Like a Freight Train
It was a torrid summer evening in the parched landscape of southern Arizona, just north of Tucson. But the conditions in mid-August 2003 couldn't deter Vaughn Hoffmeister, a busy, self-employed nurseryman, from enjoying the little private time he got on his daily run. He laced his jogging shoes tight and sprinted out the back door. The Santa Catalina Mountains loomed starkly in the distance.
Two hundred yards behind his home, Hoffmeister, 49, dropped into a dry riverbed known as the Ca？ada del Oro Wash and turned south. Eroded over the years by violent mountain storms, the arroyo was 100 feet wide and 4 feet deep. Its banks were lined with gnarled mesquite trees and cactus. The recent Aspen fire, however, had destroyed much of the water-retaining vegetation at higher elevations, leaving the wash susceptible to dangerous runoff.
Now as Hoffmeister jogged down the dry track, dark clouds were forming over Mt. Lemmon. A sudden clap of thunder gave him pause. Even a small amount of rain could become a major threat if water, fed through countless tributaries, gushed down the Ca？ada Wash. He didn't want to be caught within its sandy banks.
For Steve and LeeAnn Yankovich, moving into the rural valley two years earlier had fulfilled a lifelong dream. Their eight kids, ages 3 to 14, had almost two acres of unrestricted playground. And they had room to stable a few horses.
It was about 6 p.m. when LeeAnn, a petite brunette with high energy and a quick smile, stepped outside and heard the thunder. She saw Moriah, her eldest, and best friend Alisha Kram, 13, riding off toward their favorite bridle trail, the Ca？ada Wash.
“Girls,” LeeAnn called out, looking to the skies, “I don't think you should go just now. Put the horses away.”
Moriah, at 14, was almost a head taller than her mom. Bright, thoughtful and levelheaded, she was like a right hand to LeeAnn, helpful with the younger children, in the kitchen and around the house. Though disappointed about the ride, she and her friend obediently reined their horses and rode to the corral at the rear of the property where four of the other kids were playing.
An eerie, grating squeal like a freight train slamming on its brakes echoed through the desert air. But Vaughn Hoffmeister knew this was no train. He pivoted and scrambled from the Ca？ada just seconds before a six-foot wall of black, foaming water blasted over the ground where he'd been running.
In his 25 years of living in the Southwest, he'd never seen anything like it. High in the mountains, a downpour was not being absorbed by the scorched earth. Instead, the ground shed the sooty, charred remains of trees and brush left by the Aspen blaze. The blackened ash careered through the wash like a stampede.
Then, in the distance, Hoffmeister heard the howl of a second “runaway train” coursing down the arroyo —— and the Ca？ada was already overflowing its banks. “My God,” he said, “I've got to warn everyone.” Hoffmeister sprinted through the neighborhood, pounding on doors, yelling as he ran, “Get out！ Get out！ The water's coming！” When he arrived at his own house, Liz, his wife of 32 years, was not inside. He bolted out the rear door. Liz was chatting with LeeAnn over the back fence. “C'mon,” he yelled. “We're flooding！”
It was a torrid summer evening in the parched landscape of southern Arizona, just north of Tucson. But the conditions in mid-August 2003 couldn't deter Vaughn Hoffmeister, a busy, self-employed nurseryman, from enjoying the little private time he got on his daily run. He laced his jogging shoes tight and sprinted out the back door. The Santa Catalina Mountains loomed starkly in the distance.
Two hundred yards behind his home, Hoffmeister, 49, dropped into a dry riverbed known as the Ca？ada del Oro Wash and turned south. Eroded over the years by violent mountain storms, the arroyo was 100 feet wide and 4 feet deep. Its banks were lined with gnarled mesquite trees and cactus. The recent Aspen fire, however, had destroyed much of the water-retaining vegetation at higher elevations, leaving the wash susceptible to dangerous runoff.
Now as Hoffmeister jogged down the dry track, dark clouds were forming over Mt. Lemmon. A sudden clap of thunder gave him pause. Even a small amount of rain could become a major threat if water, fed through countless tributaries, gushed down the Ca？ada Wash. He didn't want to be caught within its sandy banks.
For Steve and LeeAnn Yankovich, moving into the rural valley two years earlier had fulfilled a lifelong dream. Their eight kids, ages 3 to 14, had almost two acres of unrestricted playground. And they had room to stable a few horses.
It was about 6 p.m. when LeeAnn, a petite brunette with high energy and a quick smile, stepped outside and heard the thunder. She saw Moriah, her eldest, and best friend Alisha Kram, 13, riding off toward their favorite bridle trail, the Ca？ada Wash.
“Girls,” LeeAnn called out, looking to the skies, “I don't think you should go just now. Put the horses away.”
Moriah, at 14, was almost a head taller than her mom. Bright, thoughtful and levelheaded, she was like a right hand to LeeAnn, helpful with the younger children, in the kitchen and around the house. Though disappointed about the ride, she and her friend obediently reined their horses and rode to the corral at the rear of the property where four of the other kids were playing.
An eerie, grating squeal like a freight train slamming on its brakes echoed through the desert air. But Vaughn Hoffmeister knew this was no train. He pivoted and scrambled from the Ca？ada just seconds before a six-foot wall of black, foaming water blasted over the ground where he'd been running.
In his 25 years of living in the Southwest, he'd never seen anything like it. High in the mountains, a downpour was not being absorbed by the scorched earth. Instead, the ground shed the sooty, charred remains of trees and brush left by the Aspen blaze. The blackened ash careered through the wash like a stampede.
Then, in the distance, Hoffmeister heard the howl of a second “runaway train” coursing down the arroyo —— and the Ca？ada was already overflowing its banks. “My God,” he said, “I've got to warn everyone.” Hoffmeister sprinted through the neighborhood, pounding on doors, yelling as he ran, “Get out！ Get out！ The water's coming！” When he arrived at his own house, Liz, his wife of 32 years, was not inside. He bolted out the rear door. Liz was chatting with LeeAnn over the back fence. “C'mon,” he yelled. “We're flooding！”