Marooned
Liz Hoffmeister knew her husband was not an alarmist. He was a soft-spoken man, afraid of nothing. If Vaughn said they were in danger, Liz knew it was time to leave.
She ran to the house and grabbed her dogs. At that same moment, another wall of muddy water came crashing into the valley. The small, shallower secondary channels of the Ca？ada, dozens in number, snaked around every homesite in their little valley. They filled in an instant —— littered with churning logs, fence wire and debris from upstream.
Hoffmeister chased after Liz. It was then that he heard the piercing screams： “Mommy！ Mommy！” He reeled, looking over his right shoulder toward the wash and his neighbors' property.
There, some 75 feet away, marooned between two raging streams, stood five of the Yankovich children —— Moriah, her friend Alisha, Caleb, age 12, Jordan, 11, Emma, 10, and young Gabriel, only 6 years old. They stood helpless, their faces contorted in fear. The foul, ash-laden water was swelling all around them, flowing at 12 feet per second. The smaller children wouldn't have a chance. Hoffmeister saw Moriah struggling to hold little Emma, who was panic-stricken and crying wildly, “I want Mommy！”
Hoffmeister forged right into the waist-deep deluge and battled through to the other side. He looked back and saw LeeAnn starting to make her way toward her children. “Don't even think about going into the water！” he yelled. “I'll get your kids out！”
He turned to Moriah. She cradled the small family dog in her arms. “Get the kids ready, starting with the youngest,” Hoffmeister told her. “I'll be right back.” He had an idea. One of the children huddled with LeeAnn was holding a coiled lariat used in livestock roping. “I need to borrow that,” Hoffmeister said.
He was moving instinctively, but years of experience were guiding him. As a kid, he often played in high-speed irrigation canals in the Arizona farmlands, using ropes to keep from being washed away. In the early '70s, during Army air assault training, he'd learned to rappel 200 feet to the ground from hovering helicopters. The training also included a rigorous exercise known as drown-proofing, where he was forced to survive fully clothed for hours in deep water without touching anything and without a life jacket.
Two mesquite trees stood on either side of the stream. Deftly, Hoffmeister tied the rope to the first tree； then he crossed the 30-foot torrent and tied it to the other tree. If the rope had been a foot shorter, it wouldn't have reached.
He bent down and talked directly to the wide-eyed kids, telling them exactly what he was going to do and keeping them calm as water swirled at their shins. “Piggyback me,” he said. “Put both arms around my neck and hang on.” He flung little Gabriel onto his back and entered the torrent.
With his right arm, Hoffmeister pulled the boy's legs snug to his chest, and with his left he gripped the rope, keeping their bodies on the upstream side as he sidestepped across the gorge. The strong, swift current pinned him hard against the rope. The footing was treacherous, the bottom already caked in black sludge.
Hoffmeister worked his way across and deposited Gabriel in his mother's arms. Then he turned back for the next child. Thanks to Moriah's calming influence, Emma had settled down.
Using the same technique, Hoffmeister ferried Emma across. One by one, he continued with the next three children. But each child was a little older, a little larger, a little heavier, and Hoffmeister was getting tired. Hardly a big man at five-nine, 170 pounds, he was wearing down.
The water was at his chest now. His back was in knots from the torque of being jackknifed backward —— time after time —— against the rope. Debris pelted his face and chest, and he swallowed mouthfuls of rancid runoff.
Liz Hoffmeister knew her husband was not an alarmist. He was a soft-spoken man, afraid of nothing. If Vaughn said they were in danger, Liz knew it was time to leave.
She ran to the house and grabbed her dogs. At that same moment, another wall of muddy water came crashing into the valley. The small, shallower secondary channels of the Ca？ada, dozens in number, snaked around every homesite in their little valley. They filled in an instant —— littered with churning logs, fence wire and debris from upstream.
Hoffmeister chased after Liz. It was then that he heard the piercing screams： “Mommy！ Mommy！” He reeled, looking over his right shoulder toward the wash and his neighbors' property.
There, some 75 feet away, marooned between two raging streams, stood five of the Yankovich children —— Moriah, her friend Alisha, Caleb, age 12, Jordan, 11, Emma, 10, and young Gabriel, only 6 years old. They stood helpless, their faces contorted in fear. The foul, ash-laden water was swelling all around them, flowing at 12 feet per second. The smaller children wouldn't have a chance. Hoffmeister saw Moriah struggling to hold little Emma, who was panic-stricken and crying wildly, “I want Mommy！”
Hoffmeister forged right into the waist-deep deluge and battled through to the other side. He looked back and saw LeeAnn starting to make her way toward her children. “Don't even think about going into the water！” he yelled. “I'll get your kids out！”
He turned to Moriah. She cradled the small family dog in her arms. “Get the kids ready, starting with the youngest,” Hoffmeister told her. “I'll be right back.” He had an idea. One of the children huddled with LeeAnn was holding a coiled lariat used in livestock roping. “I need to borrow that,” Hoffmeister said.
He was moving instinctively, but years of experience were guiding him. As a kid, he often played in high-speed irrigation canals in the Arizona farmlands, using ropes to keep from being washed away. In the early '70s, during Army air assault training, he'd learned to rappel 200 feet to the ground from hovering helicopters. The training also included a rigorous exercise known as drown-proofing, where he was forced to survive fully clothed for hours in deep water without touching anything and without a life jacket.
Two mesquite trees stood on either side of the stream. Deftly, Hoffmeister tied the rope to the first tree； then he crossed the 30-foot torrent and tied it to the other tree. If the rope had been a foot shorter, it wouldn't have reached.
He bent down and talked directly to the wide-eyed kids, telling them exactly what he was going to do and keeping them calm as water swirled at their shins. “Piggyback me,” he said. “Put both arms around my neck and hang on.” He flung little Gabriel onto his back and entered the torrent.
With his right arm, Hoffmeister pulled the boy's legs snug to his chest, and with his left he gripped the rope, keeping their bodies on the upstream side as he sidestepped across the gorge. The strong, swift current pinned him hard against the rope. The footing was treacherous, the bottom already caked in black sludge.
Hoffmeister worked his way across and deposited Gabriel in his mother's arms. Then he turned back for the next child. Thanks to Moriah's calming influence, Emma had settled down.
Using the same technique, Hoffmeister ferried Emma across. One by one, he continued with the next three children. But each child was a little older, a little larger, a little heavier, and Hoffmeister was getting tired. Hardly a big man at five-nine, 170 pounds, he was wearing down.
The water was at his chest now. His back was in knots from the torque of being jackknifed backward —— time after time —— against the rope. Debris pelted his face and chest, and he swallowed mouthfuls of rancid runoff.