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By Patrick Hurley July 31, 2007 Estes Park, Colorado, is a quaint town in the Rocky Mountains. Located almost two hours north of Denver, it's picturesque scenery is alluring to tourists and vacationers from all over the world. But, for one night of my life it served as a backdrop for a night of horror. It was a memory that will be seared in my mind. Forever. July 31, 1976. I was spending the summer in a small bungalow near Lake Estes on a project with several young people from Campus Crusade for Christ. The participants came from all over the United States. Up to that point, the summer had been fairly uneventful in its texture. I was rooming with two guys, John Mabbott and Stu Atkins. Like the rest of the group, we meandered downtown several times a week, played ping pong at the Stanley Hotel, munched on "esteritos" at the Surrey Restuarant and attended seminars up at the YMCA camp outside the town. But, nothing had prepared us for what was about to happen on the last day of July... We were scheduled to present an outreach rally in Bond Park that evening and I was the keynote speaker. But, it began to rain that afternoon and by 5:00 p.m. it was coming down so hard it was obvious we would have to cancel the event. I had a date that night with a young lady named Cynthia Grebe and as we talked into the evening I remember her saying, "I hear sirens. Whenever I hear them, I usually stop and pray. Would you pray with me?" Thinking this was a bit of a spiritual stretch but not wanting to come across like a pagan, I agreed to pray with her. Little did I know how important prayer would be then and for the next two days. The rain turned into a storm. It was unique in the sense that it did not move through the area but hung like a satanic cloud preparing to inflict its evil destruction. It began pounding the town and the entire valley that surrounded it. The rivers that normally flow gently in and around Estes Park soon became swollen and angry, specifically the Big Thompson which combined with another river to form a 19-foot wall of water that swept down the canyon towards Loveland destroying everyone in its wake. Over 11 inches of rain fell in four hours. It was a "once in a century" storm. As John, Stu and I laid awake all night we could hear the thunder and see the lightning as our little room shuddered and trembled like balsa wood in a wind tunnel. I honestly thought it was going to be vaporized. The sounds outside were like World War II, exploding just inches from our door. It was, by far, the scariest night of my life. But, as frightened as we were, the people trying to race down the mountain just ahead of the wall of water were even more terrified. So were the campers as they huddled together along the river's edge. They had no chance to survive. The stories were horrific in nature. Three teenage girls in a car sliding all over the roadway finally pulled over and climbed to a high rock above several people clustered just below them. As the wall of water hit the lower rocks, the girls heard the screams of the people being swept off their shelter never to be seen alive again. A man watched his cabin being uprooted with his wife and mother inside as they were taken to their watery grave. To explain the force of the pressure, I went with a sheriff three days later and saw a large piece of scrap metal about six feet by four feet. It had been a Cadillac sedan. That night, 139 people lost their lives in and around the Big Thompson River. I lost two friends from Campus Crusade for Christ. Rae Anne Johnston and Terri Bissing. Two of the sweetest girls I had ever met. They had been at a women's conference and as they tried to flee the impending water, their car was carried off a bridge into the river. They never had a chance to survive. I would have been on Highway 34 that evening driving to a training site at Colorado State University if my speaking engagement had not been cancelled. Following the rally, I was scheduled to travel on the same road that would have been my last trip alive. For some divine reason, my life was spared while so many others had lost theirs on that dark, roaring night. July 31, 1976. It is a night I will never forget. ------------ About the author: Patrick Hurley has won three Emmy awards for writing, hosting and producing television shows. He resides in Southern California. Email: coolhumor@sbcglobal.net Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal). |
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