The clouds of the northern sky rolled broodingly over the horizon. The humid air was wilting. I tied my chore apron around my waist and stepped outside just as that edge of muttering clouds streaked with light. I paused, then raced to the barn where my goats were calling, hung my milk pails beside the milking station, and sped back to the house for my camera. I couldn’t tarry long with my photographic aspirations, as I was already late to chore, but I just had to at least try capturing this again.
The weather conditions seemed good for what I needed. Defined streaks of light displayed against dark, purple-hued clouds. The sky is too dark, I thought. Oh well. I turned my ISO higher. Just to be certain, I captured a test shot for metering, and, dubiously this time, reduced my shutter speed yet more. Would it hold?
Bracing my camera against myself, I squinted through the viewfinder, my arms nearly trembling with excitement. A flicker of light! I snapped the shutter. Too late, too dark. Lightning flickered again. Oh, I wasn’t ready that time.
I took numerous photos from my spot on the back porch. All displayed dark. No threatening, glowering daggers reaching to the earth, captured in their moment of fury.
My sister exited the house behind me. Right, I had yet to chore. I hurried inside, fetched my tripod and remote shutter trigger, and returned to my place on the porch. I didn’t believe it would work, but, as an experiment, I turned the shutter speed way down—2 seconds.
The next photo revealed an illumination in the clouds! I was closer. I slowed the shutter speed further, still tripping the shutter at every glimmer of light I saw. That technique wasn’t working very well, but I didn’t know what else to do. And truly I had once before gained success with this method, managing to find 5 good photos of the 300-some-odd I had taken that previous night.
My shutter speed registered 5 seconds now. Ahh, lightning! An in-cloud starburst streak! With mild doubts, I set the camera to a continuous, five-second exposure. To the sound of its repetitive clicking, I made my way to the barn. Had I finally uncovered the secret to those photos I so admired?
I bent my head to the goat’s warm side, milk running through my fingers. Through the barn windows, the dim flickering seemed to have ceased.
“It looks as if the lightning has stopped now,” I told my sister. “I am going to go take my camera inside. I’ll milk Butter-creme later.”
There was another flash as I opened the gate. I approached my camera with care, trying to avoid being caught in its frame, and slid the shutter lock off the remote trigger. I stared at the photos on the screen. They were incredible. And far from my speculations, the lightning had only increased.
Once I had finished choring, I carried my milk inside and filtered it into jars. “You might want to bring your camera inside. It’s lightning out there,” my father advised.
“I think that’s why she has it out there,” my mother stated.
I pushed aside the curtain and stepped outside, intending initially to bring my camera indoors. Just a bit longer, I thought. I turned off the porch light, folded my arms, and gazed upon the display. The pattern of it was mesmerizing. It was as if I could feel the electricity surging and slicing through the air. I wasn’t about to shut my camera off now.
The clouds seemed stacked, with scattered fragments of smaller clouds blown swiftly below them. One section would light up, then another above it. A streak would invariably shoot westward or curve upward to the mother cloud. Part of the upper cloud occasionally sent off a spider-like streak. Without touching the ground, it reached over the cloud, probing, branching.
The trees rustled in the wind. My camera beeped and flashed a red warning light. Low battery. It was getting late—to leave was impossible though. I could not tear myself from that scene. I wanted to sing. I wanted to shout in praise of an Almighty God who could display such magnificent power. But I held still, silent. It was unreal, celestially beautiful. Even the thunder was muffled, only a low, constant mutter, none of that window-jarring, heart-stopping roar.
My camera beeped again. I glanced at it, then back at the sky. It would get good photos or die trying. I did hope it would hold so I could review them before bedtime.
Though I would never have wearied of the show, I did grow tired. I brought my camera inside, folded my tripod, and sat down to skim over what I captured. Why, there’s hardly a single shot without lightning! I thought. Some were expectedly better than others.
The next morning, on the computer, I was even more pleased with the evening’s captures. Some I deleted, but some—I had found the trick! Whereas I had thought long exposures would be my doom, they were obviously the secret. I had only done five seconds. What would more seconds look like? As of yet I don’t know.
Perhaps some other clear, rainless Texas summer thunderstorm in the future, I will know. Lightning is indeed incredible, phenomenal, and beautiful, and next time you see it, pause to enjoy the splendor in the tameless power of an evening thunderstorm. (A sultry Texas one is always the best.)
