An adventure with the first grandchild, recalled on this Father’s Day 2019.
How high’s the water, mama?
Three feet high and rising
How high’s the water, Mama?
Six feet high and rising…
“Get up! Get out! Go to higher ground! The river is already over the low water bridge,” came the dire warning–accompanied by a loud knock on the trailer door.
My concentration was shot all to heck after being awakened brutally at two in the morning. My wife grabbed our three-year-old grandson–still in pajamas. Essentials were packed as quickly as possible–clothesline and barbecue grill left behind.
Swift river water lapped the edge of the campsite. Trees yielded to the sledgehammer force of mighty floodwaters with loud cracks and pops. Darkness added to the terror. It was still raining.
Led out of the campground, somewhere in the middle of a caravan. All of us were now wide-awake. Water stood everywhere in low spots. Park rangers directed us to a campground road…
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