In Shock
As suddenly as it had crested, the water began to recede. Lisa's head came into air. Gasping, she looked up to see the roof splinter and crack open like an eggshell. A way out where there had been none. She hugged the infant with one arm and swam toward the opening with the other. Where was Tanner？ She'd lost her firstborn child amid the chaos. Kick your feet, baby, she thought, hoping he would remember the swimming lessons he'd had that summer. Kick your feet.
Within moments, she and the infant washed free of the crumbling house, riding what amounted to a tsunami in the wintry pitch of night.
Thirty seconds earlier, he'd been sound asleep. Now Jerry Toops was in a battle for his life. The section of rooftop he'd stood on buckled beneath him, and he dropped back into the swirling waves. Finally, he managed to grab onto the cedar tree and climb from the water. His body was battered and numbed by the freezing chill.
Toops strained his eyes in the dark night. He knew what had happened. He'd foreseen the possibility. He'd even prepared, devising an evacuation plan in case a natural disaster ruptured the dam on the mountaintop less than two miles from their home. His job required it, but his choice to live there had put his family at risk. He blamed himself for their deaths.
Toops was only half-correct about the flood. The dam had ruptured, cascading 1.5 billion gallons —— 6 million tons —— of water into a narrow valley, leveling everything in its path, including an entire hardwood forest. But it was not a natural disaster that released the monster. It was a man-made flaw.
Completed in 1963, the dam had concrete walls 90 feet tall. It was part of the Taum Sauk hydroelectric generating facility owned by the local utility. A fail-safe mechanism had gone awry, allowing the reservoir to overfill. Runoff eroded the soil beneath one edge of the basin, and it crumbled, washing the Toops family away.
Captain Ryan Wadlow of the volunteer fire department in Lesterville was just leaving for his job as a heavy-equipment operator when the emergency pager sounded around 5：50 a.m. Wadlow stood 6'7“ and weighed 327 pounds. To strangers he looked threatening； friends and neighbors knew him for his soft heart.
Living close by, Wadlow was first on the scene. He didn't know it, but roughly 45 minutes had elapsed since the Toops family had been swept from their home. He parked his truck and slogged through knee-deep mud and water, tracing the reflected ruin with his flashlight.
Everything in this valley, usually so familiar to him, was unrecognizable. Divested. Scraped away. A stretch of the elevated road was covered in six inches of sludge. A towering wall of uprooted trees had been deposited near the edge of a bridge spanning the Black River. On the opposite side of the roadway from where the family's home had been, several vehicles littered a sodden field as if they'd been dropped from the sky.
Just then, in the silence of predawn, came a faint cry for help. A man's voice, desperate and shaking with cold. “Where are you？” Wadlow called back. “Help,” was the only reply, repeated again and again.
Shining a path with his flashlight, Wadlow trudged a quarter-mile through light rain and spitting snow into the field, stumbling up to his calves in muck, listening for the voice.
Seven minutes later, he found himself under a tree. The voice was coming from above. A man, deathly ashen, wearing only undershorts, was clinging to the upper limbs. He was bleeding and covered with silt and leaves, and appeared to be in shock.
Wadlow stretched to his full height, helped Jerry Toops to the ground, and gave him his coat. “Are you the park superintendent？” he asked.
“Yes,” said Toops.
“Anybody with you？” asked Wadlow. Toops mumbled something unintelligible as Wadlow's two-way radio crackled. Other members of the volunteer department were now on the scene, including Chief Ben Meredith and veteran Gary Maize, looking for survivors.
As suddenly as it had crested, the water began to recede. Lisa's head came into air. Gasping, she looked up to see the roof splinter and crack open like an eggshell. A way out where there had been none. She hugged the infant with one arm and swam toward the opening with the other. Where was Tanner？ She'd lost her firstborn child amid the chaos. Kick your feet, baby, she thought, hoping he would remember the swimming lessons he'd had that summer. Kick your feet.
Within moments, she and the infant washed free of the crumbling house, riding what amounted to a tsunami in the wintry pitch of night.
Thirty seconds earlier, he'd been sound asleep. Now Jerry Toops was in a battle for his life. The section of rooftop he'd stood on buckled beneath him, and he dropped back into the swirling waves. Finally, he managed to grab onto the cedar tree and climb from the water. His body was battered and numbed by the freezing chill.
Toops strained his eyes in the dark night. He knew what had happened. He'd foreseen the possibility. He'd even prepared, devising an evacuation plan in case a natural disaster ruptured the dam on the mountaintop less than two miles from their home. His job required it, but his choice to live there had put his family at risk. He blamed himself for their deaths.
Toops was only half-correct about the flood. The dam had ruptured, cascading 1.5 billion gallons —— 6 million tons —— of water into a narrow valley, leveling everything in its path, including an entire hardwood forest. But it was not a natural disaster that released the monster. It was a man-made flaw.
Completed in 1963, the dam had concrete walls 90 feet tall. It was part of the Taum Sauk hydroelectric generating facility owned by the local utility. A fail-safe mechanism had gone awry, allowing the reservoir to overfill. Runoff eroded the soil beneath one edge of the basin, and it crumbled, washing the Toops family away.
Captain Ryan Wadlow of the volunteer fire department in Lesterville was just leaving for his job as a heavy-equipment operator when the emergency pager sounded around 5：50 a.m. Wadlow stood 6'7“ and weighed 327 pounds. To strangers he looked threatening； friends and neighbors knew him for his soft heart.
Living close by, Wadlow was first on the scene. He didn't know it, but roughly 45 minutes had elapsed since the Toops family had been swept from their home. He parked his truck and slogged through knee-deep mud and water, tracing the reflected ruin with his flashlight.
Everything in this valley, usually so familiar to him, was unrecognizable. Divested. Scraped away. A stretch of the elevated road was covered in six inches of sludge. A towering wall of uprooted trees had been deposited near the edge of a bridge spanning the Black River. On the opposite side of the roadway from where the family's home had been, several vehicles littered a sodden field as if they'd been dropped from the sky.
Just then, in the silence of predawn, came a faint cry for help. A man's voice, desperate and shaking with cold. “Where are you？” Wadlow called back. “Help,” was the only reply, repeated again and again.
Shining a path with his flashlight, Wadlow trudged a quarter-mile through light rain and spitting snow into the field, stumbling up to his calves in muck, listening for the voice.
Seven minutes later, he found himself under a tree. The voice was coming from above. A man, deathly ashen, wearing only undershorts, was clinging to the upper limbs. He was bleeding and covered with silt and leaves, and appeared to be in shock.
Wadlow stretched to his full height, helped Jerry Toops to the ground, and gave him his coat. “Are you the park superintendent？” he asked.
“Yes,” said Toops.
“Anybody with you？” asked Wadlow. Toops mumbled something unintelligible as Wadlow's two-way radio crackled. Other members of the volunteer department were now on the scene, including Chief Ben Meredith and veteran Gary Maize, looking for survivors.