I understand, at least remotely, what these fathers are going through—how they try not to hope for the best for fear that the fall from hope will be even harder.
Several years ago, I was with my son at Buffalo Trail Scout Ranch in the Davis Mountains. Near Balmorhea. One morning, we were set to hike up a trail that ran alongside a dry creek bed. It was several miles to a swimming hole. Before we left, the camp called the folks at the McDonald Observatory—since they were farther up the creek—to check conditions. Despite a little rain the day before, they reported no significant change in the creek bed.
So we set out and reached the swimming hole without incident. After about an hour, the boys got out, dried off, and started dressing to continue the hike. A few scouts, including my son, wanted to return early to make their afternoon merit badge classes. A couple of adults left with them. The rest of us continued in the opposite direction.
Within minutes, we were cut off. A wall of water had surged down the creek bed behind us. The swimming hole the boys had been in twenty minutes earlier was gone—buried under twenty feet of water.
That began the longest six hours of my life.I had no idea what happened to my son. Every terrifying image imaginable raced through my head. I paced the banks like a caged animal, desperate and helpless. At one point, I even considered trying to float downstream—nothing seemed too irrational if it meant finding him.
After a couple of hours, help arrived. Camp staff brought horses and heavy rope. We worked our way back toward camp, crossing the raging stream over and over. The horses would carry ropes across, the riders tie them off, and adults would brace themselves in the current while scouts passed from one adult to the next. We must’ve done it seven or eight times.
Each time a scout crossed, all I could think was: Where is my kid? The riders hadn’t seen them. A few times, kids lost their footing and I grabbed them to keep them from being swept away. Still, my thoughts never left my son.
When we finally reached camp, I saw him—safe, standing by the creek bed, having just made it out before the water rushed in behind him.
There is no describing the sheer relief of hugging your child after believing you may never get to again. i’ve been sitting here for 48 hours hoping that every parent who’s facing the unthinkable just gets to feel that same overwhelming wave of gratitude. It’s heartbreaking.