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I have lived in nine different states in my 30 years of living, which I have come to learn is no small feat. It actually ends up consisting of 13 official moves; plus, I lose track of the number of times where I just end up changing apartments. Many people through the years have remarked on my fun, trivia-like fact. Some feel sorry for me. When they ask me where home is, my response is usually unconventional to them: “Well, what do you mean?” Is it where I was born, or where I have lived the longest? Is it the place where I grew up or where I learned to grow up? What about one region encompassing everything? Is that really possible?

Of these nine states, five would classify as part of the “American West”: Utah, Nevada, New Mexico, Alaska, and Colorado. Despite my frequent moves, I always felt drawn to the West, especially the desert Southwest. All of these five states may be classified as the “American West,” in part by their geography or perhaps their climate. Having lived in these states I can say that, even with their similarities using these simple classification techniques, their understated differences can sometimes standout in stark contrast with each other. Many authors have written about the allure of the “American West” and have described it as a “romantic” place. I feel as though I have seen first-hand and understand what many of these writers may have felt: the beauty of a New Mexico sunset, the magnificence and wonder of an icy Alaskan landscape, or the prominent and jagged Front Range mountains rising up along the Colorado horizon.

Living in nine different states in 30 years definitely requires the life of a nomad and a sense of adventure, albeit sometimes not by choice. I grew up a “military brat,” with not one, but two parents serving active duty in the military. I am extremely proud of them and their service, and I would not trade my childhood experiences for anything in the world. We did move around a lot though, and I would be honest in saying there were positives and challenges about these situations, as there is with any major change. I saw a lot of new places, met new faces along the way, and learned new things constantly. The experience reinforced the mindfulness of taking in your surroundings and treasuring the time you have spent with these locations. It is what gave me my love of science, learning to pay close attention to detail and how to ask questions about the data that is in front of you. I have had an interesting life as a result of these experiences, and it all began in the great “American West.”

I was born in Utah. I do not remember much of my time there as a baby. We only stayed for maybe two years before my parents were stationed somewhere else. It is almost weird to think about the place you were born and not have any recollection of it or feel any special attachment. We revisited the state in more recent years, when a parent was sent on temporary duty assignments or when I drove through on one of my other various moves. Most of the details I remember about Utah stem from my two “loves” of science – meteorology and geology. One turned into a passion with a subsequent career, and the other has remained a pleasurable hobby.

On one of my revisits to the state, we flew into the Salt Lake City airport just after an evening thunderstorm. I recall just making it on the tail-end of the weather, the after-rain smell still omnipresent, and I remember the color of the sky against the mountains to the east – an almost ominous hulking black mass of clouds, with just the tinge of reds and oranges from the setting sun brushing along their edge. Then, I looked upon the Great Salt Lake to the west, only learning later from one of my North American geology books that it formed when an even larger lake thousands of years ago diminished in size due to increasing temperatures and subsequent increasing evaporation rates. The high salt content is because it formed in a basin with no exit and relies on evaporational processes. It really is a state made for geological lovers, too, with its red rock through Moab or the first site of the unique and unusual Canyon Rock sandstone formation when first crossing the southern border near the Four Corners Region.

With our next move, we came to Alabama. We went from this desert land and mountainous region to what is essentially a very moist river basin, filled with green and trees as far as the eye can see. I also do not remember much of this move or this particular stay in Alabama. Much of what I can remember from here came from a later move. At this point though, my family and I were only here for about a year, but it is always interesting to think about the place. Mosquitoes were a new thing; we did not have a lot of those in the desert. Somehow, you never quite caught them in the act of violating your personal space, and you might think that you eluded them on one of your outings, until a mysterious bump on your leg became extremely itchy all of the sudden. In addition, there was always this ever-present sensation of feeling like I just stepped out of the shower and could not quite get dry enough to feel decent just by walking out of the front door. That was also an unusual feeling I never really got used to.

It was not until my next move that I really started to appreciate the widening chasm of differences exhibited between the eastern half of the country and the west. The next journey was going to be to Nevada. After the quick one-year stint in Alabama, we moved to Las Vegas, “the City of Lights.” It more than lived up to its namesake: glittering lights from the various casinos along the “strip,” more cars and people than I knew how to deal with, and oh dear, that desert heat! I was going on the age of four during this time, so I can recall a few more details from this move. I can remember that desert sun baking me and making me feel like that gooey tar they use for patch jobs on asphalt – poke me with a stick and I might melt or deform, depending on the heat, and ooze out along the sidewalk. The weather was generally decent most of the year, averaging over 300 days of sun, with only a few months where you remained indoors to seek solace with the engineering achievement that is AC. Nevada was also likely my first experience of the vivid colors of a desert sunset, the earliest I can remember. Those gorgeous reds and oranges would be even more beautiful contrasting with the high cirrus clouds that would linger through the remaining light of the day, indicative of a strong high-pressure system in place. There are days I can remember playing in the backyard, my dad inevitably grilling something while my mom looked on, as the last rays of sun provided us with its own equivalent Vegas light show.

Nevada would have also been the first place I encountered desert thunderstorms and could remember the sensations that came with them. Some people may think that a lack of trees scattered along the skyline might signify a region “devoid of life” or describe it as a “wasteland.” There are two problems with this logic: 1) for as long as I have lived in the West (specifically the desert Southwest) “life” comes in other forms, like the humble cactus or blooming yucca plants and various desert flowers or even the important piñon pines native to much of the Southwest, and 2) the lack of typical deciduous trees allows for other picturesque and natural phenomena to show off, one of which is the desert thunderstorm. It may start as an initial puffy cumulus cloud that develops overtop of the higher terrain. Then, as the day progresses and the heat becomes more oppressive, these initial cumulus clouds almost appear as if they are bubbling up with the heat and begin to tower, giving us the namesake of towering cumulus or cumulus congestus. It is the same process – convection – where you would watch steam rise from your hot coffee cup. By the early afternoon, you may begin to hear distant rumbling as the storm matures into large cumulonimbus clouds. The clouds are given this designation once they begin precipitating.

