SOUTH NEWFANE — It began as a routine Sunday morning.
Hurricane Irene had been weakened to Tropical Storm Irene the night before, so we didn't think anything of the steady rain pattering on our roof as my wife fixed coffee and I fed our infant daughter mashed pears. I was excited to have a gray, rainy day as an excuse to lie around and catch up on pre-season football news.
I drained my second cup of coffee while issuing smart-ass remarks to TV news reporters as they admitted overestimating Irene's impact on New York City.
As the news was starting, I heard thunder. Unlike thunder, though, the ground was shaking with each rumble.
“What the...?” I muttered to myself. I walked out the front door to see what I could see.
What I saw didn't necessarily frighten me, but it did cause me to stare in disbelief for a few moments. The Rock River, a normally placid brook across the road from our house, where we bring our daughter for afternoon dips, was a swiftly moving mass of chocolate-brown water.
I threw on a jacket and walked a few hundred feet up to the Parish Hill Bridge, pulling out my cell phone to record the furious torrent below me. The rumble I'd heard? There were boulders colliding deep below the swirling surface, the river tossing them like pebbles.
* * *
Our neighbors from across the road pulled into the driveway next door. “That's weird,” I thought.
I knocked on the door to see what was up. The river had reached their house, the neighbors across the road said.
It happened in a matter of minutes. They were coming to higher ground.
By this time, entire trees - roots, leaves, and all - were floating by. I was starting to regret making fun of all those weather reporters. Even more, I was regretting my decision to refuse flood insurance from the mortgage company.
“Pack some bags,” I directed my wife, trying to maintain calm in my voice.
“What's going-”
“Just pack clothes and a laptop,” I interrupted.
We evacuated as the Rock River crested Dover Road. We made it safely into Brattleboro.
* * *
For the next three hours, the river raged and flailed and clawed at its banks, sweeping away houses and carrying huge chunks of road down to the Connecticut River. It devoured vehicles, scarred mountainsides and brought utility poles crashing down. It spared some homes and swallowed up others.
As darkness fell, the water receded, and the photos of the damage began to surface online. I slept little that night, wondering how I was going to shelter my family if I no longer had a home.
We returned 24 hours after we left, the sun now shining and the birds chirping. We crossed the bridge where I had stood with my cell phone a day earlier. At the other side, we climbed a ladder to get back to road-level; the bridge's foundation had given way, dropping it 6 feet on one side.
Our house was still standing, but the river had carved away the earth in front of it, taking the road with it.
Miraculously, the section of carved earth stopped about 20 feet from our front door.
A neighbor just down the road was not so lucky. The Rock River was now gently flowing where his house once stood. The bottom floor of his house disintegrated, but the top floor was eerily intact, 300 yards away.
* * *
The story was the same all over Vermont. Hundred-yard long, 15-foot deep chasms had bitten into roadways from Waterbury to Bennington, Brattleboro to Rutland.
Some small towns found themselves completely cut off from the rest of the world when the sun rose Monday morning, Aug. 29.
Power and phone lines were severed; cell signals were mostly nonexistent even before the storm. Vehicles could not leave or enter. The only way to check on neighbors in some remote locations was to hike on foot, bushwhacking through underbrush to get around washed-out sections of road.
I spent the afternoon walking around with a camera, feeling like a protagonist in a Cormac McCarthy novel. I was documenting the destruction for a Facebook page I'd already planned to create to help the community stay informed and updated in the chaotic days that surely lay ahead.
I expected to find crying children and men with their heads in their hands, to come upon distraught homeowners dumbfounded and heartbroken.
But I found nothing like that.
Instead of forlorn individuals crying on their doorstep, I found next-door neighbors hugging one another and laughing. There were no weeping children, but there were friendly folks helping one another pump out flooded basements.
That evening, my next-door neighbor invited everyone in the neighborhood to a “clean out your freezer” barbecue, where smiles outnumbered frowns 1,000 to 1. State Senator Peter Galbraith even showed up, assuring us that Vermont would rebound.
* * *
One week after the great flood of 2011, my wife and I were amazed to have electricity restored to our home, even though the utility pole across from our house was lying on its side, partially submerged in water and surrounded by chunks of asphalt. Roads were quickly being rebuilt and cut-off towns were already reconnected to the road system.
I rode my bike out to a section of town still inaccessible by vehicle to check in on residents and document the rebuilding process. I came across a utility worker leaning against his bucket truck as he paused for lunch.
I knew I couldn't hug this burly, 6-foot-plus man. So I shook his hand and, looking straight into his eyes, said “Thank you.”
We chatted for a few minutes, saying we'd never seen anything like this and probably never will again.
“So where are you from?” I inquired. Utility crews from all over the country came to Vermont to help restore power and communication, so I expected him to hail from some far-off state.
“Right up the road there,” he pointed.
“Oh, we're neighbors,” I said. “I'm Luke.”
“I'm John. Good to meet ya.”