Dodging the Floods at Colorado Bend State Park

We were safe. We made smart decisions. We climbed to higher ground. And we waited and watched the floodwater.

And we still needed to be rescued.

Here’s how we spent the day at Colorado Bend State Park.

Enjoying the trails at Colorado Bend State Park

James snagged us a coveted day pass for Colorado Bend State Park. Back in 2014, the year that Beth and I were doing trail races together, I’d run “The Bend” out there, one of the Captain Karl’s Trail Series races, and fell in love with the beautiful trails. We’d recently seen a beautiful photo on Instagram of a friend in one of the pools and decided we’d take the day off to wander about.

James is our weather watcher and he’d checked about the earlier rain storms.

“Do you think the park is closed?” he’d asked.

“Nah,” I replied. “They might close a trail. Does the website say anything?” He checked, everything looked good, and only light rain was predicted for the area. The Bend is two hours away from Austin—and you know what they say about Texas weather (it’ll change). We packed our picnic and set out Friday morning for a day full of nature.

Which trail to take first?

We arrived at the park around 9:45 a.m. The helpful ranger provided a map, warned of slippery rocks and gave a bit of trail information. I suggested driving through the park to the river; James wanted to see the campsites, and I remembered how lovely the race start had been down there. So we parked by the river group site and decided to do the nearby trails, picnic, and then wander some more up toward the entrance later in the day. As James and I set off, a family ahead of us wandered toward the Spicewood Springs trail, so we went the other way, up the Spicewood Canyon trail.

The sky was overcast; the weather cooler, with a bit of sprinkling rain. We enjoyed the feeling of being all alone, stopping several times to stand and savor the stillness. We saw deer and followed hog tracks and ruts along the trail. The single-track hiking was a nice change from all the in-town walking we’d been doing. Because we had lots of time, we ambled and paused and peered out at the water below whenever there was an overlook.

By the time we’d reached the trail juncture, where we’d originally planned to continue another mile to to the more mid-park trailhead, distant rolls of thunder had been sounding every so often. So we opted to go back to the car by and enjoy our picnic early.

Caught in a sudden downpour

As we transitioned onto the Spicewood Springs trail, we walked under huge spreading oaks on flat, water-logged ground. The sky darkened significantly and the rain changed from that light sprinkle to a more defined shower. We laughed—after all that recent heat, the cool wetness felt nice. Plus, we were already wet. What’s a little more water?

The trail back was short, only 1.3 miles by the map, and we were looking forward to seeing the swimming holes. Not having been on the trail before, I envisioned it as running alongside the river but quickly realized it crossed back and forth across a creek (hence the name—duh). Splashing through was fun. . . until the heavens opened up, pouring with a wicked vengeance. At one point, the rain was driving so hard that, even though I was wearing a cap, I couldn’t see. Picking our way down slippery rock faces got tricky. I got slower (ever since I broke my ankle at Rocky Raccoon 100 Miler, I’ve been afraid of slipping). The water crossings got surprisingly more difficult—and quickly. By the time we reached the beautiful pool where our friend was photographed, I was shivering with cold. We didn’t stop.

After helping me across a particularly rushing crossing, James had moved ahead. We rounded a bend; he stopped, turned and said, “Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. I think we’ve just got one more crossing. The bad news is. . . .” and he gestured ahead.

A rushing torrent of water thundered across a short fall of rocks and fallen trees into an eddying pool of water before plunging over a drop. The trail blaze was directly across. A rope lay on the ground—AHA! a guideline!—but the untied end floated in the pool. I stared, horrified.

James said, “I think we can make it; we need to go now, because it’s only going to get higher.”

We took a few minutes, testing the slipperiness and trying to gauge the strength of the currents. The pool seemed deep, but the far side—at the trailhead—was where the current was strongest and closest to the drop-off. I said no to crossing. We talked about what to do. . . and in the few minutes we took, the water got exponentially higher.

Caught in the floodwaters

There was now no choice but to get to higher, safer ground. We each picked a spot, quietly watching the water rise. James made a trip back to see if it were possible to retrace our steps (it wasn’t; every crossing would’ve been higher and faster, and we’d only have gotten farther away from help). I stayed put, convinced that at some point, someone would come by the trailhead to see what was happening with the water.

We’d reached this spot between noon and 12:30 p.m. The rain continued. We tucked closer and closer to the leaning live oak a few feet up the canyon wall. As the water closed in, we bushwhacked it up to see if perhaps the top opened up to some other option. Or at least got us some bars of cellphone service. Nope. Dejected, we climbed down. Thunder rolled, lightening flashed, and there was nowhere safe. I shivered in the wet and cold. James pointed out that where we’d parked, with its proximity to the water, could be flooded. We discussed the 2 p.m. reservation slot and wondered if the rangers would have a shift change. I was convinced I needed to stay visible to the trailhead in case anyone came looking. “If they can,” James said. “The roads may be flooded.”

When we talked later, after it was all over, both of us had mentally prepared ourselves for a night by the side of the creek, waiting for the floodwaters to recede. Neither of us, however, said it aloud.

The rain began to let up around 2:30 p.m. and my spirits lifted a little. On the bright side, neither of us was hurt, we had water, and we were in a relatively comfortable spot. James made a couple of expeditions back (no, the water wasn’t any safer to cross, and no, going higher up the canyon wall wasn’t helpful). I stayed parked on a rock, fixated on that trailhead, willing someone to come. James placed rocks at the water’s edge so we could see how fast it was receding.