Depending on how dry the atmosphere is in the lower levels, much of the precipitation would evaporate before ever reaching the surface, giving us virga – thin shafts of rain hanging just below the cloud that seem to disappear before reaching the ground. I would learn later in my meteorology undergraduate courses and escapades as a weather forecaster that this quick evaporation process could lead to a gust of cooler air traveling down towards the ground. Evaporation acts to cool the atmosphere, and the subsequent change in densities of the air would cause the cooler, more dense air to sink rapidly when compared to the much warmer, less dense air nearer the surface. Some people may be familiar with this phenomenon through other names, such as downdrafts, gust fronts as the air spreads in all directions at the surface, or even dry microbursts. The strong scent of rain would approach next as that gust of evaporatively cooled wind glides through. In the desert, that initial scent of rain is a prized commodity, since it is usually a good bet that you cannot even remember the last time rain fell. It makes the scent all the more pleasant and exhilarating. Finally, as the storm would begin to drift off the mountains and into the valley, where much of the town is situated, only then would you be lucky enough to actually touch the rain. When I think back on it, I really believe these desert thunderstorms were part of what inspired me to become a meteorologist, just so I could find out what mysterious processes dictated their initial development and formation.

After another stint in Alabama for about a year following our stay in Nevada, my parents received orders to head to New Mexico. This next move would be pivotal in my life, but I did not know it at the time; I was going on six years old, where my most pressing concerns were making new friends and trying not to embarrass myself heading into my first “big kid” grade school. New Mexico is a place I continue to find myself drawn to or returning to during turning points in my life, especially in recent years as I move on and see even more parts of this vast country.

If I could put it lightly, it really is an awesome place. The weather is even better here, almost like a goldilocks effect when compared to Nevada and Utah: it is usually not too hot in the summer and not too cold in the winter, and you still get that 300-day plus average of sunny days. If you did get snow, typically it all melted by noon the next day. That is why two-hour delays are common here; I cannot remember how many times I have encountered someone who could not fathom the usefulness of a two-hour delay. It also had stunning mountain ranges, with the Sandias serving as the well-known strategic eastern border for Albuquerque (where my folks were stationed) across from the other famous western border – the Rio Grande. The “watermelon mountains,” as they were called, where the last light at the end of the day would give them the look of that particular melon fruit, rind and all. Those fascinating desert thunderstorms were a common sight here, too. As a kid, one evening with my dad remains clear in my memory – we watched the flashes of lightning dance across the Sandia Mountains from my bedroom window.

Most of what I remember from my first visit were from the eyes of a little kid, the fascination with experiences. We attended the International Balloon Fiesta a couple of times while we were there. Waking up at o’dark thirty to attend the mass ascension and watching all the many shapes and colors of the hot air balloons rise into the early light of dawn made the cold chill in the air all the more bearable. That, and the best hot chocolate I have ever tasted, or maybe it just felt that way. Then there were the special shape glow events in the evening, watching favorites like Scooby-Doo or Darth Vader light up against the dark, with just a hint of twilight barely hanging on in the autumn sky. I also loved my grade school and made a lot of new friends. The neighborhood we lived in was a great place to grow, as there was always someone up the street to rollerblade with or shoot hoops with. It was also my first experience with video games – playing with a brand-new Nintendo 64 at someone’s house, after finishing my homework of course, and getting my first Gameboy color for Christmas. It was also the longest we had stayed in one place at this point, which made it all the more difficult to accept that we were going to be moving again during the turn of the millennium.

I was about nine years old at this time, going on 10, and I do remember getting a little emotional as we loaded up our last suitcases in the car and headed east. I had built up this life in Albuquerque, and now, I was going to have to start over. Through no fault of their own, my parents seemed to get transferred between opposite ends of the climate spectrum with each succeeding move. The summer of 2000 would be our move to Georgia, to a much smaller town known as Warner Robins; we were likely expected to remain there for the next two years. It reminded me a lot of Alabama – those same walls of trees, same green everywhere you turned, and the same sauna-like air. Although, being a little older than I was in Alabama, I began to appreciate some aspects of the Southeastern states. They are rich in history, and I was always fascinated by that. I grew to like characteristics of the weather there, too. They had similar thunderstorms pop up in the summer heat, just like the desert. In my introduction to meteorology class, they called these air mass thunderstorms. I also experienced my first tornado watch (no actual tornado though) while there, and I did not feel scared, only curiosity. I started to ask more questions about aspects of severe weather: what made these storms different than the ones I grew up on in the desert?

Unfortunately, this time period also marked a tumultuous moment for the country as a whole. A year into our stay, 9/11 happened. I remember that day well – being told to stay inside while at school, the teachers with worried looks on their faces, and my brother and I wondering why we were the last kids to get picked up from daycare that day. I worried after that if my parents were going to have to be sent overseas. In the months following, most of the temporary duty trips my parents were sent on were not permanent, and my dad actually ended up retiring the following year. No one was more surprised than me to find out he had landed a new job in Albuquerque, NM.

When we found ourselves moving back to New Mexico, I began to revisit things in a new light, so to speak. I was older