Chapter Twenty-three
First came the snow. And then came more snow. So much snow, in fact, that it set records. The winter of 1996-1997 came with predictions for a possible 100-year flood.
Eight blizzards hit us that winter, snow falling and drifting and spinning around until visibility fell to zero. Frigid temperatures, combined with hurricane-force winds, created air that blew straight through you with a wind chill factor of 50 below zero.
Each of these storms left another massive layer of additional snow that was going to have to melt in the spring, producing an excess of raging water seeking the path of least resistance which may or may not be within the boundaries of the banks of the Red River or any of its tributaries.
Andy blew in on November 16, Betty came December 16, Christopher on December 20, Doris hit January 9, Elmo on January 15, Franzi came on January 22, Gust on March 4. But the worst storm of all, hard-hearted Hannah, packed the final wallop on April 5. Almost one hundred inches of accumulated snow in five short months, drifting into communities that normally received around forty inches. Several people lost their lives, caught out in the blizzards, freezing to their deaths.
Spring came late that year. Then the snow began to melt. Fast. Just like every spring in the Red River Valley, a few of the lower areas began to flood but it didn’t take long for us to realize that this time was different.
The Red River runs right through Grand Forks. Every day, as more snow melted and joined forces in the water, the river rose a little higher. As the predictions for flood grew closer and deadlier, residents came together along its banks, volunteering long muddy hours, far into each long night, piling sandbag after sandbag on top of the dikes to keep the river from bursting onto the streets. And their homes.
Before long, the river started rising at an accelerated rate, faster and faster until it began to climb two feet a day. And more. Fighting the water became useless, it was impossible to stay ahead of it. People who, a few short days ago had high hopes they would beat the flood, gave up their fight and began to make plans to evacuate their homes.
As water began to pour into homes that had never flooded before, helicopters hovered over the town around the clock, alerting residents of impending evacuations. Trucks roared through the streets hauling clay to put on top of dikes in a feeble attempt to stop the rising water. Police and emergency vehicles became a common sight in most of the neighborhoods, their piercing sirens droning constantly in the background.
Every day, the prediction for the crest came in. Every day, the predictions were met and exceeded as the water continued to rise. This was the situation when our daughter Cathi and granddaughter Jenny, along with their two horses, their dog, and their pickup truck full of their belongings, came to visit us on April 18 on their way to relocating in Colorado from Oregon. In preparation for their arrival, I had secured a boarding facility for their horses near our home. Now that was no longer an option because it was underwater. After scrambling on the phone, making calls to area boarding facilities further out of town, I managed to find a place to keep the horses on high ground. As Cathi drove the gravel roads with the horse trailer, water flooded the ditches and the fields, inching towards the tires. There was water everywhere.
That night, around two in the morning, I jumped out of a deep sleep when the phone rang. It was our neighbor from across the street. “Our neighborhood has been given orders to evacuate right away. You have to get out of your house. I didn’t see any lights on over there and I wanted to make sure you were awake and getting ready to leave.”
I raced from my bed to the TV, turning it on and searching the channels for some confirmation of my neighbor’s warning. It wasn’t hard to find, every station was broadcasting the news.
Within twenty minutes a fire truck cruised, very slowly, down the street with blinding lights flashing and bull horns blaring, “Everyone must leave the area immediately. This is a mandatory evacuation. You have no choices. Leave your homes now.” The emphasis was no longer on fighting the flood. It had shifted to saving lives.
At the time, I was certain our house would be untouched since nothing close to that level had ever been recorded for the river. There was, as of yet, no water on our street but we packed up a few belongings, thinking we’d be back in a day or two, and all headed to our son Brad’s house for the night. His house stood a couple of miles away, sitting on slightly higher ground.
None of us slept much so, early the next morning, before the police had a chance to chase us out, Cathi, Jenny, and I drove back to the house to quickly bring a few things upstairs from the basement, just as a precaution. It didn’t take long before we were ordered out of the area again, not giving us enough time to bring everything up. Anyway, what was the point? The only things that were in danger of getting wet were the few things left sitting on the basement floor. Everything on the shelves would be fine. Or so I thought.
The water continued to rise. Things went from bad to worse as the flood triggered a fire that broke out in the Security Building, a historic landmark that was close to 100 years old, in downtown Grand Forks. It was a cruel irony that the four feet of water that were running fast and furious through the downtown streets prevented the fire trucks from entering and casting water on the flames themselves.
Airplanes passed over again and again as they dropped fire retardant onto the buildings that were still standing. The fire department was forced to use unusual tactics to fight this fire so they finally brought in fire trucks, perched on top of flat-bed trucks, into downtown Grand Forks. The air was frigid, the water excruciatingly cold, and several of the firefighters had to be hospitalized and treated for hypothermia.
The fire spun out of control, eventually spreading to eleven buildings and destroying much of downtown Grand Forks. Total losses were estimated at more than a billion dollars.
Brad’s house was too small to accommodate all of us but we weren’t sure where to go. Some friends that lived close to our farm, the Halstenson and Reinholz families, got word that we needed a place to stay. They took us in and treated us like family. Cathi and Jenny decided to pack up the horses and head on to Colorado.
Water continued to flow over curbs, filling first the streets, then the buildings, sometimes rising so high that entire blocks were completely underwater, their residents rescued by boat from the roofs of their homes. Thousands of people fled to nearby towns and farmhouses where they were welcomed and sheltered, many leaving so fast that the only possessions they were able to save were the clothes they were wearing. Phone calls were laced with panic as people desperately tried to find friends and family. Strangers around the community and around the country quickly became neighbors as people did what they could to help. Support poured into the community from all over the country.
We weren’t allowed to return to our home until six weeks later, when the flood waters had finally receded enough for us to get in and access the damage. We couldn’t believe what we found.
Our house sat at 54 feet above the river and the flood had crested at 54.4 feet, maintaining that level for several days until the water, very slowly, receded back within the banks of the Red River. Our newly carpeted, newly finished basement had been flooded to within six inches of the ceiling. Everything in it, including all the furniture, the furnace, and many treasured possessions and heirlooms, were lost. The only things left from the basement were the few items we had carried upstairs before the water filled our street.
The entire town banded together to begin the massive clean-up. Almost every home in East Grand Forks and most of the homes in Grand Forks had flood damage. Many people who lost their homes, their cars, and every one of their belongings were now forced to start all over with nothing.
The river had risen up and swallowed both Grand Forks and East Grand Forks. Literally. Entire neighborhoods were gone, some never to be rebuilt. Along both sides of every street, as far as you could see, piles of debris reached over six feet, heaped with a lifetime of possessions, furniture, and mementos that had been destroyed. In all, 112,000 tons of debris were removed. But not one life was lost to the flood.
When the water started going down, our spirits started going up.
After the waters had receded, people struggled for many months to rebuild. The progress was remarkable to watch. Where houses and yards once graced the landscape, the debris was cleared and replaced by beautiful parks. Where there was once nothing but a five-mile-wide swath of muddy river, charming new restaurants and shops now stood. Where a fire once raged, gutting downtown Grand Forks, new office buildings and boutiques now welcomed the public.
More than 46,000 people, 90% of the population, fled from the two cities with just their children, their pets, and the clothes on their backs. It was one of the largest evacuations in the history of our country. Very few homes were spared. Those that weren’t destroyed were damaged in the flood.
In the midst of all the devastation, I felt blessed to witness such hope and determination that graced the faces of the people who refused to give up on their city, their neighborhoods, and their lives. No matter what, they still had each other. And when it comes right down to it, that’s all we really have. What’s in our hearts. No flood can touch that.
