An article I wrote about the local flood of February, 1998 that puts things in some perspective for me:

Well, we've been getting our share of water here in the Kern River Valley and it finally flooded. But not the flooding so many others are suffering. Snow surrounds the Valley and it's cold. Don't like the cold. I was eight days without propane, so no heat and the temperature went down to 27 degrees one night. That's cold for an old fellow. So I bundled like an Eskimo and spent a lot of time under my electric blanket reading and being grateful the power hadn't failed. A small electric heater at my desk enabled me to continue writing. Last winter I spent three weeks stranded by snow in Tahoe. This year I get flooded here in Bodfish.

It all started with some relatively heavy rain that caused comparatively minor inconveniences like a huge boulder, about 200 tons, that decided to cut loose and blocked the canyon to Bakersfield for two days until it could be drilled and blasted to clear the road. The rains create some interesting situations; and some tragic ones as well.

The only modest catastrophe I suffered physically during this early period of the rains was falling off a ladder while repairing a rain gutter. Of lesser damage to me was an incident that occurred while emptying the sump at my back door. This catches run-off and has to be emptied periodically. While performing this operation, the bottom of the plastic pail I was using decided to detach itself and I managed with superior skill and cunning to direct the contents of the bucket into my shoes. Once I had performed the appropriate rain-dance accompanied by the proper incantations directed at the perversity of the gods of El Nino and plastic pails (thankfully no women or children were about), I looked around at the snow-covered mountains and decided it shouldn't be so surprising the water in my shoes had the effect of soaking my feet in a very large, thoroughly and properly chilled martini (sans olive).

Through all the inconveniences (mostly the result of personal stupidity) to me I'm reminded that they are only that; inconveniences. I'm always sensitive to the difference between trying to decide what you're going to eat and whether you're going to have anything to eat, of having to fix the leaks in the roof and not having a roof to fix.

Well, early afternoon of February 23 changed things considerably. Bodfish got a taste of real flooding. It came like a flash flood down the canyon without warning. It was exactly as though a dam had suddenly burst up the canyon, and I had about twenty minutes to get what I could off the floor before the water began to enter the cottage. Within a half-hour, I had nearly five inches of water filling the house and still coming through both the back and front doors. I left them open in case I had to beat a hasty retreat.

But driving out, even had I been inclined to do so, was made quickly impossible with the river that was now so suddenly raging through my front yard and down Bodfish Canyon Road. But by the grace of God, so I believed, I never lost electricity. There were some extension cords and three breaker strips I quickly got off the floor. I missed the one in my bedroom, but when I had re-wired the house I had wired the bedroom circuit to the bathroom outlet and installed a groundfault breaker. When the water hit the extension cord plug, the breaker kicked out and saved that situation. Whew!

I watched anxiously as the water cut channels on both sides of my well. If the river carried away the pressure tank I would be in some real hurt due to the loss of fresh water, though I did keep a couple of gallons on standby at all times. A box of approximately 50 LPs had to sit it out on the floor. No time left and no place to put it out of the water— Shoes on the floor of the closet and under my bed; too late for those. The vacuum cleaner: too late and no place for that.

The water reached the coil of the refrigerator. Unplug that; same with the washer and dryer. Turn off the gas to the water heater, heater and stove. I had moved books and a couple of dozen items. A whole set of Britannica had to be placed above the water along with other books, various boxes of papers, stationary, etc. The bottom drawers of my filing cabinets; it was a frantic race against the rapidly rising water. In retrospect, I'm amazed I saved what I did.

By sunset, I'm in my recliner watching TV. The weather news is vitally important now. Stupidly, I didn't have any waders. I've been doing all this in the frigid water in my bare feet with my pants rolled up to my knees. I have an electric heater on the coffee table next to the chair. I put my ice-cold feet right up against the heater.

I think about the miraculous survival of some people who have lived through hypothermia, even while submersed in freezing water in Alaska, by the mechanism of their minds; truly mind over matter. The Will to Live is only a label, it doesn't explain anything. Perhaps, like prayer, God holds conversations with us through our minds. Perhaps it is Him, not ourselves, who carries us through such things. Certainly I credit God for carrying me through many a crisis. I can't quite believe it is only my strong will and mind (pigheadedness or stubbornness) that has saved me in such events.

