A Sweeter Summer in the 701

As our post-flood landscaping project started taking shape in July, our friends Lynae and Mark offered us plants from their “Giving Garden” to help spruce things up. The Giving Garden is a sort of summer camp for the floral over-achievers Lynae thins out of her breathtaking flower beds and generously saves for friends whose sparser yards could use some color, texture and TLC.

Mike and I transplanted the lilies, globeflower, irises, chives and more on the first of a dozen 90 degree days, and we watched them fight for survival in the sizzling heat. Weeks later, things were still looking a bit dubious. “Don’t worry about how they look above ground,” Lynae said wisely. “This summer, what’s happening below the soil is what matters.”

Later it struck me that she was right about more than just gardening. This summer was all about putting down roots.

Mike flew airplanes. I raced well. Both of us are starting to talk a little funny. And drive like we’re from here.

Summer weather began in April and is just now winding down. We were quickly swept up by the manic energy of a place where harsh winters rule: When the weather is good, don’t waste it. Work hard, and play hard, because you will have plenty of time to rest when the snow comes.

It was a summer filled with new playmates, playthings and playlists. Of paddling and pedaling in the sunrise and the sunset, and discovering and growing during the hours in between.

They say you never forget how to ride a bike, and this summer, the time we spent riding our bikes was indeed unforgettable.

Riding fast for the first time in years, thanks to friends who push the limits, and make you brave enough to embrace new ones. Worthy competitors and companions who offer you their rear wheels when you are tired, and graciously take yours from time to time, even if they don’t really need it. Of early morning two-wheeled forays to tiny farm towns; of 70 hard miles in stunning heat and humidity followed by a shameless faceplant into a quart of chocolate chip mint.

We watched new friends become triathletes for the first time, and shared their highs and lows.

I roadtripped with friends to a race in Minnesota, finding myself tucking into an unlikely pre-race dinner in Chinese restaurant in the blue-eyed outpost of Lino Lakes. I looked at the dozen faces around the table and thought, a year ago, I didn’t know any of them, but I think I have found more of my people. And what did my fortune cookie say that night? Home is where the heart is.  

Part of making a new home is managing homesickness, and believe me, there are dark days. I often dream I’m standing barefoot on the Madison Park shoreline at daybreak.  An invisible hand zips me into my wetsuit. The hand rests reassuringly on my shoulder for just a second, like it has so many times in real life. Maybe it’s Liz’s hand, or Rob’s or Rick’s or Joseph’s or Tatyana’s or Ruth’s…I always wake up before I can tell for sure. But I have no doubt about what it means.

So now, as autumn is in the air, the Giving Garden transplants are growing happily. Do they miss their past home and Lynae’s able hand? Of that I am certain. But each day, they look more and more like they belong here, roots getting stronger, fortified to face the winter.  

The weekend the time changed

365 days ago, we spent a whirlwind weekend househunting in the Bismarck area. It was the weekend that the time changed, and our experiences of that weekend certainly changed many things about the way we spend ours.

We approached the task with the enthusiasm of people moving into a lower-priced housing market than the one they were leaving behind. With two key criteria in mind (a solidly built house with waterfront access) we quickly found our way to our little house on the prairie.

What we never could have anticipated was the dumb luck that accompanied our choice. The kind of luck that spares your waterfront home during a 500 year flood, while other houses that were in the running suffered heartbreaking damage.

The kind of luck that brings the sort of neighbors that help you figure things out with kindness and without condescension, and with whom your only real differences of opinion are about the characteristics of a quaffable beer. Where the morning after Halloween your jack o'lanterns disappear from your yard not to be smashed to smithereens in the middle of the street but because some thoughtful neighbor tucked them into his truck alongside his own on the way to the community compost.

The kind of luck where your 5 am alarm rings and you're less than ten minutes from a swimming facility that rivals the best in America. And your friends are there waiting for you.

The kind of luck that locates you within a few short miles of an animal shelter where you discover the two little friends who help make your new house a home.

We could not have anticipated the good fortune, accidental or otherwise, that came with the choice of our home. A year later our novelty is wearing off, as is the novelty of discovering a new town. "Getting acquainted" conversations are evolving into friendships. Last week, I handed my Washington driver's license across the counter at the DOT, trading it in for a shiny new one with North Dakota creds.

