Around here, we spend a good part of the year wishing for rain.
There have also been times when we wished, quite sincerely, that it would please stop.
With El Niño strengthening in the Pacific and predictions pointing toward a potentially very strong event this fall and winter, I’ve been thinking a lot about rain lately. Not because El Niño guarantees that Idyllwild will have a wild, wet winter. It doesn’t.
But living on this mountain for more than 25 years has taught me that it’s worth paying attention.
And I learned one particular lesson about water the hard way.
For years, I didn’t really think of flash flooding as something I needed to worry much about. I live on top of a mountain. Water goes downhill, right?
Turns out that was a pretty ridiculous way to look at it.
Because yes, the water does go downhill.
The problem is what happens when you happen to be in its way.
The storms I remember
Most longtime residents remember the Valentine’s Day storm of 2019. The rain was extraordinary. Sections of both Highway 74 and Highway 243 were badly damaged, portions of roadway disappeared, and for a while our little mountain community felt remarkably cut off from the rest of the world.
It was one of those events that reminds you how vulnerable mountain roads can be.
But strangely, some of the most remarkable mud and debris I have ever seen on our local residential streets came during a much more localized flash flood last year.
Suddenly, little side streets were covered in mud, rocks and debris that had washed down from private lots and hillsides. Places where I had never really thought about runoff were moving enormous amounts of water.
My own property flooded.
Some of it was undoubtedly just the sheer volume of rain, although changes to neighboring landscaping had also altered the way water reached my property.
We make changes to our properties during the dry months. We landscape. We grade. We create paths, berms, retaining areas and planting beds. We extend something here or redirect something there. Our neighbors do the same.
When the ground is dry and hard and it hasn’t rained substantially in months, it can be almost impossible to know exactly what those changes will mean when several inches of water suddenly arrive.
Then the rain comes. And the water makes its own decisions.
The day I stopped underestimating flash floods
That same flash flood taught me something else.
I was driving home on Highway 243 during the storm. As I approached an area where the mountain rises sharply on the high side of the highway, a wall of muddy water suddenly came down across the road and overtook my truck.
I could see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Stopping felt dangerous because I had no idea what might be coming behind me. Continuing felt equally dangerous because I couldn’t see whether there was another vehicle stopped ahead.
For a moment, my actual thought was:
“Seriously? This is how I’m going to die?”
Obviously, I made it through.
But I will never look at a flash flood warning quite the same way again.
So here is perhaps the simplest advice in this entire Field Note:
When that flash flood warning starts blasting from your phone, pay attention to it.
Don’t decide you can probably make it home before things get bad.
Don’t assume that because you are on a mountain, flooding isn’t a concern.
And unless you absolutely have to be somewhere, don’t drive.
Wait it out.
A flash flood doesn’t necessarily look like a slowly rising river. On a mountain, water, mud, rocks and debris can come down a slope and across a road frighteningly fast.
Preparing our properties
I’ve looked at my own property very differently since then.
I’ve had gutters repaired, replaced and extended. I’ve dug trenches where I know water tends to travel. I keep sandbags. I look at drainage differently than I used to.
But I also understand now that preparation has limits.
You can make an educated guess about where water will travel. You can look for old drainage patterns. You can remember where water pooled during previous storms. You can clean gutters and culverts, direct downspouts away from structures, check roofs and look carefully at slopes.
What you cannot always do is predict exactly what an extraordinary amount of rain will do.
That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t prepare.
It means we should.
Before winter, this is a good time to walk around your property with rain in mind.
Look uphill as well as downhill.
Where would water come from?
Where does it normally leave?
Has anything changed since last winter?
Have you or a neighbor altered landscaping or drainage?
Are gutters actually carrying water away from the house, or simply dumping it somewhere else where it can become another problem?
Are there areas where leaves, pine needles, dirt or debris could block drainage?
Do you have a place where sandbags might help if you suddenly need them?
And if you live below a steep slope, pay particular attention.
Sometimes the roads are the bigger problem
Preparing the house is only part of mountain living.
During serious storms, getting on or off the mountain can become the bigger issue.
We have seen rockfall, mud, downed trees, flooded sections of roadway and significant damage to our highways. A perfectly safe house doesn’t help much if you are somewhere else and can’t safely get home.
That is why I now pay much closer attention when significant rain is forecast.
Gas in the car. Food at home. Flashlights and batteries ready. Phones charged. Basic supplies in place. Nothing dramatic.
Just the same kind of quiet preparation most of us already do when snow is coming or fire conditions become concerning.
Water deserves a little respect
I love the rain.
After months of heat and dry ground, few things smell better than the first real rain moving through the pines.
Our forests need it. Our wells need it. Our entire mountain needs water.
But I've developed considerably more respect for what water can do when too much of it arrives too quickly.
Maybe that is one of the recurring lessons of living in Idyllwild.
We prepare for fire.
We prepare for snow.
We prepare for wind and falling trees and power outages.
And sometimes we prepare for water.
Not because every forecast becomes a disaster. Most don’t.
But because the mountain has a way of occasionally reminding us that nature gets the final vote.
And still, after all the storms, road closures, power outages and other inconveniences this mountain can throw at me, there is nowhere else I would rather call home.
