Tag: rain

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On the Rainbow Road

By Christian Begeman

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high.” Chances are good that if you read or hear these words a familiar tune will pop into your head. Likely it will be Judy Garland’s signature melody from the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. Or maybe it will be Hawaiian-born musician Israel “IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole’s ukulele version that has 768 million views on YouTube. This song may be the most familiar rainbow tune, but there are plenty more. I grew up hearing Kermit the Frog sing”Rainbow Connection,” and then learned to sing it myself in music class. One of my favorite country songs from The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band reminds listeners that,”If we’re ever gonna see a rainbow, we gotta stand a little rain.” Rainbows are special. They are ephemeral. Unique. Often amazing. Plenty of rain fell this spring and summer, so there were more than a few opportunities to chase rainbows.

That’s actually supplanted storm chasing as my favorite hobby. As awe-inspiring and downright scary as a good high plains thunder boomer can be, my favorite part of summer is catching that first light after the storm. That’s when glorious things can happen in the heavens above. I don’t consider myself a storm chaser anymore. I’m a rainbow chaser.

It seems obvious, but to be a rainbow chaser one must stay weather aware. Storms toward the evening with little cloud cover behind them provide the best opportunities for horizon-filling rainbows. With sunlight shooting into the back of a rain cloud, the chances of rainbow creation are greatly increased. As a bonus, once the sun sets you have a chance to see that warm sunset light color the towering storm clouds from behind. It is an amazing sight to witness a changing — almost living — yellow, orange and red skyscape amble across the sky.

That’s exactly what happened when I met a strong storm that passed through Huron and was heading southeast towards Sioux Falls. I caught the front side of the storm somewhere north of Carthage. The wall cloud was menacing, so I skirted around to the south and then drove up the backside. A dazzling double rainbow was my reward. I trailed the storm to a country steeple northeast of Howard and then stayed for the cloud show. The scene before me was an artist’s masterpiece. An elegant spire standing tall in the midst of the slowly changing colors of a summer sunset painted on a storm cloud. It was a Psalm 19 kind of moment.

A panoramic of Belleview Lutheran Church following a thunderstorm in rural Miner County.


A couple weekends later, I met another summer storm and its rainbows. The magic happened east of Stickney in Davison County and then spilled over into Douglas County about 8 miles west of Dimock. This time the rainbow stuck around while the clouds turned sunset red. Chain lightning played across the horizon for an extravagant finishing touch. Visions like that are probably why there are so many songs about rainbows. On that particular day, I did indeed find the rainbow connection.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midco he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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After-Storm Chasing

By Christian Begeman

“Sometimes I do get to places just when God’s ready to have somebody click the shutter.”

– Ansel Adams

I’ve always loved a good summer thunderstorm. As a younger man, it meant a much needed drink for the wheat fields and pastures and a day off work for us (provided we got two-tenths of an inch or more). Not much has changed over the years. The scent of rain on the prairie wind remains one of my favorite things, but I’ve also come to love photographing the drama that can unfold in the sky. Storm chasing has become a well-known phenomena during my lifetime, from scientists learning more about severe weather to thrill seekers trying to spot their first tornado. I understand both lines of thinking. I also know that really bad storms cause damage, devastation and possible loss of life, so I hesitate to call myself a thrill seeker when I get the chance to chase a rumbler (below).

Still, I do find an almost unbelievable beauty and wonder in the sheer power and strength of summer storms. The real beauty I’m after is the first light after the storm. Somehow it is cleaner and shines stronger. If circumstances are right, sky filling rainbows can appear to add another layer of grandeur. My favorite post storm scene happens when you get behind the storms just before sunset and watch the golden hour illuminate and color the backside of the massive storm system. There is something mysterious and a little scary about the day’s last light catching and coloring mammatus clouds.

