Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, March 30, 1993 TAG: 9303300056
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: Kevin Kittredge
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Once upon another time I lived in a high rise apartment, with a view of the Mississippi River.
They were both pretty places - and I never saw the water as a threat. It was soothing. Easy on the eyes and mind. Forgettable as Muzak.
Then I moved to a house beside the Little River - the picturesquely bubbly stream that winds through Floyd and Pulaski counties before emptying into Claytor Lake.
That was in the winter. One night in early spring, after a snowfall had melted, I awoke to a sound like a jetliner screaming toward takeoff.
My charming river?
With an old flashlight in hand, the beam blinking on and off, I left my dry bed and went into the yard, wondering where the water was.
Answer: a lot closer than it used to be.
The river was twice as wide as normal, and covered with whitecaps. The water was moving faster than I'd ever seen water move. The sound was tremendous. I could have yelled and not heard my own voice.
It didn't come any higher that night, or ever while I lived there. But it taught me something about water.
Last fall, I moved to a house beside another peaceful stream, this one much smaller than the Little River.
On most days, the water is a trickle over rocks. You can't even hear it from the house, about 15 yards away.
Last week, it turned ugly, too.
A brief heavy rainfall atop the melting of the mother of all snowstorms sent the water raging. I heard it from the house about 10 p.m. - a sound like a jet parked in my yard, revving its engines.
This time, I knew what it meant.
I dressed and went outside and stared.
The stream had been no more than 3 feet wide. Now in places it was 20. I had never realized how steep the stream bed was, winding down the hillside past my house. Now the water seemed to leap into the air upstream, higher than my head. It crashed toward me in loops and waterfalls and foam.
Water had begun to spill down the roadway, too. And large pools of water, had begun to form in my yard.
Much more rain, I figured, and yard/stream/roadway would connect. My house would be an island in a stream.
Driving to higher ground was already impossible. I had checked earlier. The road leading out of my valley was already flooded, about a half mile away. Should the water keep rising, I could only trudge to higher ground, and wait as everything I owned got soaked.
It didn't happen. The rain stopped, the water receded. By the next morning, the water had receded from my road and yard - and I drove to work.
Many people weren't so lucky.
In parts of Giles, Pulaski and Montgomery counties, the water last Tuesday night swamped homes and trailers and forced people from their homes. The New River left its banks. For a little while, nature had us on the run.
Water in the mountains is beautiful. It makes waterfalls. It curves and winds down rocky slopes. It babbles and charms.
But it also threatens and bullies, and can ruin your sleep.
I know.
Kevin Kittredge is the New River Valley bureau's general-assignment reporter.
by CNB