What a year 2026 has been, and it’s not over yet. With a heavy knock on the door Thursday afternoon, the Archuleta County sheriff came to warn the residents that the rains were coming and we would be flooded. We needed to evacuate.
I said to the family, “We’ve been through three floods. The water has come up to the knoll, but our house has always been safe. We are 50 yards from the river bank. We’ll move our outside furniture back from the river. Your dad doesn’t do well away from the house, so I think we should stay in our own home. Friends have offered their homes, but we’ll be safe.”
Thursday evening, Oct. 22, the rains came, thundering and clashing against our metal roof. All through the night the water poured down. At 4 a.m., the water had gathered only a few inches from the back door.
When I woke Friday morning at 6 a.m., I was surprised that my feet landed on dry carpet. I called our son next door. He waded in 4 feet of water from his apartment, which was 18 inches deep in water. One of the neighbor dogs was caught in the rain, and was snuggled up on in one of his leather chairs. Coco spent the night safe from the elements. Her owner was notified.
Our daughter and son-in-law were trapped in their home on the other side of the river, but they were warm and dry. Our other daughter spent the night with us to help take care of her dad. We were all OK. The family moved in sync as to recover and what to do next.
Facebook postings from Pagosa’s residents showed the devastation of the raging waters. Rainfall in the San Juan Mountains flowed down tributaries, moving downstream into the rivers coming into our town. I started praying for our neighbors, who I knew must be in more danger than we were. Their houses were closer to the Blanco River.
I’ve written about “A River Runs Through It” several times. It’s the semi-autobiographical story of Norman Maclean’s life. The Blanco River has always been a part of our family’s life and in our backyard. But not today; our river was 4 feet deep, rushing in front of our house. Its banks were widened to the size of a hundred-yard football field.
In Friday’s morning light, we surveyed our property. One of our cabins, which stored 200 pieces of art, was floating down the river. Another cabin, my art studio, was lying on its side. The others, full of painted furniture and framing supplies, looked like a box of dominoes randomly tossed and piled.
I’ve said many times I wasn’t ready to deal with all my inventory. I had art supplies, framing supplies, a mat cutter and print drawers in the cabins. Several of our grandchildren are very creative and I was saving it for them. Well, all my wondering what to do with my art has been answered for me. My paintings floated down the Blanco River. Maybe they will end up in Mexico and will be hung next to art pieces of Elvis on black velvet.
The bathhouse, which had pulled away from the water line, leaned on its side about a hundred feet from where it originally sat. The electrical box placed on the top of the light pole had fallen and now helplessly clung to the pole, standing on a high patch of green grass. We still had electricity.
When the gas pilot light went off, I had no idea that our 500-gallon propane tank had also snapped away from the gas line. It was nowhere in sight, until the neighbor found our tank. It was reported that a 1,000-gallon propane tank was seen moving down the river. With the price of gas, we didn’t have it so bad.
Our little town was on national news. Good Morning America interviewed our county sheriff. We made the news. Not the kind of news we wanted. It could have been worse. People from all over the globe heard about Pagosa Springs and called with heartfelt wishes and told us they were praying for us.
Our blue painted 1920 Overland car, the first to come over Wolf Creek Pass, which we used for a flower bed is still on the property. A little piece of Pagosa’s history was spared. The brand-new riding lawnmower we bought a couple of months ago is still on our property.
On Sunday morning, I expected to see standing water, but the water was still rushing at our back door. Hailstones dropped on our back patio, telling us that it’s going to be wet for a long time.
Final brushstroke: I had put a lot of faith into the knoll behind the house; it didn’t hold. But the anchor of faith in my heart still holds. It’s going to take a lot of shoveling out and a roll-off dumpster parked on our property to take care of all the debris. The most important news of all: there were no casualties that I know of. The people of Pagosa are safe. Still trapped in their homes or evacuated to other homes, but we are all still safe. That’s a praise to God.
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