We've been on double dates and hosted a houseful of cheery neighbors. We've watched the river ebb and flow and taken that deep, cleansing breath of survival. We were helped by many and in a small way did our best to give back.

Mike is learning to fly airplanes, and I am learning to make popovers. Which is proving somehow to be equally challenging.

Now, once again, it's the weekend that the time changed. We woke up to a wind advisory and snow in the forecast. Resident meteorogist Sundance is catapulting off the furniture and meowing up a bigger storm than usual. The shiny new snowblower is in the garage, fueled up and ready.

Winter is coming, and we know it will be long. And little by little, we are starting to feel like we could belong here, too.

Having a Good Hair Day

As the Missouri River reached flood stage on Memorial Day weekend, Mike decided to stop shaving. Or, as he puts it, after each day of all-day sandbagging, he was too tired to lift a razor to his face. By the time we had built what we needed, he was going to shave, but he had a good start on the first goatee of his young life, so I convinced him to let it grow — like a playoff good luck charm — until the waters returned to normal. Complementing our many other precautions, it was fun to believe that as long as the beard graced his face, we’d be safe.

Sometime in mid June, the waters crested over 19 feet. Today’s high water mark is 18.3. It has been fun to kiss a guy with a fuzzy face for awhile, but we have started to dare think the time has come to break out a new razor and put it to the task. Mike agreed to sport the beard until the river dips below the flood level of 16 feet, but even with the reduced flows from the Garrison Dam, the river’s height is dropping very gradually. Authorities contend that the worst is behind us. At this rate, by the time the river reaches 16 feet, there could be a lot more gray in the good-luck goatee.

The moustache magic is clearly working. To our surprise, we have managed to put together a fairly normal summer despite our circumstances.

On a recent sparkling Saturday, I became the third fastest female triathlete in North Dakota. 24 hours later, I was the lanterne rouge in my first ever cycling road race, before I abandoned. I am officially sticking with swimming. And have been swimming well, sometimes pell-melling down the lawn, over the levee and straight into the river on the heels of a ride or run in the wicked humidity.

We have learned what “triple digit heat index” means, and have come to appreciate air conditioning, that nemesis of sinus cavities and contact lenses but blessed purveyor of a decent night’s sleep.

We have moved our dining room and most of our living room back into the house, and we enjoyed every moment of the Tour de France on TV, perched on the couch instead of a patio chair. We are racking up the cycling miles ourselves (ill-fated road race notwithstanding), discovering picturesque outposts of Americana a few short pedal strokes from home. Nice men on Harley Davidsons pull up next us at intersections to ask if we are carrying enough water on our bikes during the hottest days.

New running routes are being discovered; many of the best trails are underwater. I was nearly home from a long run the other day when I encountered a police checkpoint guarding the dike I’d need to cross to get there. Fines for trespassing on the levees are steep —$1000 per violation — it is unsafe to walk on them and their integrity is critical to the protection of the homes along the river. The cute cop said I had to turn around, which meant backtracking much further than seemed physically possible in the heat. I asked him to turn around himself, so he would not see me vault a nearby chainlink fence, avoiding the levee by running down the expressway toward home. Thank heaven Bismarck traffic is light and the men in blue have a sense of humor. He waved.

Thousands of sandbags bake in the sun every day – not just those surrounding our houses, but the pallets and piles that lie dormant in the sandbag lots. They are a testament to many busy hands and stalwart souls that believed our efforts could make a difference. For such a mellow and pragmatic crowd, North Dakotans are over-achievers.

I remember a conversation with Garret who shoveled sandbags for us for hours one Sunday morning. He said, “Can you imagine how we will all feel a few weeks or months from now when we know that we have saved the town? When everyone, from the little kids who tied sandbags to the teenagers driving Bobcats to the moms and dads and brothers and sisters who shoveled and hauled and built….can look back at this and realize that it was their efforts that made all of the difference?”

I can imagine it now.

Our neighborhood has become a messy jumble of levees, their tarps tattered by the wind and blowing into the gardens. Pontoon boats cruise our bay on lazy afternoons. Conversations turn to cleaning up, replacing carpet, moving back in….and at our house….shaving.