As my feet gradually warm, I begin to take stock as I watch the rising water. It has reached the bottom fabric of the chair. Will it gradually reach high enough to saturate it and I can no longer sit in it?

By nightfall, the water is nearly seven inches high moving through the house. A couple of emergency workers, fire department, come sloshing into the house. Do I want to be evacuated? No. But I ask them if they happen to have a spare pair of wading boots? No. At this point, I'm willing to pay anything for a pair of waders. They would have spent $3,000 of taxpayer money relocating me to a shelter, but couldn’t give me a $20 pair of waders. Our government at work.

I do have plastic trash bags. I wade into the kitchen and get them. I slip some over my feet and using clothespins to attach them to my pants’ legs and large rubber bands to keep them snug, I fashion Okie waders. Just keeping the water off my feet is a relief though it doesn't do a thing to keep out the cold. My feet are really freezing.

But the rest of me is nicely bundled. So I watch TV and the water in the house and with both front and back doors closed praying it doesn't get any higher. The water reaches nearly three feet around my house and is booming like the sound of a cannon as it shoots out of a culvert under the road nearby. I try not to worry about the record albums and other things I wasn't able to save from the rising water.

Thank God the water didn't reach my bed. By midnight I've determined the water has stopped rising and I wade into the bedroom and with great difficulty I'm able to get into bed; fully clothed, of course. I've pinned my plastic bags to my top dresser drawer. When I get up, I'll be able to reach them. I fall asleep to the sound of the rushing water all around the house.

In the gray morning light, I groggily assessed the disaster. There was still about three inches of water circulating throughout the house. The torrent had cut a channel at the end of my driveway about eight feet deep, eighty feet long and six feet wide. The river was still running with great volume and force through my front yard. I wasn't going to drive out anytime soon.

Stuff was stacked everywhere in the house but I had missed a few things. There just hadn't been enough time to save everything from the rising water. The moisture content in the house had reached one hundred per cent, and as the sun came up every window began to weep moisture; the greenhouse effect.

I had a small electric heater for which I made room on my desk. I had to try to keep the moisture from damaging my computer; I could survive if I could write. I know I won't be able to print, however. Every piece of paper in the house is moisture-laden. Books have swollen from the moisture.

But the little heater did the trick. The computer came up running. My dear friend Byron brings me a pair of waders in the late afternoon after the waters had abated sufficiently for him to do so. At that he has to brave the still running waters to reach my place on foot. I'm more grateful than I can say. I've been sitting at my desk in over two-inches of water and mud with the plastic bags around my feet as I write. A hazard of which I'm constantly aware: Don't drop anything! The TV remote for example.

One of the greatest difficulties throughout was my leg. The fall I had taken before the flood hit had apparently damaged ligaments and muscle. It is extremely painful and all the work I had to do moving things had only acerbated the damage. The leg had become swollen and walking was excruciatingly painful.

The biggest problem I now face is the mud. As the water in the house recedes, it is leaving about an inch of very fine silt, mud, throughout the entire house. This keeps the moisture content in the house at virtually one hundred per cent. With electric heaters and the sun now shining I can dry the air somewhat as the day progresses. But the nights are another thing. As I'm trying to sleep I think about an old medical term: Ague. I'm constantly breathing a lot of moisture. This can contribute to pneumonia; worrisome.

My house is front-page news in the local paper, The Kern Valley Sun. Since I'm at the bottom of Bodfish Canyon, I caught the brunt of the flood. There is an interesting picture of my little cottage with the river running around it and through my front yard.

But so many things are relative. I watch the news about the tornadoes in Florida with such loss of life. There are the pictures of houses sliding down hills in Southern California, the two CHP officers killed buried in the mud west of me. So many have lost everything, some their lives. I have no room to complain. And thank goodness my youngest son Michael showed up as soon as he was able to help me shovel out the mud and restore order. It’s the American way. And what with cinderblock construction and slab floor my little cottage is prepared for the next flood whether I am or not. Fires, floods, and earthquakes; I’ve been through them all and my heart goes out to all those suffering far worse than I have.