This is a true story. I decided to write my tale for an essay in a comp. class last week so that's why there is all the personal introspection crap, but the story is real so enjoy. So I figured this would be a good place to post it. And I figured this would make a good start to the stories thread.
My father and I were riding back to Anchorage in the compact rental car when my mind began to catch up with my body. Soaked to the bone and stiff from the cold, I could not grasp the concept that I had just escaped with my life when nature should have taken me. I was sixteen years old. On a wall in a corner room of my father’s house, the yellowed copy of the Anchorage newspaper is tacked up as an immortal reminder to the both of us that once we came close to the end, but I suppose it was not our time. I do not think about the events that occurred every day because they haunt me terribly, but on occasion I recall the tale of the Alaskan flood. Of all the separate pieces that make up my life, that one changed me forever.
I have an extraordinary relationship with my father. Although I do not emulate him in all aspects, I respect him and follow his codes of honor. Though we have always participated in each others’ lives, we are both struck by our adventures in Alaska. They are special to us unlike any other time. Besides the typical bonding experience, I earned a new appreciation for my father on the last trip we made to the state of wilderness. To this day, my mother has never been told this story. She would never understand why we desperately need to return. And so we have vowed to return again. During that strange and unpredictable period, I learned things about my dad in the flood that I would never have discovered without such an extreme set of circumstances.
As we did every few years, we flew from Atlanta, Georgia to Anchorage, Alaska. Among other travels around the state that warrant many other stories, we drove to Denali National Park where Mount McKinley is located. I had always found peace there in the past. I dare say without creating a cliché, it was the perfect retreat from the chaos of a modern city. Our love and respect for the land had grown tremendously as it still does today. We were sheltered in a small, one-room cabin that sat perpendicular to a soothing little babbling brook called Carlow Creek. The creek was a subsidiary of the mighty Nanana River. There were other cabins situated along the both sides of the creek that were occupied with gentle people trying to connect with nature. This scene of serenity would be my last peaceful memory of Alaska.
For days, the rain came down. The sky was always dark gray as if the sun had packed its bags and decided to leave for another solar system. This was highly unusual considering at that time of the year in Alaska, the sun typically only goes down for about three or four hours per night. I had grown accustomed over the years to sleeping with full daylight. This was unlike anything I had seen before in Alaska. Every surface was wet constantly. The ground was saturated and we spent a great deal of time inside, waiting.
On the third night in a row of rain, I was playing cards with my dad in our cabin and can admit that I had forgotten where I was. We had been inside for several hours and the light outside had faded from gray to darkness, which should not have happened for many more hours. Every few seconds, I heard a noise as though someone was rolling a suitcase down a ramp or there was thunder off in the distance. Finally intrigued by the sounds and the turbulent weather, I walked outside to investigate these odd activities. The
sky was black, but lit and the lantern outside our cabin presented the evidence of the flooding with just how treacherous the situation had become. It was nearing midnight and the horrors had only begun.
The mild-mannered little creek had transformed into a massive body of rushing water. Though it was originally clear to the bottom and only about two to three feet deep with a width of about eight feet, it was now unrecognizable. With every gush of torrent, it widened and the color had become a muddy and murky with silt. My senses were on high alert immediately. Soon after witnessing the coming the destruction that was now trickling under our cabin, we came to the horrifying understanding of what the rumbling sound was. Underneath the water, massive boulders were now rolling down the creek off the mountains where the creek originated. As we ventured closer, I was baffled by what I heard. It was the distinct sound of heavy thunder coming from under the water.
I had walked up onto a small bank area beside the creek, though my father was a short distance upstream from me. As I stood on the elevated piece of land alone, I heard my father yell for me to come back up. I turned to step back down onto the path in the darkness and strode into waist deep water. I felt freezing water seep through every opening in my boots and fill up my pant legs. The temperature was so cold that I felt an intense burning in my legs for a few seconds and then, nothing. Though my bottom half was numb, I waded through the frigid waters back toward the cabin.
My father and I rushed inside and I attempted to avoid Hypothermia by standing by the fire. While warming ourselves, we frantically packed our belongings and prepared to head higher to the elevated plateau where the car was. With bags strapped to our backs and shoulders we made our way through more water to higher ground. Once the gear was in the car, we went back to see assess the situation again.
The setting by this late time of the night was surreal. There was no longer any glow in the woods. As I stood on a dry spot watching docks, debris and eventually buildings wash down stream, a beam of light passed over me and above the rumble and rustling of the storm, I could hear the emergency helicopters echoing and rescue workers with megaphones blasting out into the night above the helpless on the ground. On the opposite shore, back hoes and dump trucks that had tried to dam up the creek were struggling to escape. To this day, I do not know if all of the vehicles made it out.
