Drowned School Buses & Stray Dogs

Karla Young

Along with others residing in Preece Hall, I woke to the realization that the areal flood warnings that jarred our phones through the night had been real. At dawn, news trickled to us via text from the others below. Don’t drink the water. Hindman Settlement School is cut off. I hadn’t known what to expect when I attended my first Writers’ Workshop, but it wasn’t this.

We’d stirred briefly when the power failed and looked out our windows to observe strange lights which we thought might be utility crews already working the outage. Instead, we learned they came from our colleagues moving their cars to higher ground. We’d largely slept through one of the worst floods ever to hit Kentucky.

We took stock. Eighteen of us occupied Preece, the building located highest up the mountain, farthest from Troublesome Creek. We had snacks and a couple gallons of water. We didn’t know if we could make it down the single-lane road to the main campus. Even if we could, what food remained in the refrigerator in the dining hall?

Someone needed to walk down the road to assess its condition. I volunteered, put on my already grungy shoes, and set off, promising to report back what I found.  As I walked in the cool rain, I felt glad to be doing something other than speculating and relieved to find the road still intact. It was littered with rocks and branches. Sections of the blacktop had washed down two and three layers to the original gravel beneath, but it was passable by foot and car assuming we didn’t get another deluge. I texted my friends. We could reach the lower buildings. We weren’t trapped in Preece.

When I reached the others housed at lower elevations, I heard that most of them hadn’t slept.  They’d tried to check on us in the night but couldn’t due to the torrent roaring down the mountain.  They’d evacuated multiple residences including the basement instructor rooms, which had flooded, and the apartments, which hadn’t but were at risk of a slide.  Nearly everyone, other than those of at the top of the hill or trapped across the road, had spent the night crowded together in one building from which they’d watched the water rise. Even some local residents had taken refuge in the Settlement School with their dog and cats for whom they’d made litter boxes from swag we’d received the previous night at dinner.

I sat uncomfortably alongside these people who had spent the night worried and awake. I had slept. What could I do to help? Unsure, I made my way to the water’s edge and took pictures. I texted my family to let them know I was safe. I admired the bewildered white ducks who had traveled downstream to relative safety. When I saw people moving musical instruments from a partially flooded building, I offered help. In their moment of hesitation, I realized they didn’t need me, but they handed me two mandolins, nonetheless, gifting me an opportunity to feel useful.

I looked for other ways to contribute but really didn’t help at all. I checked on a friend across the road. She was fine and already emerging from her cabin. I carried food up the hill to those unable to walk down but missed a text and failed to bring the butterscotch cake they preferred. When the water level dropped, I walked the short distance to town where a man directed traffic around debris at an intersection. In a break in his work, I asked him if there as anything we could do. We had almost a hundred people at the Settlement School, how could we help? He took a deep breath before he responded. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “Stay out of trouble. Don’t get hurt.”

I heard what he said and didn’t say. They needed to take care of their own – the damage to their town, for some of them the loss of their homes, family, and friends – without having to deal with our group of visitors. The best way I could help was to stay out of their way.  I needed to leave.

As soon as I could get my car down the mountain, I did just that. I drove out of Hindman with more focus than usual, aware of the danger of rockslides and careful where water had crossed the road leaving slippery ridges of sludge. Along the way, I witnessed the magnitude and aftermath of the flood. The detritus of peoples’ lives piled at every turn, accumulated where it caught, often deposited in the forked branches of trees. Clothing and wood. Someone’s front porch. Someone’s washing machine upright in the road. A school bus submerged. Another washed half-through the plate glass window of a business. Homes tilted off foundations. The road gutted with slabs of asphalt lifted and dropped on top of the remaining lanes.

A man in a red truck passed going the other way. He held his left hand out the driver’s window with his index finger twirling in a circle. I suspected his signal meant to turn around but I and the others on the road continued, needing to learn for ourselves that the road was still flooded. Ten miles later we did. I pulled over to check Google Maps for an alternate route but couldn’t get a signal so had no choice but to retrace twenty-five miles to the last highway intersection. As I drove, I witnessed the same destruction from the other side, and through budding tears, absorbed the quiet and the calm. I saw few people, only those who drove before or behind me and others lined up at the single open gas station. No one was yet combing through debris. I feared the people I didn’t see might be trapped or worse in drowned homes, but I didn’t know which homes or what I could do. I was without skills or equipment and entering the still treacherous floodwaters would be foolish. That was precisely what the man at the intersection in Hindman had warned me against. I felt helpless to do anything but continue to drive.

