As I drove into Lyons, fog hung just above the ground and rain spattered lightly on my windshield. My heart beat fast, and I cried. And laughed. Breathe deep. Fall leaves are golden, and the air is cool.
***
âWhat a perfect Colorado day!â my friend Scott said today. He and his wife, Emma, just spent a week thigh deep in mud cleaning out their rental units.
âOne is definitely good to go,â he adds, smiling.
***
Want to see what my town looks like? I drew up a map of what I understand to be affected, what I have seen. I havenât seen everything yet. And I have pictures. Every time I look at them I feel my throat tighten. I finally understood today that my heart is broken.
***
My town is full of machinesâgenerators, earth movers, and crazy, caterpillar like military vehicles with massive ribbed wheels, tires⊠What the hell are those things anyway? Huge. But the earth they are moving. Wow.
âIt goes to the Planet,â Scott said. âTheir grounds washed away. Itâs all cobbles over there. We have to refill it with dirt. You havenât been over there yet?â
***
Every year at Planet Bluegrassâs Academy, amateur luthiers baptize their mandolins in the North St. Vrain; it usually runs gently in July. On âgraduation day,â they stand in the river with 100 others and sing âAmazing Graceâ at the top of their lungs. A 200-foot wall of sandstone echoes their voices from behind. Our voices. My voice.
****
Home. My flowers blooming. Thyme fragrant by my front doorstep. The scarlet penstemon red brilliant in a darkly saturated landscape. From my front porch it hardly looks like anything happened. But 10 tons of mud recently smashed trailers into recycled aluminum a block away.
That first night the sirens went off 2a.m.: âFlash flood warning. Go to higher ground. Flash flood warning. Go to higher ground. Flash flood warning. Go to higher âŠâ My house full of people woke up, dazed. We walked down the hill, onto the bike path, but were afraid of the sirens and darkness⊠flash flood means imminent danger at low ground, right?
The next morning we walked again to the bike path. It was gone, torn away by the nightâs flash flood. Up the street, a house hung over the river, half torn apart. Dresses in an open closet swung in the wind. And the trailer park, to the left and on the river bend ⊠half submerged in water and mud.
âPrivate sign, do not read,â said a board nailed to a tree.
****
On day 2 an island of logs formed and quickly became the home for a small cow. She would have tumbled through five-foot high rapids and under a bridge to find her current, delicate perch.
âPoor cow,â everyone muttered. There was no clear way to reach her.
âThey donât have enough resources to save livestock right now,â someone noted.
A few days later she was gone.
âRescued by FEMA,â said my neighbor.
Â
***
Hundreds of people came to town today. Volunteers from Israel and Denver, dressed in hazmat suits, wearing masks, boots⊠Everyone covered in mud, moving, carrying, smiling. The Convoy of Hope, Team Rubicon, all the churches, the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the National Guard⊠I canât name you all. Thank you.
***
Itâs dark again, my second night in Lyons. Past Midnight. All I hear is the river. An owl. I feel lonely, so I'm writing you this story. Earlier I saw two bright eyes in the open space.
âWhat are you? You can go away now,â I shouted.
But Iâm really not afraid. Should I be? The light of my computer is the brightest thing around in a mile square. But itâs about to die, leaving me in the dark again. My phone flashes. Someone left me a message.
âIâll call you tomorrow or weâll stop by your house to make sure you get a hot shower and a meal,â says my buddy Steve. âLove to see ya. Bye.â
