch from its stern, and another huge willow had fallen into the river, barely missing the bow. It was the only boat ‘captured’ by trees.
Sirens wailed: police, the fire department and city workers tried to be everywhere at once.
Traverse City had been dealt quite a blow.
I spent Monday morning laboriously sawing off the monster branch firmly wedged into the fence, doing a few feet at a time. (It would be a week before anyone could chop it gone with a chainsaw. There wasn’t one to spare for 100 miles and I didn’t want to wait.)
There were lots of stories passed around at the Garfield Township dog park (which, incidently, had its own damage. Large, tall, slim birch trees had crashed down, severing the park’s heavy chain-link fence in two places like knives through butter- an awesome display of wind-power). A friend, a volunteer usher for the Film Festival, had been working at the Opera House when the storm hit. The film was about knee replacement, and a number of people watching it were in wheelchairs, or needed canes. The power went out right in the middle of the presentation, so elevators wouldn’t work. The theatre was plunged into darkness. Storm noise added to the confusion. No one knew what was happening. No one could leave. A few frightened people cried. The power remained off. Getting patrons outside to their cars was a long process.
For a while, going anywhere in the Grand Traverse area was a challenge.
Other places, like Glen Arbor, were devastated. Twin tornadoes were captured on a friend’s cell phone, spinning against a green sky very near the Music House on M-31.
The next two mornings the air was filled with the snarl of chain saws as people began to free streets and personal property of fallen timber. I saw lawn chairs bobbing in the Bay. Some streets remained impassable. Parts of the area still had no power.
Two days later, as I continued to clear the secret garden, there came another loud, cracking sound: a big ‘widow-maker’ branch plunged to earth from high up in the wounded tulip tree, landing exactly where I’d been standing just seconds before. This close call imbedded a new rule in my mind: always inspect big trees for severed branches that haven’t quite dislodged after powerful storms. They’re easy to spot days later, as their leaves, many in an upside-down position, begin to wither and turn brown.
A week later, things are looking much better. Now our city faces a new challenge: it must haul away a veritable forest of destroyed trees.
And we must adjust to their absence.