I took a break from my lookout to scout a place a bit further upstream, between the two falls, that looked like the safest place to try a crossing. James was skeptical; he thought we’d have to dive across and hope the current would push us toward the other bank. If we didn’t get far enough across, that current could sweep us over the rocky fall. Sigh. We agreed that option wasn’t safe but we’d continue to check it as the water receded. By 4 p.m., the water had receded fairly significant. . . but there was a long way to go.

Help comes

We’d waved at a helicopter that passed above us in the cloudy sky. But it was clear nothing was stirring in the park and we were both worried that things had been shut down completely. What if our car had been swept away? All of a sudden, I saw a park ranger approach the trailhead—two park rangers!

I stood up, waved excitedly, and the lead ranger gave me a thumbs up from across all that roiling torrent. Just the sight of them was incredibly reassuring. conferred; we stood and watched; one wandered the creek bank to where we’d scoped our alternate crossing, then came back. They conferred more. Both went to check things out, motioning for us to stay put.

They came back and the first ranger shouted across, “We’re going to get gear. Back in around 30 minutes. Stay there!”

OK; that would be around 4:30 p.m. James and I settled to wait, passing the time by guessing what “gear” would look like. I said rope with life jackets. James spun some other ideas. We waited.

Thirty minutes turned into more than an hour. Now, we’d sat around and waited for about four hours prior, so you’d think it wouldn’t be hard but having actually seen some help and a way out, each second felt like an eternity. James wandered around; I stayed put. I joked they’d come back with 15 people to watch. We laughed. James predicted we’d be leaving the park much later. Neither of us were very interested in having that picnic anymore.

Park rangers stage a rescue

Sometime close to 5:30 p.m., we saw them coming—a group of five park rangers carrying an assortment of gear: ropes, life jackets, hardhats, a ladder. A ladder? James quickly surmised we’d be crossing by crawling across the ladder. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

They began to set up slightly upstream from our previously scoped-out backup crossing, a rocky section with a big boulder, between the two falls. Sure enough, the metal ladder was stretched out from one rock to another boulder. A ranger threw a weighted bag with a rope across; another nimbly crawled across the ladder. We grinned goofily at him. James said, “Do you do this pretty often?”

“Nope,” he replied with his own grin. “You’re our first rescue.”

The ranger, Jon, tied the rope to a tree. The other rangers had secured it on the other side. He used it to cross back again, pick up two life jackets, helmets, and more rope, before returning to us. We each suited up in a life jacket, hardhat, and rope harness with a belay. Ok; so we’d be walking across the ladder. It wasn’t THAT far. Jon had crossed three times, after all.

But I’m not a nimble park ranger and my legs were shaky from standing around all day in the wet and cold. I was tired and scared.

“Who wants to go first?” Jon asked. “I do,” I said. I had to get it over with and not think about it.

He clipped me to the rope, explaining it was there to help me balance. “Just walk toward Aaron*,” he said. Jon had made the ladder crossing look easy. I can do this. [Now, my memory says Aaron; however, photos show Zane. Maybe they changed places.]

Walking across a ladder’s not as easy as it looks.

It was all fine, sliding my feet along the outside of the metal rungs while grasping the upper part of the rope harness clasped to the guideline, until I got above the rushing water. Not far above I might mention; it was right there, churning inches away. The psychology of it all was astounding; suddenly, I was terrified and practically immobile.I looked across at Zane —”You’re doing fine. Just keep coming,” he said. So I went.

On the other side, they unclipped me. Legs shaking, I clambered across the rocks toward Madison, who steadied me and helped remove the belay, which they sent back to James. While he got ready to cross, I talked with Aaron, who was back with the secured ropes. He explained the storm was freakish—no one had expected how the water would rise. The park had received two inches of rain that afternoon. On top of ground already saturated with some six earlier inches, park roads had flooded; they’d been working to clear out campers, systematically going through the grounds, when they discovered our car alone in the lot. James’ day pass registration came in handy; using his information, they’d visited his Instagram account to see what we looked like; then, realizing no one had seen us, they set out to search. On a hunch, Aaron and Jon stopped at the trailhead.

As I watched James cross, I realized how important having that whole rescue crew of rangers was; in the worst case scenario and if things had gone wrong, every hand would’ve been needed.

As we removed our gear, the ranger team untied the system of ropes and packed up their equipment. Then, we all bushwhacked it back to the trail.

“We have a ride for you,” someone said and I started to reply we’d walk back. However, the trail we’d taken earlier that morning was awash in floodwater. The change was shocking. We hopped in the ATV and marveled at the river’s foaming height.

Back at our car, we gave our heartfelt thanks to the group, bumping elbows when what I really wanted to do was wrap each one of them in a big bear hug. How do you thank people who’ve helped you out of a dangerous situation enough? We’ll have to find a way.

Until then, kudos will have to suffice. If you need to be rescued in a Texas state park, I hope you get a team as wonderful as Jon, Aaron, Madison, Debbie, and Zane. They were very, very good. We were very, very lucky.

And we’ll visit Colorado Bend State Park again soon; we’ve already picked out a good campsite. And we’ll make sure there’s been no rain recently.