06-05-2025
Watch a stunning storm drop a tornado over New Mexico
MIDLAND, Texas. — As a storm chaser, I spend most chases thwarting traffic, dodging giant hail and navigating clogged, winding roads. But my recent tornado intercept near Roswell, New Mexico, was among the most peaceful experiences of my life.
It was meteorologist's dream — a textbook structured supercell, or rotating thunderstorm, churning over entirely empty prairie lands on the New Mexican High Plains. I didn't see a single soul for over an hour, but I did see multiple tornadoes. Somehow I managed the entire chase without even turning on my windshield wipers.
The storm, which took place on a recent Saturday, produced little damage. Instead, it was a pageant of beauty and raw power delivered by the atmosphere.
The target
I had awoken in Lubbock, Texas, on a storm chase. The night before — Friday night, April 25 — the rural community of Smyer, just west of Lubbock, had seen a stationary thunderstorm park for nearly five hours. It dropped nearly half a foot of rain and accumulating hail. Fields turned into rivers as flash flooding rendered roadways impassible. The storm finally dissipated around midnight.
When the morning of Saturday, April 26, rolled around, I didn't have high hopes for much to happen. I had never had a successful chase in eastern New Mexico. Still, I targeted the town of Hobbs — in far southeastern New Mexico — and waited. It was barely a two-hour drive from Lubbock.
By early afternoon, temperatures had risen to around 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Moisture was more prevalent to the south. I was targeting an outflow boundary, which is the leading edge of cool air exhaust, from the prior day's storms. The leftover boundary, and associated wind shift, had parked south of Hobbs and northeast of Carlsbad. I was sure I was in the right spot.
The wait
Weather models simulated a massive supercell popping almost directly over Hobbs by around 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. Central time. After all, converging winds along the boundary should force air upward, and the atmosphere was highly unstable and juiced up.
But 3 p.m. became 4 p.m. and eventually 5 p.m. (4 p.m. Mountain time in Hobbs). The clock was ticking. A few scattered storms had blossomed over the Rocky Mountains to my northwest, and another in the Texas Big Bend to my south. For whatever reason, any clouds nearby were fizzling.
I decided to drive north — perhaps the invisible boundary had become shunted back toward the Rockies. Besides — if the chase was a bust, I'd have to get north to Kansas for the next day's setup anyway. Begrudgingly, I decided to drive north toward Elida, New Mexico. I had nearly 90 minutes of nothingness in front of me.
The storm
As I continued my journey north, I noticed on radar that a storm west of Roswell, New Mexico, was heading due east — rather than northeast. Perhaps it was latching onto the invisible leftover boundary. And if it was, it would have extra spin along it to gobble up.
I sighed and crankily barked at Siri — 'take me to Roswell.' By 4:21 p.m. Mountain time I was just east of the area. The storm was still to my north, so I decided to take an abandoned road due northward. It was the only road for nearly 20 miles in any direction. There were no structures or homes nearby. Just … vast grasslands.
For a while, the storm had lost its severe thunderstorm warning. Meteorologists deemed it to be of minimal danger. It seemed to be losing some of its bright colors on radar. But I also noticed indications that it was 50,000 feet tall. Why would a storm be weakening while also growing that tall?
I realized what was going on — it was becoming an LP supercell, meaning low precipitation. That meant it was producing little rain (but definitely some large hail, probably up to 2.5 inches across). Any precipitation was being blown to the northeast of the main storm. That exposed the storm's updraft for unobstructed viewing. And when I saw it, my jaw dropped.
The intercept
It was a single cloud some 10 miles tall. And it was spinning. Warm, moist air was flowing into the storm from the left (south); it was as if the storm were being fed by a conveyor belt. The storm's anvil cloud was fanning out overhead. The pillar of rotation, the spiral updraft, was orbiting closer and closer.
Imagine something five times the volume of Mount Everest simply floating — and visibly spinning. That's what I was looking at. There wasn't a single human being around for at least 10 miles in any direction. I knew I was alone, but the storm felt sentient. It was breathing; inflow winds out of the southeast began to rush into the storm more quickly.
Meteorologist Matthew Cappucci witnesses a tornado form outside of Roswell, New Mexico, on April 26. (Video: Matthew Cappucci/Matthew Cappucci / MyRadar)
Suddenly, its base flattened and became crisp. A cone funnel dropped — then another dusty twister touched down. I rushed out of my rental car in glee.
Snap! The shutter of my camera clicked … just four shots.
And it was a shot I had always dreamed of. A single shot. A single, massive storm. A single tornado. And a wild perspective.
