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WOODS, WATERS AND WILDLIFE
The Guadalupe River The River has provided me myriad cherished memories.
Recollections of the recent heartbreaking Fourth of July tragedy will also haunt me -- as it will for more than a hundred grieving families.
Some will understandably shy away from the river, trying to forget. But it’s not the river’s fault. It was just doing what it was supposed to do -- carry rainwater runoff to the sea.
I first learned about the Guadalupe floods at age 10 at my grandmother’s home on the river west of Seguin.
One morning, something was different. The usually wide, green river that I adored had shrunk to a narrow stream less than half as wide as before.
Grandmother said heavy rain upstream would bring floodwater downstream. The river operators were lowering the lake to make room for all the runoff coming down.
I didn’t understand. I wondered if she made it up to pacify me.
I was excited seeing the bottom of the river where it was exposed. But there were no fish or turtles! Just mud. I was told to stay out of it.
The next day, waves of water quickly flowed past us, refilling where it had been lowered. It even covered our flimsy little dock by the big, dead cypress tree where I fished. I feared it would get so high it might even rise enough to flood our house.
The river rose over our dock, but it barely came up on the grass. The next day, it was back where it belonged.
Years later, I parked along the road west of the Kerr Wildlife Management Area and walked toward the big bluff along the south bank. In the dark just before dawn, I walked toward the dry Guadalupe riverbed just downstream from the nearly dry spring that fed the river’s headwaters. Bill Armstrong, on the Kerr Area, had gotten permission for me to ascend the bluff to photograph eagles on a private ranch.
Just before getting to the dry riverbed, I was startled nearly out of my skin by a thunderous eruption in front of, overhead, and around me! Aware of rattlesnakes, I stopped short and froze.
I’d forgotten there was a huge wild turkey population in the area. I had walked under their roost amid the tall trees. Nearly a hundred turkeys noisily took wing -- emphasizing the remoteness of the area. And my unwelcome presence.
Thinking back last week, that dry riverbed was an ominous contrast to the destructive power the Guadalupe River displayed further downstream on July 4. Flash floods can arise from a powder-dry, rocky streambed, given enough rainfall.
Many people have fond memories of being on the river, too. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve canoed much of the river through the Hill Country and cherish every paddle stroke and every sound of water tumbling over rocks.
But the river must be respected for what floods can do … and have done. And heart- aching reverence for the unfortunate ones comes with it. I wish to God it didn’t.
