Flash Flood

Last Sunday evening dark clouds filled the sky to the north of us, lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled. I got all excited and convinced my husband to take me and Desert Boy out into the desert to watch nature's show. We spent over half an hour watching the clouds rush by, dumping their contents on the mountain range and desert to the north. We felt a few sprinkles, but we were pretty much right on the edge of the storm and could see blue skies to the south.

Eventually it got dark and we went home. My husband was happy that part of the range where our cattle graze was getting some moisture. We didn't think much more about the storm.

The next day we learned that the storm had packed a punch in an area to the northwest of us. Torrents of rain had fallen in a short time, overwhelming a small creek. Four people live on that small creek in two houses separated by several miles. Both reported that their roads had been washed out by the flood water.

I wanted to find out more so I asked one of the folks who lives by the creek, Blake. He said that he had a foot bridge over a the dry streambed. It had survived all the previous floods, but this one had washed it away and he couldn't find it. The high water mark was two to three feet higher than the bridge. That meant a wall of water about 10 feet high and 20 feet deep came rushing down the normally dry creekbed--probably more than 200 cubic feet per second of water.

The water flowed right over this main road, eating away at the road and surrounding banks. The main part of the flood came between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. that Sunday evening, although Blake noted that the water kept flowing all night long.

This is the other side of the same road, where water flowing over the road eroded sand and dirt that had been covering most of this culvert. The culvert was nowhere near large enough to handle the quick flash of water.

The water came so fast that some animals, like this little fawn, didn't have a chance to get out of the way. My husband says that in the 1992 flood in a nearby creek, 20 cattle died in the gully when they didn't have a chance to get out of the way of the powerful water.

These old cars had previously been put in the stream channel as flood control, to help slow it down and trap sediment. Not exactly high tech flood control. I scoffed when I saw them previously, but they were still in pretty much the same positions as the last time I saw them, earlier in the summer.

The new flood control structures, installed by the ranch this year using modern design methods, didn't fare so well. The three concrete structures, each weighing about 50 tons and designed for 200 cubic feet per second of water, were washed out. This one had gullies on both sides. When I visited it yesterday, some water was running over the main part of the flood control structure, so at least it is working again. The other two aren't so fortunate.

At first this flood control structure didn't look too bad. It has a gully along the right side of it and extra sediment at the bottom. You can see that the stream channel is dry again.

From the top it doesn't look so good--the stream took away the sediment from underneath the structure, so any water that flows this way will just bypass the structure, and erode more of the sand and dirt. There's a lot of backhoe work to be done to make it functional again. 

The third flood control structure may not be salvageable without a lot more than backhoe work. One whole side was washed out, causing the very heavy concrete to tip over sideways. 

Here's another view of it. A pool of water still sits at the base of it, but no water is flowing anymore. The flash flood came and went, leaving just signs of its passing. To the left of the flood control structure you can see the bank that was cut out by the flood waters. The structures were installed to prevent this downcutting, but even they have their limits.

Out of the streambed, I found many more signs of the flood, like cracked and flaking mud. I could see animal tracks in some of the mud.

When the torrents of rain came down, the water started flowing downhill in what hydrologists term "overland flow," when the precipitation rate exceeded the infiltration rate. The water just flowed in a sheet, carrying debris with it, until it got into or formed rivulets that became larger and larger and eventually reached the formerly dry stream channel. The debris pictured here was about two inches high on a relatively flat part of the desert.

Next time I see the clouds open up, I will definitely be thinking more about where that water is going. The flash flood that came down over this little section of desert didn't get any news coverage because so few people live out here and relatively little damage was done. In a city, this amount of water would probably have endangered many people's lives. Flash floods are part of the desert's ecosystem, distributing seeds, reworking the desert terrain, and providing a quick energy input to some plants and animals. We don't get flash floods often, but when they do come they leave reminders of their force for years and even decades.

The Long Ride

We live out in the middle of nowhere. Pro: We don't have to deal with stoplights, freeways, rush hour traffic, or road rage. A traffic jam consists of two cars at the same intersection. Con: It's a freaking long way to get to somewhere. 

Yesterday we needed to go to town. "Town" can mean several different places, but yesterday it meant the town 100 miles away from our house, where we go to the doctor and dentist. The town has about 5,000 people and two grocery stores, so we can get most of what we need. I get excited going to town because there is so much more to see. Several cars parked along the sides of the street. People I don't know. Sewers and curbs. 

Maybe I should get out more. It doesn't take much to get me excited. Actually, what I crave when I go to town is a visit to the thrift store to see what bargains I can find, fresh fruit from the grocery store, and maybe a swim or haircut. The last two don't happen too often, but I can dream.

Desert Boy made the best of the long journey. He didn't have much of a problem getting comfortable. Check out his thighs; he still has cute dimples separating his fat rolls. Don't they make you just want to squeeze him and say something like "gootchy gootchy goo?"   Too bad fat rolls aren't considered cute when you get older!

On the way back, Desert Boy wasn't quite so happy. He didn't grumble too much, but he did make some funny expressions. Fortunately he had a tractor to play with and some books to read. But what held his attention the most was the moon--he's really into the moon and kept staring at it. If he starts howling at it I will get worried. We got home late, happy but tired. Even though it's fun to go to town, it's always nice to get back home.