I found a couple such scenes this spring and summer and wanted to share the photos with you in this final column of the summer. In late May, I was driving out to Rapid City for the state track meet as a giant storm moved along the South Dakota/Nebraska border. From Interstate 90 around Presho, I started to see the beauty forming as evening drew on. I was compelled to pull over and drive south. By the time I reached the White River breaks the southern sky was ablaze.

In early June, I drove out to meet a storm heading east from Charles Mix County. Somewhere in Douglas County, I thought I might see my first tornado. The winds were picking up newly tilled dirt and raising it skyward and some eddies twisted and turned forming huge whirlwinds along the straight line wind front. Later in the evening, I arrived at Trinity Lutheran just a few miles west of Platte as the first light of evening broke free from the storm. The result was a sky of rare beauty accompanied by a quiet and peaceful scene only experienced after a major storm passes. In that moment I found what I was looking for — the rare vision of perfect light on a perfect South Dakota scene.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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Catching Rainbows

By Christian Begeman

Our neighbor state to the northwest may be known as big sky country, but South Dakota ranks right up there in terms of amazing things to witness in the great blue yonder. On a clear night, it isn’t hard to get lost in the numberless stars blinking back at you. Who hasn’t been soothed by the nearly unobstructed blue sky accented with white, fluffy clouds sailing overhead? As much as I enjoy those kinds of sky gazing, there is nothing quite like watching a summer storm burst from the horizon and relentlessly fill the sky with terrible beauty, only to soften its show with a breathtaking rainbow dancing away into the evening.

Unfortunately, this year, the raindrops have been few and far between across the whole state. The season started promising enough. On May 3, I chased a rainbow. It was after work when I looked up to see a potential rainbow situation brewing. It was a pretty strong spring shower with a few lightning bolts and very few clouds behind it to the northwest. Once I got behind the showers and the sunlight came streaking through, one of the most brilliant full rainbows I have ever witnessed began to form. I chased it as it moved southeast for about 20 miles, stopping at churches, silos and over grass fields for various photo ops.

It’s not always that easy. Many times, only a slender, faint rainbow drops from a distant cloud. Sunlight, amount of water falling, size of the raindrops and angle of view all have role to play in forming the phenomena. Trying to get all those factors to work together takes some work and a lot of luck.

In mid-June, a large line of severe thunderstorms marched across eastern South Dakota. I drove through the rain and wind to the back end of the storm just as the sun set in rural McCook County. I’ve seen a lot of beauty in the sky in my day, but watching the evening sunlight emerge under the clouds and light up that storm was like watching an artist unveil a masterpiece. The mammatus clouds caught the setting sunlight and created shadows and patterns across the whole eastern half of the sky. I had two cameras and the beautiful church steeple of Immanuel Lutheran south of Canova in front of me, as well as an old barn nearby. I did my best to capture what I saw, but even so, I feel like I didn’t come close.

A double rainbow near Ben Clare, along the South Dakota/Iowa border.

In July, I was in Perkins County working on a video project when a summer storm rolled up from Wyoming. I saw light under the clouds towards the Slim Buttes, so I drove that way in case I could recreate the visual magic I had seen in McCook County. When I got to Slim Buttes Lutheran in northeastern Harding County, the sunlight broke free, but there was still a light rain falling with very large drops. The conditions were perfect for a rainbow. I looked out my rear window and sure enough, a full and richly colored rainbow began to appear. Later I drove a few miles farther east to capture the last of the setting sunlight as it played off the falling rain. It created a colorful scene that you really had to see to believe.

It’s only the end of July, and as I write this there are storms north of town, which is good for farmers, ranchers and sky watchers. Even so, I’m hoping for more than a few more opportunities to catch a rainbow.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing South Dakota’s prettiest spots. Follow Begeman on his blog.

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Thy Neighbor’s Rain

By Roger Holtzmann

Ever since Moses came down from Mount Sinai, we have been on notice. No killing. No adultery. No stealing. No giving false testimony against your neighbor. Which means if you accidentally run over your neighbor’s trash can don’t swear your other neighbor did it.