As a sunless dawn sprung up relighting the situation, I sleeplessly watched in horror. My father photographed what he could as we fled the rushing waters. The trees were falling like dominoes into the river. One of the best pictures my father took was of a tree with a wooden sign on it that directed visitors to our cabin. The photograph is of this tree floating down the river as the arrow on the sign points skyward. I was speechless watching my cabin float away shortly after. The water crept up to the squat plateau where the car was and we decided to stop helping and leave because everyone in our area was out of harm’s way.
We got in the dirty, little car and drove. The major bridge spanning the river collapsed into the waters soon after we had gone over it, forcing all remaining traffic to go north to Fairbanks since there was only the one road going north and south. About a mile down the road, the highway was completely flooded. There were no guard rails and the water was deep enough to carry the car off the side and into the flooded gullies. Dad
forded it successfully as I stood outside and forced the front end of the car forward rather than turning sideways and down. We encountered several areas like this as we drove south to Anchorage.
In the car, we did not speak a word; not out of anger, but out of disbelief. I looked over my shoulder countless times as if the flood would follow us back to the city. The sky was gray and rainy for the majority of the journey back and I had the inexplicable feeling like I was never going to escape that place. As we reached the outskirts of town, the sun shown through the clouds and when we finally stopped, I got out of the car, fell to my knees and cried in some nameless parking lot. My father did not move from the car. He sat in the driver’s seat with a blank look on his face staring into the side of a building. When we picked up a copy of the newspaper in town, the front page was a picture of a café on the other side of Carlow Creek. It looked something like the buildings in New Orleans that we see today. I never could bring myself to read the article.
For many months afterward, I became anxious and concerned whenever it would rain at home. I took more precautions in my life. I reprioritized everything because I learned that while I had worried about the trivial matters in life, I had forgotten that at any moment you can have your world turned upside down. Among the other effects this catastrophe had on me, I became closer with my family in general, but I especially grew closer to my dad. We now shared something that no one else we knew could possibly comprehend. Sure we can explain what happened, but to actually live through that with one another is on an entirely different plain. The flood altered me, but I do not regret that it happened. Just as the creek is now a major river, but still called Carlow, I am still the same person, but changed within.
My father and I were riding back to Anchorage in the compact rental car when my mind began to catch up with my body. Soaked to the bone and stiff from the cold, I could not grasp the concept that I had just escaped with my life when nature should have taken me. I was sixteen years old. On a wall in a corner room of my father’s house, the yellowed copy of the Anchorage newspaper is tacked up as an immortal reminder to the both of us that once we came close to the end, but I suppose it was not our time. I do not think about the events that occurred every day because they haunt me terribly, but on occasion I recall the tale of the Alaskan flood. Of all the separate pieces that make up my life, that one changed me forever.
I have an extraordinary relationship with my father. Although I do not emulate him in all aspects, I respect him and follow his codes of honor. Though we have always participated in each others’ lives, we are both struck by our adventures in Alaska. They are special to us unlike any other time. Besides the typical bonding experience, I earned a new appreciation for my father on the last trip we made to the state of wilderness. To this day, my mother has never been told this story. She would never understand why we desperately need to return. And so we have vowed to return again. During that strange and unpredictable period, I learned things about my dad in the flood that I would never have discovered without such an extreme set of circumstances.
As we did every few years, we flew from Atlanta, Georgia to Anchorage, Alaska. Among other travels around the state that warrant many other stories, we drove to Denali National Park where Mount McKinley is located. I had always found peace there in the past. I dare say without creating a cliché, it was the perfect retreat from the chaos of a modern city. Our love and respect for the land had grown tremendously as it still does today. We were sheltered in a small, one-room cabin that sat perpendicular to a soothing little babbling brook called Carlow Creek. The creek was a subsidiary of the mighty Nanana River. There were other cabins situated along the both sides of the creek that were occupied with gentle people trying to connect with nature. This scene of serenity would be my last peaceful memory of Alaska.
For days, the rain came down. The sky was always dark gray as if the sun had packed its bags and decided to leave for another solar system. This was highly unusual considering at that time of the year in Alaska, the sun typically only goes down for about three or four hours per night. I had grown accustomed over the years to sleeping with full daylight. This was unlike anything I had seen before in Alaska. Every surface was wet constantly. The ground was saturated and we spent a great deal of time inside, waiting.