Waiting Game

Every day, we get a little more hopeful. Perhaps in the end, we'll come out of this with just a ruined backyard and a few unanticipated bills to pay. That, and a host of new friends, and that wherewithal inherent to anyone who has endured life's most galvanizing moments.

We have lost weight, but gained heart.

[The other day Mike took his jeans off without unbuttoning them. I laughed what is left of my a** off.]

The dam continues to spew ever-increasing flows in our general directon. I believe the output today is around 135,000 cfs. We remain tucked safely behind the clay barrier that is plugging our bay, and a dike that hems our neighborhood in against the river. The de-watering pumps that were pushing water out of our part of the river into the main channel at a rate of 8,000 gallons per minute earlier this week have been quiet for several days.

The water level has receded from our backyard, and we've heard nary a burp from our sump pump lately.

I understand that just under 800 households have been evacuated, and certainly there's evidence of the river's wrath around virtually every corner. Two streets away from us, a family simply bulldozed their damaged home over. The Jetty Beach neighborhood, which we can see from our house, has been completely deserted.

The good news is that even in the main channel, the water is not rising at the forecast rate, giving hope to some who had, days earlier, given their homes up for lost.

So we wait and see. We try to do "normal" things. Get a haircut. Go for a bike ride. Plant some flowers. Sign up for a triathlon. Work an 8 hour day and try not to feel guilty that your sandbag blisters are starting to heal.

The community leaders, National Guard, Corps of Engineers, construction companies and engineering firms have done what they can to protect the town. Neighbors have moved each other out of their homes, and built walls, and prayed for eachother.

It seems to be working.

The Ripple Effect

A few days ago, our community learned that the plan to build a system of dikes to protect our neighborhoods had been scrapped. Government officials and the Corps of Engineers said it just wouldn't keep the water out.

So a handful of very motivated neighbors called in a private engineering firm to discuss a new plan. This plan entailed a several mile long dike to hold back the flow, clay "plugs" that would seal off the bays we live on from the main channel of the Missouri, and a "de-watering" system that would help reduce the impact of groundwater. The strategy would also protect the waste water treatment plant that serves our area. The project would take between 750,000 and 1 million sandbags to complete.

With the help of city officials, the National Guard, Corps of Engineers, construction companies from throughout the state and thousands of volunteers, the implementation of this plan has been underway for about 24 hours. The first of the bay "plugs" is being constructed, and there's cautious optimism about its success. The community and National Guard cranked out over 250,000 sandbags on Memorial Day. That could be enough to seal off the waste water plant, which is a top priority.

The hope is for the dike surrounding the area to be complete by Saturday.

We continue to persevere on the home front while spending as much time at "Sandbag Site #3" to contribute to the community good. Each household's part of the venture is 3000 sandbags. Mike and I can fill about 80 per hour.

We have moved everything out of our basement and virtually everything out of the main floor. Mike, Laif, Jim, Jeff and Josh came by yesterday to help us move the last of the big furniture into our trailer, and also pull up the carpet out of the basement. Things that were too heavy to move were put up on cinder blocks.

We plan to live on our third floor until we are told to evacuate, which we still believe is a strong possiblilty, despite the protective measures underway. There is no way of knowing how much water will be released from the dam in the end. It is raining cats and dogs in Montana, and the snowmelt really has only started.

Today we put a deposit on a rental house, so we will have a place to go when the time comes. We are incredibly lucky to have found it. And we can bring Daffodil and Sundance! That is a huge relief as their antics have helped us keep our chins up in the darkest moments. I can't imagine parting with them.

The water is rising (we are starting to see the impact of yesterday's increased flow). It is windy and dark outside, which makes everything seem so much worse.

Yesterday I signed us up for the Reverse 911 service so we'll get any emergency updates on our cell phones. A week ago, I did not even know such a thing existed.

Heartfelt thanks to all of you who have offered your support to us over the last few days. We have been truly touched by your concern and offers of help. Take care out there.

Bad news and good friends

Yesterday we learned that more water is coming. The earlier "longshot" forecast of 120,000 cfs flowing out of the Garrison dam became a reality -- the dam will open to this level on June 2. In addition, we can anticipate 150,000 cfs at some yet to be determined future date.

