Arizona has many things that’ll take your breath away–the Grand Canyon at sunrise, a saguaro blooming in the moonlight, and a July afternoon when your car thermometer stops at 118 degrees because, frankly, that’s as high as it knows how to count.
Now, I don’t live there, but I can and do follow the news from Arizona. Blame the Internet. It allowed me to see what happens in the West.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—makes TV news crews lose their collective minds quite like a good old-fashioned monsoon dust storm, or as we desert rats politely call it, a “haboob.”
Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not knocking Mother Nature. When the desert decides to throw a temper tantrum, it’s something to see.
A wall of dust rolling across the horizon like a thousand Hoover vacuums running on high. It looks like the end of the world, if the end of the world came with grit in your teeth and the smell of wet creosote.
What gets me isn’t the storm itself—it’s the wide-eyed, brand-new reporters they send out to cover it. Fresh out of journalism school, still wearing shiny shoes and hair gel, they stand in front of the camera with that “biblical plague” look in their eyes.
You’d think they were broadcasting live from the parting of the Red Sea. “This… this is unprecedented!” they gasp into the microphone.
No, sweetheart. It’s July. It’s Arizona. It’s Tuesday.
Meanwhile, locals are pulling over to grab tacos at Filiberto’s because they know that by the time you unwrap your burrito, the whole thing will blow over and you’ll have a little extra sand in your salsa. That’s how desert rats handle it–patience, tortillas, and a broom waiting back home on the porch.
The funny thing is, the station always has a choice. They could send out the old-timers—the reporters with calloused look and cracked windshields who’ve lived through forty monsoon seasons.
Folks who know the difference between a dust storm and the world ending. Those folks would tell you, calm and straight-faced, “Yep, it’s dusty. Best stay off the freeway for half an hour.”
But the producers never go that route. They want drama.
They want terror. They want twenty-two-year-old Chad or Tiffany hyperventilating live on air while clutching the microphone like it’s their last.
I’ll never forget one storm when a young fella, bless his heart, actually crouched behind his news van, talking about how he was “braving the elements.” The man was wearing goggles as if he were about to storm Normandy. All the while, his cameraman—an old-timer who’d been around the block—was leaning against the bumper, sipping a Big Gulp, not even bothering to aim the camera straight.
That’s the difference. The rookies think a haboob is the apocalypse.
The veterans know it’s just Mother Nature’s way of sweeping her porch. And that’s really all it is.
A haboob is not smoke, no matter how much it looks like a wildfire. It isn’t biblical, unless your Bible has a chapter titled “Thou Shalt Wash Thy Windshield.”
And it’s not going to swallow the city whole. That’s Phoenix traffic’s job.
The truth is, haboobs are part of life there. They’re messy, they’re inconvenient, and they’re just as predictable as that one neighbor who always brings potato salad to the barbecue. Phoenicians don’t panic—they wait it out, sweep the patios afterward, and carry on.
So here’s my humble suggestion–next time, send the seasoned reporters, the ones who know better than to panic on live TV. The ones who can crack a smile and say, “Well folks, looks like God shook the flour sack again.”
Arizona doesn’t need more fearmongering. What they need is a little common sense, a dash of humor, and maybe a reminder that no matter how scary it looks on the horizon, most storms blow through faster than the evening news can hype them up.
Until then, I’ll be watching from my computer with a cold drink in hand, muttering to myself, “There goes another one.”
And when the screen cuts to some poor rookie choking on dust and calling it “historic,” I’ll chuckle and think, “Welcome to Arizona, kid, hope you packed a broom.”
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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