I have never worshipped a golden calf or other false idol, but I have run afoul of most of the other commandments in my time. My one bright spot, morally speaking, is that I have never had any problem with the last two commandments: thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods and thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. I’m not unmindful of the charms of other men’s wives, but I know if I ever crossed the line to coveting them my wife would find out and I’d be dead within the hour. This tends to keep me on the straight and narrow.

As for coveting my neighbor’s goods, my protection against envy is two-pronged. I am a simple man, and am content with simple things. Bigger, better, faster and fancier things don’t get me all googly-eyed, so I don’t lust after them. Plus I am well practiced in the art of creative disparagement, or seeing the glass half-empty. If my neighbor has a big house with a pool I think,”those things are a major headache. You’ve got to clean them every day or they get all gunky. No way would I want a pool.” If my neighbor has a big screen TV I recall something I once read about how they cause eyestrain or cancer or something. This makes me appreciate my TV, which has a screen the size of a paperback book.

My commendable record regarding covetous behavior, unfortunately, may be in jeopardy. I’m not sure because I’ve wandered into a gray area. It’s not my neighbor’s wife or my neighbor’s goods I’m coveting. It’s my neighbor’s moisture.

It’s nearing the end of spring. Tulips, daffodils and those little purple flowers I can never remember the name of have made their appearance. Our Nanking cherry bush is loaded with blossoms, as are our apple trees. An ancient mulberry, which is always the last tree to leaf out, is finally awakening from its winter slumber.

Meanwhile, large swaths of our lawn look like a none-too-well-maintained Berber carpet. On every side there are bushes and trees that didn’t make it. Many that did survive look far from healthy. I feel bad for Carolyn because she has put so much time and effort into nurturing them, but I also realize that lawns, flowers and shrubs are a trifling matter in the grand scheme of things. Across the road are the stalks of last year’s stunted corn crop, sticking up from ground that’s as lifeless as chalk. What will it mean for farm families if the rains don’t come?

I’m not a weather worrier by nature. I’m one of those goofballs who love blizzards, and who does exactly what you’re not supposed to do when the wind starts howling and lightning bolts rend the heavens. Instead of heading for shelter I run to the window in hopes of seeing Dorothy’s house or the wicked witch fly past. If I ever get sucked into a funnel cloud I expect the last thing I’ll see is Carolyn yelling up at me,”I told you to get in the basement!”

Even so, I have been conjuring up all manner of dreadful drought scenarios of late, and I didn’t need maps in the newspaper indicating Yankton County is in the”drier than Mars” stage to get them started. All I needed to do was look at my rain gauge, which is filled with dead bugs that didn’t die by drowning.

When I was a wee lad my dad used to play the guitar and sing a song that caused my siblings and me to roll our eyes and cringe in embarrassment, as children are wont to do around their parents. Now it’s the soundtrack to my nightmares.

Oh, it ain’t gonna rain no mo, no mo

It ain’t gonna rain no mo‚Ä®

How in the heck can I wash my neck

If it ain’t gonna rain no mo?

Which brings me, at long last, to the matter of my covetous ways. We had one snowfall of consequence in Yankton this past winter, and a couple that barely whitened the ground. My mom and dad in Milbank, on the other hand, seemed to be in the middle of, or just getting over, a major storm every time I talked to them.

My obsession with moisture was such that I watched those storms dump on the northeast and all I could think of was, what did they do to deserve a blizzard? How come they get to be snowed in and not me? I’d see pictures of the interstate with stranded trucks barely showing above the drifts and I’d be perturbed to the third degree. Why do they have all the luck?

We had a rip-roaring, old-fashioned thunderstorm a couple days ago, which has helped my mood somewhat, but I’m pretty sure somebody got more rain than me. That leaves me right back where I started, with my soul in peril. It seems odd that a people who live in the desert, where every drop of water is precious, wouldn’t spell out whether coveting your neighbor’s rainfall is a sin or not. I don’t know where I stand.

Could you say a prayer for me just in case?

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the July/August 2013 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.