On the third night in a row of rain, I was playing cards with my dad in our cabin and can admit that I had forgotten where I was. We had been inside for several hours and the light outside had faded from gray to darkness, which should not have happened for many more hours. Every few seconds, I heard a noise as though someone was rolling a suitcase down a ramp or there was thunder off in the distance. Finally intrigued by the sounds and the turbulent weather, I walked outside to investigate these odd activities. The
sky was black, but lit and the lantern outside our cabin presented the evidence of the flooding with just how treacherous the situation had become. It was nearing midnight and the horrors had only begun.
The mild-mannered little creek had transformed into a massive body of rushing water. Though it was originally clear to the bottom and only about two to three feet deep with a width of about eight feet, it was now unrecognizable. With every gush of torrent, it widened and the color had become a muddy and murky with silt. My senses were on high alert immediately. Soon after witnessing the coming the destruction that was now trickling under our cabin, we came to the horrifying understanding of what the rumbling sound was. Underneath the water, massive boulders were now rolling down the creek off the mountains where the creek originated. As we ventured closer, I was baffled by what I heard. It was the distinct sound of heavy thunder coming from under the water.
I had walked up onto a small bank area beside the creek, though my father was a short distance upstream from me. As I stood on the elevated piece of land alone, I heard my father yell for me to come back up. I turned to step back down onto the path in the darkness and strode into waist deep water. I felt freezing water seep through every opening in my boots and fill up my pant legs. The temperature was so cold that I felt an intense burning in my legs for a few seconds and then, nothing. Though my bottom half was numb, I waded through the frigid waters back toward the cabin.
My father and I rushed inside and I attempted to avoid Hypothermia by standing by the fire. While warming ourselves, we frantically packed our belongings and prepared to head higher to the elevated plateau where the car was. With bags strapped to our backs and shoulders we made our way through more water to higher ground. Once the gear was in the car, we went back to see assess the situation again.
The setting by this late time of the night was surreal. There was no longer any glow in the woods. As I stood on a dry spot watching docks, debris and eventually buildings wash down stream, a beam of light passed over me and above the rumble and rustling of the storm, I could hear the emergency helicopters echoing and rescue workers with megaphones blasting out into the night above the helpless on the ground. On the opposite shore, back hoes and dump trucks that had tried to dam up the creek were struggling to escape. To this day, I do not know if all of the vehicles made it out.
As a sunless dawn sprung up relighting the situation, I sleeplessly watched in horror. My father photographed what he could as we fled the rushing waters. The trees were falling like dominoes into the river. One of the best pictures my father took was of a tree with a wooden sign on it that directed visitors to our cabin. The photograph is of this tree floating down the river as the arrow on the sign points skyward. I was speechless watching my cabin float away shortly after. The water crept up to the squat plateau where the car was and we decided to stop helping and leave because everyone in our area was out of harm’s way.
We got in the dirty, little car and drove. The major bridge spanning the river collapsed into the waters soon after we had gone over it, forcing all remaining traffic to go north to Fairbanks since there was only the one road going north and south. About a mile down the road, the highway was completely flooded. There were no guard rails and the water was deep enough to carry the car off the side and into the flooded gullies. Dad
forded it successfully as I stood outside and forced the front end of the car forward rather than turning sideways and down. We encountered several areas like this as we drove south to Anchorage.
In the car, we did not speak a word; not out of anger, but out of disbelief. I looked over my shoulder countless times as if the flood would follow us back to the city. The sky was gray and rainy for the majority of the journey back and I had the inexplicable feeling like I was never going to escape that place. As we reached the outskirts of town, the sun shown through the clouds and when we finally stopped, I got out of the car, fell to my knees and cried in some nameless parking lot. My father did not move from the car. He sat in the driver’s seat with a blank look on his face staring into the side of a building. When we picked up a copy of the newspaper in town, the front page was a picture of a café on the other side of Carlow Creek. It looked something like the buildings in New Orleans that we see today. I never could bring myself to read the article.
For many months afterward, I became anxious and concerned whenever it would rain at home. I took more precautions in my life. I reprioritized everything because I learned that while I had worried about the trivial matters in life, I had forgotten that at any moment you can have your world turned upside down. Among the other effects this catastrophe had on me, I became closer with my family in general, but I especially grew closer to my dad. We now shared something that no one else we knew could possibly comprehend. Sure we can explain what happened, but to actually live through that with one another is on an entirely different plain. The flood altered me, but I do not regret that it happened. Just as the creek is now a major river, but still called Carlow, I am still the same person, but changed within.
