Originally published on July 17, 2016. I’m re-publishing posts I’d had on this blog that, due to some glitch of the internet, got scrubbed. No editing has been done.

We were drunk on the magic of the plains. That’s the only way to explain why we ignored all the warnings.

Mike and I spent the first morning of our drive west traversing South Dakota. We raced the sun west. We flew past fields of rolled wheat, gentle hills, and hundreds of billboards for Wall Drug and 1880 Town. We had big plans for hiking, and we refused to let sunlight or speed limits stop us!

When we did eventually stop for gas in Midland, SD, we arrived at the home of 1880 Town (kids will love it! fun for the whole family! Dances with Wolves filmed here!) and little else. Wind yanked the car doors open. Gusts pushed and pulled at the tiny gas station and threatened to pluck the entire rest stop and plant it somewhere else.

“It’s a tornado watch, not even a warning.” One pump over from me, a road-weary husband gripes at his wife.

Despite all these years in the Midwest, that man’s complaint taught me two things: that there is a difference between tornado watches and tornado warnings, and that the former are such trifles that they should be scoffed at.

Mike confirmed he’d heard the same update from the station attendants: there was a tornado watch, but not a warning. We nodded knowingly in the dry wind.

Back on the road, we looked up what the hell we were talking about.

A tornado watch means conditions are favorable for a tornado, but nothing has happened yet. This alert can span across several counties, and no tornado could appear. A tornado warning, on the other hand, means a tornado has actually touched down in the area. A tornado warning means you should grab Toto and run for cover.

The Badlands National Park thrust into view, breaking the flat horizon into a dark jagged pattern. As we drove closer, the hazy pattern took shape. It was the Badlands Wall, a topographical miracle emerging from the plains.

“I’d suggest waiting to set up your tent until after the storm has blown through,” The park ranger at the entry station warned us. We nodded absentmindedly. Sure, whatever you say. Our eyes were on the unexplored ridges ahead.

The road carved a slow descent into the Wall’s face, and we traced our way down into the Badlands realm like explorers lured into a beautiful underworld. The flat expanse of South Dakota was just a mask, and under the edge, a different reality had eroded into existence. Daliesque formations of rock acted as ushers, guiding us into their kingdom.

We hustled through our pre-hike rituals. I coordinated my camera, my phone, and the GoPro. Mike assembled food, water, rain gear, and other more sensible outdoor essentials. We scrabbled up Saddle Pass, a steep climb up the face of the famous Badlands Wall. Crumbling walls of soft rock and clay lead us higher and higher into the steely sky.

From the top, we surveyed our efforts. Expanses of grass and stone stretched south into the sky, guarded by sedimentary sentinels. The park felt like a vast, disintegrating cemetery. The Badlands were more than a national park – they were a geologic monument. Every gully was a river’s graveyard, and every red and pink layer of stone memorialized an era long past.

We pivoted to look north across the plateau, bright and brave against the darkening sky. I couldn’t stop staring into the indigo and white clouds, shifting and promising trouble. They were danger, and they were the most beautiful clouds I’ve ever seen. I lifted my camera to take another picture when —

“Blarh, blarh, blarh,” a siren erupted from Mike’s backpack.

The alarm came from my phone, and we knew its intent all too well: a storm was approaching. And not just a storm: when Mike retrieved the phone, it delivered the promised warning: tornado. Seek shelter immediately.

In the distance, the north sky was churning. We caught pinpricks of lightning sniping at the horizon. Mike and I looked at each other, on top of the world, masters for a moment of the geologic graveyard.

We should have gone back. We should have turned around, hurried down the pass, and retreated to the safety of our car.

But we didn’t.

We agreed to monitor the advancing storm while we set out on a quick hike on top of the Wall. If the rain came near us, we’d retrace our steps and seek cover in the car before we found our campground.

A grassy, narrow trail drew us out onto the plateau. True to form, we pause in a sandy clearing to throw the disc for half an hour. Throwing while we hike is a habit we’ve honed over the past four years. The temptation to throw on the trail usually extends our hikes by several hours, particularly if we have trees as target practice. That day on the plateau, the urge to stop and throw may have saved us. 

We trekked deeper into the grass until we reached a small table. Because it looked climbable, Mike set out to climb it. I stayed in the clearing, and I turned back toward to the alluring steel sky to check for the storm.

We had, I realized, been gambling with time. In the seconds before I looked up in that clearing, I had hoped we still had chips on the table. I was so foolish.

Nature has the power to remind us (again and again) of our humility and our humanity. Mother nature is the house, and she always wins.

A vanguard of softer, paler clouds had separated from the larger cumulonimbus form. The cloud edges were ragged and reaching, like a witch’s claw descending to pluck us off the earth. My forever-running inner dialogue stopped mid-thought. Every stray idea or musing ran for shelter in my head. In their stead, the silence was filled with Sauron’s March, drumming terror through my body.

“Mike… I think we should go back to the car,” I mumbled, eyes still locked on the menacing sky. How was the cloud moving so fast? How did we miss it before?

Mike couldn’t hear me from where he stood on the table. But he was also staring into a new block of clouds twisting above him, and he shouted, “I’m going to get down now.”

Together again on the trail, Mike set a quick pace back toward the Wall’s edge. Above us, the claw opens wider. It was Maleficent, with Sleeping Beauty in her grasp. And she had all the time in the world.

Our brisk walk became a jog, then a run. We didn’t talk, running with a focused fear. The sky gurgled with anticipation, and the shots of lightning followed close behind. The clearing where we had stopped to throw – a stop that meant we were 20 minutes closer to safety – disappeared beneath our feet as we raced the storm.

50 yards from the edge, the first raindrop hit my shoulder. We weren’t fast enough, but we kept going. Just as we emerged from the grasses, lightning flashed against the Wall 100 yards to our right. The raindrops became artillery fire as we hurtled ourselves over the Wall’s edge.

Gone was the caution and footwork I’d used to climb up the shaky rocks of the trail. I jumped, tripped, and slid down the clay path that was devolving into a rocky mud slide. The boulders lining the trail felt like more protection than the vast prairie, but still we ran. So close, so close. 

Our boots sloshed onto flat ground, and we sprinted the final 30 yards to our car. I collapsed into the passenger seat with a heave of relief. Our legs were caked in gray clay, and our shirts clung wretchedly to our skin, heavy with rain. I looked at Mike, who was panting as hard as I was. Rain dripped from his hair and ran down his cheeks. We grinned.

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Everyone would feel better if I said we regretted staying on top of that Wall, but we don’t. Our decisions were foolhardy and we won’t repeat them. We would later learn that that claw-like cloud was the beginnings of a condensation funnel, which usually looks more like this. We were stupid, and lucky.

But even a week later, the experience still feels potent and valuable. We felt alive as we ran from that tornado.

We were in control of our choices during that stormy hour, for better or worse. I know it’s only an incredible story because we lived to tell it, but I’m excited to have experienced more than a few snapped photos out the car window.

I’m not invincible – life has pointed that out more than enough times. Yet some of the best moments of my life fit into those few seconds – blinks of an eye, beats of your heart – when you pretend nothing can touch you. We’re not gamblers, but sometimes remembering you’re on borrowed time makes every minute taste sweeter.