Experiencing the (almost) unexpected: Twenty four hours of high water in High River

I'm getting ready for work when I get an anxious call from my sister.  She wants to know if it’s okay to come to High River because she heard that the water levels in the Highwood River are rising.  I sigh and shake my head at her needless worrying.  "You have nothing to worry about," I reply.  "The water gets high every year.”

I don't give it another thought.  Mostly because this happens every June and also because the last time it flooded eight years ago, the water didn't come close to our home.  And that was a bad one.  Back then; relentless sandbagging saved a lot of the affected homes.  

I glance out my window into the green space.  It’s about three acres of emerald colored grass with a small playground at one end.  Young trees have started to grow making it feel like a tiny oasis in our bustling little town.  Although it rained hard all night, I don’t see any water there.

At work, people have begun showing pictures of the Sheep River sent to them by friends living in Black Diamond.  They are incredible. The river has morphed into a raging wall of muddy water.  I decide to check my phone and open up a text Phil sends.  It's a picture of the green space filling with water.  The water had already pooled in the east corner and was rapidly snaking its way west, towards our home.  I'm surprised but still not very worried.  Until I hear that one of our two bridges in town has been closed.  I get the okay to leave work and drive home to check on our house. I pass the river on my way and I'm shocked at how high it has come up in the two hours since I last saw it.  It is angry.  Its as if it has decided to take revenge on everything around it.  Huge pieces of wood, and other large chunks of debris are being hurtled down the muddy water like tiny, insignificant twigs.  Trees, still intact from root to tip, have fallen victim to the strength of the water.

I'm home for only a few minutes when there is a knock on my door.  It's a policeman who informs us that there is a mandatory evacuation and we must leave. Emma and I go downstairs and move everything up off the basement floor. Despite seeing the river and the water behind our home, I'm not really worried about my stuff getting wet. The water would have to do something unprecedented to do that, I think. 

We wait for Phil to come back with some sandbags, but he doesn't come, and my cell phone isn’t working. When the power goes out, my anxiety rises. We decide to hop in the car and take a look at our community.  My mouth hangs open when I see that the little creek that hugs the outside of our community has risen at least four feet and has overtaken the walking path that runs beside it and has begun to creep up into backyards. 

At the other end of our neighborhood, a pond connects to the creek that runs under the road through a concrete culvert. This culvert was built after the 2005 flood to protect our homes.  But I can't see it anymore.  I can't see the road either because the pond and the creek have blended into one raging body of water.  I’m stunned at the little time it has taken for the water to find its way to the road.  It's the only way out of our area by vehicle.  I swallow hard and my hands start to sweat.  On the east side of the road, the water drops a couple of feet, and has formed into a mini waterfall. I turn the car around and head back to the house, not sure what to do. My neighbors seem to be thinking the same thing.  Some are walking down the streets, checking out the water and where it has come to.  Other have started to sandbag.

I have to do something, and waiting doesn’t feel like an option anymore.  So, gripping the steering wheel tight, I drive up to the water.  My heart is pounding in my ears as I nudge my car through the water.  If I go to fast, the water will fill my engine and it will stall.  If I go to slow, I'm afraid it might push the car into the waterfall.  Emma touches my arm and murmurs encouraging words.  We can feel the water rocking the car as we slowly make our way across. I look straight ahead and pray that this was the right decision. Seconds pass as the water slowly recedes and we find higher ground. I lift my shaking hands from the steering wheel and stare blankly out the windshield.

What just happened?  What is happening?  I take a moment to look around.  It's chaos.  The streets are jammed with vehicles.  Some people are pulled over and stare at the water.  Others have gotten out to help direct traffic.  Fire trucks and police cars are trying to squeeze through the clogged streets.  Everyone is trying to leave. I realize it’s not just my community that was evacuated.  It looks like the entire northwest side of town has the same order.

I drive to my friend’s house, where we had agreed to meet.  Phil had left to get sandbags but didn't return and I hope he is there.  He is.  

Jared comes running out of the house and throws his arms around me.  I hug him tight.  My sluggish brain is still trying to understand what is happening.  I'm supposed to be at work right now.  Should I go back?  Do people need help? I decide to wait it out, but sitting around does nothing for my nervous energy so we get in the car to take a look around.  I need to know what is going on, I need to get a sense of what is happening to my little town.  We drive a few blocks before we are stopped by a blockade.  Which isn’t actually necessary, because the street has disappeared and the river has overtaken it.  Boats are now going up and down the streets in an effort to reach people who are stranded inside their homes.  Helicopters are running constantly trying to find those who have had to find safety on their roofs.  The only vehicles are huge loaders that push through the water. But instead of dirt, the buckets carry people. 

“It’s like a scene from one of those disaster movies,” my friend remarks.  She’s right.  All we can hear over the roar of the water are helicopters, machines and sirens.  Dozens of other people stand with us dumbfounded at the complete and total havoc Mother Nature is reeking over our little town.  The river has not simply spilled over its banks.  It has spread in almost every direction and is running through homes like water through a sieve.  It looks like an inland tsunami.

I stand there feeling completely and utterly helpless.  The need to connect with other residents keeps me there for a long time, exchanging stories and sharing information.   

Eventually, we go back to my friend’s house and eat supper.  The food tastes like cardboard in my mouth, and I eat mechanically.  My friends and I talk and joke, but there is an underlying feeling of anxiety among all of us.  I wonder if this is what shock feels like.

After supper, we decide to check out our home.  I am hesitant to go back through the water, but the rain has stopped and the water has receded a bit and we go through.

It’s too quiet here, I think.  There isn’t even any wind.  It feels like we are inside a glass dome and every last breath of fresh air has been sucked out.  Then I understand why.  While the front of our street looks relatively normal, behind our home, the transformation is shocking.  The green space is gone.  In it’s place, there is a muddy, brown lake.  The water has filled our little oasis with dirty bath water.  About four to six feet of water is now sitting in the space, and has found its way into our homes.  A rock begins to form in my stomach as I go into my home.  I can smell dankness from the front door.  And I’m not prepared for what I find. Our main floor is untouched, and remains as we left it.  But the basement has been transformed.  I walk down only a few steps before I see the water.  A large storage unit, along with a desk and toys, are floating. Another cupboard lies on an angle against the wall.  I can’t see any further without going right into the water. It’s so quiet in here I think again, over the haze of my shock.  The water has destroyed a lifetime of memories and possessions we worked hard for and now it all sits there, marinating in sewage and other filth.  It’s like watching someone you love being assaulted but not being able to stop it.  There is nothing I can do. 

Regret pours over me as I think about the time I had to move everything upstairs and out of harms way.  How foolish and arrogant I was to assume my basement would be untouched.  I walk out onto the street and blink hard in the bright sunlight.  I try and remind myself that it’s just stuff, things that can be replaced and that most importantly, my family is safe.  But the feeling that the worst kind of invasion of our privacy has just occurred presses down on me like weight.  The water is an intruder that continues to assault, even after it’s been discovered.

That night, sleep comes fitfully as I toss and turn and run the events of the day over and over in my head. 

The next morning, I awake feeling like I’m at the beginning of a long journey and this is day one.  At least we are all in this together I tell myself, as I walk down the road in front of my home.  Others have come back to, and we stand on the street and talk.  Their presence is like a balm and I feel comfort in coming together. I am encouraged and my faith like a match just struck springs to life.  I am not alone.