When I neared Hazard, I tried Google Maps again, got a weak connection, and identified a tentative route home. I took the Hal Rogers Parkway which Google told me was green and indeed held no visible destruction, sludge, or debris. I accelerated to full speed and focused on breathing. Finally, I could leave the flood zone and get out of the way. Then I saw the dog.

She stood by the side of the road and watched as cars sped by, each flashing brake lights briefly as they passed. Without thinking, I pulled over and turned on my hazards. I foster cats and kittens for my local shelter. I’ve checked tags on stray dogs in my yard and called their owners. But I’ve never stopped on a mountain highway in the middle of a flood zone to rescue a wet stray. What was I doing?  I was supposed to be going home, not walking through high grass crooning “hi puppy.” Perhaps, here was someone finally I could help.

The dog had voluminous white-gold fur which glistened from its recent drenching. She showed mild interest in me and didn’t run so I crept closer. I imagined she’d been someone’s pet. Given her reddened skin and curled mats, I suspected she’d been away from home for a long time, not lost in last night’s storms.

She let me approach and shifted her weight to the side like she might roll over to show me her raw belly, but she wouldn’t let me touch her. Whenever I knelt and held out my hand, she edged away just far enough so I couldn’t catch her. I considered what I had in my car that might help. I had a bath towel I might throw over her to scoop her up. I had my purse strap which I disconnected and formed a loop like the leashes I’d seen people use in rescues on YouTube. Neither of these proved any more useful than my hands. The dog was too skittish to be caught.

The poor girl. Her skin must burn and she had to be hungry. But she didn’t trust me. I considered other options.  Maybe she’d be willing to jump in my car? I returned to the highway and opened both doors on the side facing away from the road. In my most dog-appealing voice, I called to her to go for a ride. I gestured to the open doors and encouraged her to jump in. She didn’t. Indeed, by that point, she decided she’d had enough of me. She walked with purpose toward the taller grass at the edge of the woods. She looked back once, then she left. She didn’t need my help any more than the man at the intersection in Hindman.

Again, all I could do again was leave. I got back in my car and drove. I considered what I would have done with her anyway. I have too many of my own animals at home so I couldn’t have kept her. I would have had to take her to a shelter where they might have helped her but also might have euthanized her. For all I knew, she was better off in the woods living a life that she chose for herself. I suspected that the shelters in the area would be overwhelmed caring for pets from households impacted by the flood. The last thing they needed was me dropping another dog at their door. By the time I reached interstate 75 and merged north toward home, I had convinced myself I’d done all that I could.

Soon driving 80 mph in the middle lane, I felt numb within the rush of cars and too tired to grieve for the mountains and people I’d just left. When I needed a break, I pulled over at the new Buckee’s I’d heard people talk about.  I couldn’t have picked a place less like the writers’ retreat. Far from the moist green of Appalachia, I’d landed in a commercial mecca of gas pumps, store-branded snacks, and beaver-logoed merchandise. I made use of the restroom and left as quickly as possible.

Back in the car, I noticed a text notification from the mother of my son’s friend. She’d heard I was at Hindman and wanted to know if I was ok. I was and appreciated her checking on me. Her neighbor had lost her car in the flood in Hindman. She was getting a ride home from some writers who lived in Tennessee. Did I know Rachel? I didn’t know her well but was glad she found a ride. After so many failed attempts to help, I realized I could have offered to take Rachel home. I live less than an hour from Rachel’s house whereas the others would have to drive far out of their way. I’d missed perhaps the one opportunity where I could have been of real use. It was too late for that now, so I got back on the road.

When I arrived home, I sighed with guilty relief. My house stood. The land around it was undisturbed. My eldest child was visiting, a welcome surprise. My second was working at Arby’s. My third playing a new game on her computer. The youngest spending the night with a friend. All was well. My home and family were intact. The children had been less diligent than desired in the care of our animals, and I cleaned up small messes and replaced dank water in the dog bowls. I attempted to share my experience of the flood, and they listened as best they could. I understood that they didn’t really get it. I didn’t even get it. They told me anecdotes about experiences while I was away, but I remained disconnected. Part of me was still in Eastern Kentucky, before Buckee’s and before the interstate, walking in the sludge, carrying mandolins, and bearing witness to drowned school buses and stray dogs.

That night another writer from the Hindman texted to make sure I made it home ok.  I had. She had as well despite a seven-hour drive. She was the one who had gone out of her way to give Rachel a ride home.