This news -- and its surrounding flock of rumors -- meant moments of dumbfounded panic which quickly turned into action. And, powered by the heartfelt concern, determination, and pure muscle of our friends, we have moved most of the furniture out of the first and second stories of our house, have a place to store it, and have a strong line on a temporary home.

The neighborhood is filled deep into the night with the sound of heavy equipment, the ever-widening puddles of water flowing out of sump pumps, and frightened faces everywhere.

Yesterday was filled with moments of truth:

I visited three separate sand bagging locations searching for a bale of loose bags (our neighbors shared a pile of sand that they'd had delivered with us). For several hours, the community was nearly "out." About 3 million bags have been filled, and this morning I heard the mayor say on the radio that another 3 are on their way.

I nearly lost my mind when I climbed the stepladder into the attic with my wedding dress over my arm and tucked it away.

A woman called into the radio station looking for help from someone who lives near the humane society on the north side of Mandan because they had been unable to cross town to feed the pets in the shelter.

Mike, Laif, Jeff, Barbara, Rick, Al, Diane and others shared their time, resources and connections to help us find solutions and get the work done. We can not say enough to thank you. The written word rarely fails me, but here I am.

I have added more photos here.

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.229507787062822.76105.100000108077904#!/media/set/?set=a.229507787062822.76105.100000108077904

Hoping and Coping

It wasn't long ago that we thought the protective mama goose nesting on our dock was the only thing standing between us and a good time on the Missouri River this summer.

That changed in a flash with announcements early last week that the Corps of Engineers planned to increase the flow from the upstream Garrison dam by over 50,000 cubic feet per second into the river, our town, and our backyard. Heavy snow pack, rain -- and perhaps a lack of perspicacity on the part of the Corps of Engineers -- backed the water up behind the dam with no where to go but here.

In the days that followed, the news worsened. The release will rise to 85,000 cubic feet per second on Monday, to 90,000 cfs on June 4, to 95,000 on June 6 and 100,000 on June 7. It could reportedly elevate to 120,000 cfs in time. The highest flow ever recorded in the past was 64,000 cfs.

Flood stage on the Missouri is 16 feet; at 100,000 cfs the river will rise over 18. Yesterday, the river level stood at 15.8 feet.

It has been inspiring to be part of a community that has united to plan, build, and tackle the incredibly hard physical labor together. Most people have been going to their jobs for a few hours each morning then joining crews to shore up the property of friends, relatives, and strangers. I am overwhelmed with gratitude to the team of Mike's colleagues who worked tirelessly with us on Thursday to help protect our home.

About a half dozen sandbag stations have been created by the National Guard where folks are shoveling scoop after scoop of sand into bags, hefting them onto trucks, driving them home and building walls.

Information flow is improving, though government officials are facing credibility issues because the news they share often changes, leading to scary rumors and false hopes. This is a "historic event" (floods are extremely rare here, and one of this magnitude has never been experienced) so we're all in uncharted territory, community leaders included.

We learned last night that a dike that had been planned to protect our neighborhood from the worst of the flow will not be built after all. This changes our mindset from "hey we could be OK" to "let's move everything our of the basement, come up with an evacuation plan, and try to figure out where we are going to live for the months it could take to recover from this if we have to leave it behind."

I have found that I cope best in this emergency when my hands are moving. Lifting a shovel, carrying a sandbag, pushing a wheelbarrow. It is difficult to concentrate on much else. Mike has been helping friends and colleagues every day, while also gearing us up with sump pumps, a generator, and doing the literal heavy lifting at our place.

Our neighborhood has come together in a collaborative and supportive spirit, and we have been heartened by everyone's generosity and guidance. Sherri, our friend who cares for our kittens when we travel and lives in a safe part of town, came by just to let us know that if we are forced to go, she will take our dear little Sundance and Daffodil into her home. This quiet comfort means the world.

Shelley from across the street made me laugh last night for the first time in days.

This post is getting long and it is starting to rain. I have added photos to my facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/krnmaria3#!/media/set/?set=a.229507787062822.76105.100000108077904 if you'd like to have a look. I will try to keep updating both here and there.

Meanwhile, I understand open water swim season starts this weekend in Seattle. Don't get me started.