Drought, Fire, Flood
On Saturday, October 24, 2026, Ted and I drove down to Bluff to check out the San Juan River. Across from Saint Christopher’s Mission, many Diné people were sitting along the side of the highway after being flooded out of their homes. Two sheriff’s vehicles flanked the road. We later learned approximately 10 families were displaced by the high water.
We then attempted to drive to the site of the old swinging bridge, but the road was impassible, so we headed for an overlook above the river. It had already filled the floodplain even before it crested two days later at 31 feet.
San Juan County, Utah, of course, wasn’t the only place to experience the devastating effects of the flood. The entire Four Corners area and beyond, including Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Nevada suffered with homes destroyed, thousands evacuated, and many others rescued.
On Sunday, November first, I had my own taste of high water. With rain pelting down, our little dog refused to go out to potty much less join me for a walk, so I donned my rain pants, my waterproof hiking boots, and two jackets. I popped open my Starry, Starry Night umbrella and ventured out.
When I made it to the street, both gutters were running high, the water blasting any plants audacious enough to grow in the cracks. The wind kept hijacking my umbrella, and, in short order, I discovered my rain pants weren’t rain resistant, nor my boots waterproof. With two hoods covering my head, the umbrella held at an angle to keep it from blowing inside out, and rain smearing my glasses, I couldn’t see, but I knew where I was going.
The gutters and other streams ran full-tilt down to Bonnie’s pond, so named for my beloved friend, Bonnie Petty. It had been dry all summer. Now, it was bank-full, the sunflowers once filling it with yellow glory, poked the very tips of their blossoms above the murky water.
I decided for safety’s sake not to take my usual route down into Westwater even though I really wanted to visit the stream and see waterfalls cascading off the cliffs. Instead, I walked south past the college and chose a well-graveled path leading up to the Boyd Bradford tower, constructed to resemble an Ancient Puebloan look-out. I didn’t attempt to climb the spiral stairs to the viewing platform since the heavy rain obscured any view. Instead, I took a path back toward the street. Before I walked too far, I heard the roaring of water even though I was far from the canyon’s bottom. A usually dry wash had turned into a churning river of muddy water, complete with a waterfall.
I attempted a shortcut back toward the street, but a huge pool blocked my way, so I retraced my steps to a small wooden bridge that had been knocked off its foundation but still spanned the new river. I crossed it gingerly and made it back to the cement sidewalk near the Native American Studies Building and from there to the street.
By the time I made it home, my clothes were soddened. My waterproof boots are still drying out with the rank smell of stagnant water perfuming their insoles. I didn’t know then, but later learned that two men in Flagstaff drowned in high waters that very day.
Sunday evening and early Monday morning, Bluff experienced another flood when Cottonwood Wash breached its banks, flooding the historic fort, post office, library, and fire station along with homes and businesses, but Monday donned with a clearing of the heavy clouds.
“Dear Heavenly Father, I never thought I’d say this,” I began my prayer that Monday, holding tightly to my hubby’s hand, “but we’re grateful the rain has stopped.” The Palmer rain gage recorded 2.77 inches on top of the over seven inches we’d received in October. That was in a high desert landscape where 13 inches annually is all we can hope for. In all the years I’d lived in San Juan County, Utah, I’d never seen anything like the back-to-back storms we’d been experiencing.
When the San Juan River surged a second and third time, the levels were lower than forecasted, but clean-up and rebuilding of washed-out roads and bridges, including the Comb Wash Bridge, will be ongoing. Rebuilding flooded homes and disrupted lives may take longer, but individual courage and resilience is already evident. Even though they are temporarily housed in motel rooms, many of those displaced at Bluff are still showing up at work.
Drought, fire, flood. What is the common thread in those three natural disasters? For one, they are all powerful cleansing forces in a world out of balance. For another, they can bring about transformation in individuals and communities when everyone works together to help those in need.
So how can we help? In our area, USU-Blanding is taking some physical supplies (not clothing) at the Career and Technical Education building (the former ShopKo store), and the Bluff Community Foundation Flood Relief Fund or the San Juan United Way are accepting monetary donations. Check online for details.
In the face of such a cataclysmic disaster, it’s easy to feel powerless, but one of my favorite quotes comes from a poem by Edward Everette Hale: “I am only one, / But still I am one. / I cannot do everything, / But still I can do something; /And because I cannot do everything, / I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.”