Saddle Sore: Don’t tell me it doesn’t flood around here

Earlier that morning, my father and a hired hand had left on horseback to check cattle on our Collins Creek grazing permit; a friend from town and I were playing in the back of our Diamond T stock truck, just for something to do. It seemed to be a reasonably nice day, partly cloudy, with patches of sunshine lighting up the jack-oak brush covering the hillside across from our house. Adjacent to the hillside was a deep draw that widened at its mouth, where some corrals, milk barn and chicken house stood. We sometimes turned our milk cows out there for the day. 

A few raindrops began hitting us in the back of the stock truck. We figured they’d pass, but almost immediately the rain came down so fast and hard that we bailed out and ran for the house. We were soaked by the time we’d covered those 40 yards.

My mother, cleaning up in the kitchen, said, “You boys better get out of those wet clothes.” And then suddenly, it all came apart. Lightning hit the house and our world became surreal. In the basement, directly below the kitchen, stainless steel milk buckets, about six of them, stacked upside down to drain, high on a wooden shelf, came crashing to the concrete floor, making a racket that put everyone on edge. An unforgettable sound, probably not unlike the Gates of Hell opening.

At that, my mother’s calm demeanor hit near the panic mode (mine wasn’t much better), and she quickly said, “Everyone get in the car. We’ll be safe from lightning.” She got the car started and turned on the heat, helping us shivering boys feel a little better. As we listened to the rain, the events so far had the markings of adventure for a couple of young boys and I was thinking I didn’t want it to stop very soon. But as we sat and watched, that draw across from the house began carrying more and more water; we saw some small boulders being pushed down with it, and as the flow increased, the stream of red, muddy water began curling up against the wall of the milk barn. My mother put the car in gear — what are we doing?

A woman alone on an isolated ranch, with two young boys, rising flood waters coming almost straight at her, she needed help — or at least a shoulder to lean on. As we pulled up to the county road, it was almost impassable by that point, but she plowed straight in with the car and we headed down the road to Grandpa’s house.  

His house was about a quarter-mile down the road from ours, and although the rain hadn’t let up, the flood waters hadn’t quite reached his house, so there might have been the feeling we’d dodged a bullet, so to speak, but Gramps was on top of things. He knew the water would be coming his (our) way, very shortly. His good horse, Slim, was saddled up in the barn, so Grandpa got his rain gear on and headed out into the storm. His house was lower in relation to the driveway than ours, so he and Slim began pulling logs, about the size of telephone poles, up in front of the house, to turn the water. How clearly I remember him, black rain coat and large Stetson, working the horse and the logs to get them just right. To be honest, I was a little disappointed he wasn’t in the house with us, sharing the excitement, but my mother was telling me, in her motherly voice, to get over it — he was protecting the house — and us.  

And then — the rain stopped. But the flooding didn’t. Grandpa was still out, doing whatever he could to deflect the flow of the water. Most went around the house, but some came in a doorway leading out of the basement, laying down about a foot of flood water. 

We waited for a while — the flood ceased to run, except in trickles. My mother, a good driver, got us around the washes cut in Gramp’s driveway, then picked her way up the road around scattered rocks and washouts and, to everyone’s relief, our house was still there (the road was closed for three or four days while the county cleaned up the mess). The yard was covered in wet muck, and much to the consternation of everyone, the basement was about 4-feet deep in water and mud. 

My dad, caught in a lighter rainstorm, a few miles from home, had no idea about the trouble until he got home later that afternoon. He and the ranch hands worked for several days, shoveling mud out of our basement, one bucket at a time, and then did the same thing down at Grandpa’s. About 40 acres of good hay ground had been washed away below our house. Doug Farris, great cat driver, scraped, scratched and hauled in enough topsoil to put the hayfield back in good shape. 

Don’t tell me it doesn’t flood around here. 

Tony Vagneur wishes the best to the Pagosa Springs area. He writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.