The weeks leading up to March 13th, 2019 were a recipe for disaster. First, the temperature didn’t top the freezing point for over a month, sending the frost level deep into the soil. Then the snows came — wet, heavy snows, six to eight inches a crack, piling up an abnormal snow pack above ground. Then, Saturday night, March 10th, a freezing rain coated the surface with a solid glaze that glimmered in the sunset.
On Tuesday, the 12th, the temperature finally rose into the forties, spawning little rivulets in the road ditches and swales. This is a normal feature that we call the spring thaw — the only time of the year we get to enjoy flowing streams in our little part of the world. It meant that we would soon enjoy green grass and early blooming flowers.
But Tuesday night brought something unexpected. I woke to the the sound of heavy rain in the night that seemed to go on for hours. Subconsciously, I pondered what all that rain water was doing to the snow. This was a phenomenon unlike anything that I’ve experienced in life. As it turned out, it was the perfect storm that created unprecedented flooding to the eastern half of Nebraska.
In the morning I stared out the window at an amazing sight. The snow was gone, replaced by a lake, flowing slowly across the alfalfa fields to the creek. I donned Muck boots, grabbed my camera, and headed out to monitor the situation.
The sound of rushing water drew me to our north lane which was already a few feet under. Later this spot would be completely submerged and filled level with cornstalks from the fields to the north. This is a small tributary to Clear Creek that drains a couple square miles west of our place.
Walking out our west lane, I spied a drowned field mouse and wondered if it was only one of hundreds of creatures to perish in the cold waters. This little guy symbolized the kind of day that we were in for.
The waters in the fields subsided a bit and I took this as a good sign as I turned and walked back to the house. In my lifetime the creek had never flowed out of its banks and history records no major flood coming down our pleasant little valley. Our home was constructed in 1917 by my great-grandfather, Axel Sherbeck, who ordered the house kit from Sears Roebuck. He picked out a small natural hump in the terrain about 50 yards from the spring fed creek to build the house. Different families and boarding school teachers lived here until 1950, when my parents moved in to raise six kids. I am fortunate enough to live all but nine years of my life on this picturesque little farm.
Clear Creek was rising at an alarming rate though. I set a flag to mark its progression, which I had to move every twenty minutes. It surpassed the previous high water mark in my lifetime which is a couple feet higher than the photo above — and kept rising. By noon I was becoming so concerned that I couldn’t bring myself to eat dinner. Instead, I started carrying valuables up from our finished basement. Teri looked at me with horror in her eyes. “Does this mean you think we’re gonna get flooded?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but it isn’t looking good,” I replied. We carried some easy stuff up and then I headed outside to see what was happening. The water was now up to the yard fence and rising quickly. I went from building to building, picking things off the floor and setting them on any available table. The water was now flowing over the lane west of the house, leaving us on a tiny island of land. I traded my Muck boots for chest waders and pulled the canoe to a grassy knoll behind the house. We might need that for an escape later.
I watched as the water rose in the tractor shed and decided it was time to move the pickup out to dry land. Our west lane now had water rushing over it and I plowed the swift water a few hundred yards toward the road to dry ground. As I walked back toward the house, the sun broke through the ominous clouds, showcasing our farm as we knew it one last time.
Back at the house the water was now running through our yard, flowing perpendicular to the creek. We watched and prayed earnestly that the water would crest before it reached the house. I pleaded more “Please Father’s” in the next hour than I’ve said in my whole life. The water now flowed across the sidewalk.
Teri emerged from the house and announced that we had water coming in the basement. My heart sank. We grabbed five gallon buckets and sponges and bailed water for what seemed like an eternity along the south wall. At first, we poured the sponged up water into the sump pump but soon it wasn’t keeping up, so I carried fifty or so buckets up the stairs and emptied them into the swirling waters off the front porch. As we feverishly worked, Teri kept asking what that popping noise was. I said I didn’t know.
I didn’t realize the water was filling a crawl space behind the block wall and creating a reservoir that was about to blow the entire wall in that we were crouched under.
Then it started raining again. On one of my trips up the stairs with another full bucket, I heard water running in the north end of the basement. I looked in the spare bedroom to see water pouring in like Niagara Falls from a lid leading to another crawl space.
“Let’s get out of here!” I yelled at Teri. “It’s of no use now.”
With adrenaline’s aid, we set Teri’s hope chest on top the deep freeze, jerked the TV off the wall, and dragged the lazy boy recliner out of the now floating carpet. I noticed that water was shooting out of the kitchen sink drains upstairs from the sump pump so I ran down and jerked it’s power cord. I yelled at Teri to throw some clothes in a suitcase before I killed the main power, since it was now getting dark outside.
I was still wearing my chest waders and Teri was wearing shorts as we stepped into the icy dark flood waters off the front porch. We took our suit cases out to the waiting Honda CRV, then went back after the dogs. We piled in and started the car to make our escape. About forty yards out the lane, the car stopped moving forward, it was floating the front wheels from getting a grip on the rocked lane. I told Teri to get behind the wheel and then waded for the tractor, fighting the current and gathering trash cans that were floating by. I started the tractor and as I headed for the car, I remembered that I forgot to shut off the power to the house at the meter pole, so I drove over and flipped the big double throw off. Then I headed back toward the car where I placed the loader bucket against the spare tire on the back and started pushing. The car moved forward, but wanted to drift downstream, off the lane. I wondered how I could keep the car from drifting away, when it finally caught on a slight ridge next to the field and Teri was able to steer it back to the center of the lane. We drove past the pickup that I parked out on dry land earlier and continued west to safe ground. Then I walked back to get the truck and drove it out to the tractor and car, where we switched vehicles and loaded the dogs into the truck and started the last leg of our perilous journey to Broken Bow.
The road north to Highway 70 was washed out, so we headed south toward Ansley. After a few miles a full-fledged blizzard hit and I could hardly see the road. We crept forward on the slushy road, seeing nothing but huge white flakes in our headlights that pierced into the pitch blackness. Between Ansley and Berwyn the truck decided to head uncontrollably toward the ditch. I sawed the steering wheel to no avail until we hit grass on the shoulder and it jerked back in the right direction. A mile farther I noticed tracks through the slush that spiraled into a guard rail, but saw no vehicle. It must have continued on. A couple miles from Broken Bow we drove past a semi truck and trailer that slid into the south ditch. It appeared to be okay so we kept moving to town, and the safe, dry confines of our son’s house.
As we got out of the truck in Mitch’s driveway, a wave of nausea swept over me. I wasn’t sure if it was from not eating that day, too much exertion bucketing water, or if it was the after effects of adrenaline. We entered his welcoming home, sick, disoriented, and thankful to be alive.
