My son Stephen and I get out of the car and face the monster with wind in our hair...
We’ve been driving for six hours, following a supercell coming east from New Mexico that has already dropped one tornado. We’re a team, and I’m in charge of driving and safety. Stephen is 18 and does all the tracking, shouting out directions and live-tweeting the National Weather Service from the passenger seat.
He is sure it will cycle again.
I’m hauling; he’s on his radars. We start seeing rotation and orange dust kicking up.
It looks like we’re on Mars.
We follow the tornado as it runs parallel to the highway. It’s swirling, like it’s alive, chewing up everything in its path. It’s like swimming alongside a shark—you want to watch it, but don’t want it to turn toward you. We take back roads north to get even closer. That’s when we jump out of the car and start taking photos.
You can smell it in the air. You can feel it. The sky is an eerie color. It was a hot June day in West Texas, but the wind suddenly feels cool on the back of my neck.
Tornados have this inflow, a river of clouds and moisture being sucked in. With the wind at our backs, it’s taking sound with it, too. It doesn’t sound like a train—everything is quiet.
So much of storm chasing is predicting and pivoting and running around. This is a rare moment of calm and appreciation. I’ve never been more present. It is beautiful and scary, powerful and peaceful.
We are to the south of it, away from the hail core, and safe, so we can just take it in, together.
I look over at my son, watching in awe. I can’t believe what we’re seeing.
This EF-2 wedge tornado, later dubbed the “Morton Texas Monster,” is nearly a mile wide with 125 mile-per-hour winds. It looks like God is dragging his fingers through the sky.
Stephen says, "This is the tornado I’ve always wanted to chase.”
I’m overjoyed.
—Mike Cross (BBA91), CFO, Toyota Connected North America
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This article appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of Tippie Magazine.