Lightning Strike Sends Family Fleeing Ranch As Floods Rise

Aspen —The jack-oak brush across from the house catches the last of the afternoon sun, a patchwork of gold and shadow on the hillside. It’s a reasonable day, partly cloudy, the kind of weather that makes you forget how fast the sky can change.

In the back of a Diamond T stock truck, two boys play, unaware that the raindrops beginning to tap against the metal roof are the prelude to chaos. The rain arrives with a violence that defies logic, soaking them through in the forty yards it takes to run for the house. Inside, the calm is fragile. A mother, wiping down counters, tells the boys to shed their wet clothes, her voice steady even as the storm rages outside.

Then, the lightning hits.

It strikes the house directly, turning the kitchen into a surreal landscape of sparks and noise. In the basement, directly below, six stainless-steel milk buckets — stacked upside down to drain on a high wooden shelf — crash to the concrete floor. The sound is unforgettable, a metallic shriek that puts everyone on edge. It sounds like the gates of hell opening.

The mother’s calm demeanor shatters. "Everyone get in the car. We’ll be safe from lightning," she says, her voice tight. She starts the engine, turns on the heat, and tries to soothe the shivering boys. For a moment, it feels like an adventure. But as they sit in the car, watching the draw across from the house, the reality sets in. The stream is carrying more and more water, pushing small boulders downstream. The red, muddy flow curls up against the wall of the milk barn.

She puts the car in gear. What are they doing? A woman alone on an isolated ranch, with two young boys, rising floodwaters coming almost straight at her. She needs help, or at least a shoulder to lean on. They pull up to the county road, which is nearly impassable. She plows straight in, heading down the road to her father’s house, a quarter-mile away.

The rain hasn’t let up, but the floodwaters haven’t quite reached his house yet. There’s a fleeting sense that they’ve dodged a bullet. But Grandpa knows better. He knows the water is coming their way, very shortly. His good horse, Slim, is already saddled in the barn. Grandpa gets his rain gear on and heads out into the storm. His house sits lower in relation to the driveway than theirs, making it more vulnerable. He and Slim begin pulling logs the size of telephone poles up in front of the house, stacking them to turn the water.

I remember him clearly. Black rain coats, slick with moisture, standing firm against the current. The logs form a makeshift dam, a barrier between the rising red water and the foundation of the house. It’s a desperate measure, but it works. The flow slows, diverts around the barrier, giving the house time.

They wait inside, listening to the storm. The rain hammers against the roof, the wind howls through the eaves. But the water doesn’t reach the door. By morning, the rain has stopped. The draw is still swollen, but it’s receding. The logs are scattered, broken, half-submerged. But the house stands.

Grandpa walks out to the yard, inspecting the damage. The fence is down, the corral is flooded, the chicken house is tilted. But the house is dry. He looks at the draw, now calm and brown. He scans the road, where the water has left a trail of mud and debris. He turns his gaze to the hillside, where the jack-oak brush is dark and heavy with water.

He goes inside, boots dripping on the porch. The boys are asleep in the car, wrapped in blankets. The mother sits in the kitchen, staring at the wet floor. She doesn’t move. She just stares. The rain is gone. The sun is coming up. But the water is still there, in the draw, in the road, in the ground. It’s everywhere.

Don’t tell me it doesn’t flood around here.