How Hurricane Irene changed my thinking about water

On a sunny summer afternoon near the end of July in 2011, a friend and I were driving through the foothills of the Catskill Mountains in New York State. We decided to spend the day without a particular destination and to drive wherever the road took us. We followed the winding roads as they curved through lush green valleys surrounded by towering mountains under a dazzling blue summer sky.

At one point we turned a corner and came upon a field of tall sunflowers as far as the eye could see. I had never seen a field of sunflowers before, perhaps a few dozen or so standing at attention in a garden, but a field of sunflowers had to be savored, so we pulled to the side of the road for a few minutes to admire the view. A few miles further down the road we read a sign indicating there was a covered bridge nearby and ten minutes later found ourselves walking the 232 foot length of the Old Blenheim Bridge in North Blenheim, New York.

The information sign in the small, well manicured area at the entrance to the covered bridge told us that we were standing in front of the second-longest single span covered bridge in the world after the Bridgeport covered bridge. Reading further, the sign indicated the bridge was built in 1855, was one of the oldest of its type in the United States and was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1964. The bridge was closed to vehicle traffic in 1932 when a steel truss bridge was built nearby.

We took a leisurely walk over the bridge admiring its unique construction and remarking on how sturdy the bridge was for its age. Over the years people had etched initials and comments into the wood beams, creating a historical journal of sorts. Beneath the bridge the Schoharie Creek trickled over boulders and small white stones 15 or 20 feet below us.

We left the beautiful old covered bridge behind us and drove through small towns with names like Prattsville and Windham. We stopped in Prattsville to peek in the windows of a few model modular homes and walked across the street to a well kept, small resort to talk with the owners of the modular home business.

It was a lovely day and I went home that night with my head filled with images of Mother Nature's handy work. Then came Irene ...

Hurricane Irene had been downgraded to a tropical storm when she barreled into the Mid Hudson Valley In New York State on Sunday, August 28, 2011. The severe thunderstorms and high winds that accompanied her were anticipated but the water, the unprecedented amounts of water, grew the rivers and creeks into raging forces of destruction, taking the region by surprise.

A few days after Irene struck I received an email from the friend with whom I had spent that beautiful July day just weeks before, telling me that the old Blenheim covered bridge had been swept away by the powerful waters of the Schoharie Creek. I was thunderstruck. I flashed back to the tiny trickling stream which I had seen below the bridge and could not imagine water reaching the height and level of power necessary to sweep away that 156 year old bridge. My eyes teared up thinking about the history that was lost. I couldn't help but think about what had happened in that beautiful field of sunflowers.

He also sent videos of what was left of the small towns we had driven through, Prattsville and Windham. Irene's waters raged through Windham with enough force to sweep away cars and lift buildings off of their foundations. As for Prattsville, everything was destroyed. The modular homes we had peeked in were now further down the road, one destroyed and pushed against the other. You can see them in the video below which depicts what is left of the small town of Prattsville. The road we had traveled on was now impassable. All of the trees were broken like matchsticks and scattered about for miles.

The stories and videos of Irene's destruction in the Mid Hudson Valley area continued for weeks in the media.

Another beautiful, sunny day. This one in early September of 2011 in the Adirondacks in upstate New York, 200 miles north of Irene's devastation in the Mid Hudson Valley. I have taken out my canoe and am gliding through the waters of Brant Lake. The lake water is higher than I have ever seen it. Small 5 ft by 6 ft islands that were homes to cranes and loons are now submerged. The water levels in the passageways under the bridges are so high that I duck my head and my oars strike the roof of the passageways when I paddle through them.

As I row down the channel I see eddies in the water so I lift up my oars and let the water take me. My light weight canoe makes slow full circles as the water carries me down the channel, something the water has never done before. As I paddle back up the channel the rowing is more difficult against the force of the current.

In those quiet moments out on the water that day, the images of the swollen waterways in the Mid Hudson Valley collide with the images of the peaceful lake that surrounds me and gently rocks my little canoe as I bob up and down in the water. Immediately I realize I have a new born respect for water. Water that one moment can look so peaceful and inviting and the next turn into a horrific, brown, ogre stomping down anything that gets in its way. An ogre I pray I will never meet.