A Wild Horse

Last week I saw a wild horse (Equus caballus) out on the desert. It was a beautiful horse, and it looked powerful and free, important concepts in the United States. Seeing the horse took me back to another time, before there were barbed wire fences dividing up rangeland, before modern comforts of one-ton diesel crew cab pickups with air conditioning, before urban sprawl. 

Even as I was admiring the horse, I was concerned. One wild horse can find plenty of food and water out in the desert, but there's not just one. These descendants of escaped horses and mules from miners, settlers, and others have been bountiful reproducers, and some herds number over 100. These herds can be exceptionally hard on the delicate desert ecosystem, trampling fragile water sources, overgrazing, and pushing out native wildlife.

The ancestors of this horse came over to North America first via conquistadors in the fifteenth century, and then over time by various other travelers from Europe.  Equus caballus was not the first horse in North America; horses crossed the Bering Land bridge from Asia thousands of years ago, but they eventually died out. Bones from what is believed to be Equus scotti have been found in a nearby cave. 

I should mention that the term "wild horse" is used by some to refer to only horses that aren't descendants of horses that have escaped from domestication; these horses are called "feral horses." Nevertheless, thoughout the West, wild horse is the term most often applied to any horses that aren't owned by someone. 

The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) has a large wild horse and burro program. They periodically round up horses that have exceeded the BLM-determined carrying capacity and then offer these horses for auction or adoption. Usually more horses are available than are wanted.

I'm wondering if this horse is going to find some others to associate with. Usually the horses are found in small bands with a dominant mare, additional mares, foals, and one stallion. Where ever it's going, I wanted to share with you a glimpse of the American desert and a sight that's not seen every day. 

Looking for Fish in the Desert

It always amazes me that fish can live in the desert. These little creatures that require water year round are playing an amazing gamble with their lives choosing to live in such a parched area. Haven't they studied the odds? Gambling isn't a safe way to live! 

It turns out that many desert fish species used to live in a lot of water, about 10,000 years ago when huge lakes covered many areas of the Desert Southwest. We live next to the Bonneville Basin, where a huge lake the size of today's Lake Michigan flooded many of the valley bottoms. Many different fish species lived in the lake, but as it dried up, they became restricted to small bodies of water. One such fish species is the least chub (Iotichthys phlegethontis), a tiny minnow-like fish that rarely gets more than two inches long.

I set off one warm morning to help some fish biologists locate these fish. We went to a huge marsh area that has many small springs providing green spots among the more mundane-colored vegetation.

Here is Brooke, ready to measure the depth of the spring as a standard habitat measurement. I want you to notice that the pole she is holding is seven feet tall. The spring is under the thick green vegetation by her feet.

Where's the pole? Look closely, Brooke is still holding it, she's just holding the top of it. The rest of the pole is in the spring, over six feet deep. One wrong step in this marsh and you're literally in over your head.

Take a few steps in another direction and you find the salt marsh stretching off to the distance, as dry as can be. During the spring, a nearby playa fills with water and shorebirds stop by to snack on invertebrates during the migration. 

The scattered pockets of water provide opportunities for diverse vegetation, including these cattails. At selected springs, we lower minnow traps into the water and leave them for three hours.

At the end of three hours we go and pull the traps. Some springs only have predaceous diving beetles and amphipods (also called scuds or freshwater shrimp). But sometimes we have luck and pull out a trap with fish in it. We determine the species and measure the fish before releasing them back into the spring.

Here are two of our catches, a speckled dace (Rhinichthys osculus) and a least chub. Seeing them makes me realize the amazing adaptations the native species have made to live out in the desert. So far their gamble is paying off.

A Community Barbecue

Every Saturday of Labor Day Weekend, the Volunteer Fire Department holds a barbecue to raise money. It's been held for decades and is a great place to catch up with folks you haven't seen for awhile. My husband and I are members of the Volunteer Fire Department and the barbecue is held at the cookhouse next to our house, so we had great views of the event from start to finish. 

The start actually begins several months in advance with the planning. Food is ordered, a cleanup day is scheduled the weekend before the barbecue, and tasks are divvied up. Finally the big weekend arrives. 

On Friday night the meat (tri-tip roasts) is taken out of the huge walk-in cooler, rinsed, and marinated with yummy barbecue sauce. At first only one person squirted a bottle of barbecue sauce.

That was going slow, so another person started squirting. His squirt looks more sporadic than the first. Neatness didn't count for this part, because we had several coolers to marinate, plus the more barbecue sauce, the better!

One volunteer reaches into the cold meat to make sure that it is all covered. Looks nice and messy, doesn't it!? The meat goes back into the walk-in cooler until the next day.

At mid-morning on Saturday, more preparations take place, like shucking the corn. Coming from the Midwest, this is one of my all-time favorite tasks. As I shuck the corn I just imagine biting into those firm, sweet kernels, releasing a wonderful squirt of corn juice. Mmmm.

Tables and chairs are set up, signs made, lemonade mixed, potatoes wrapped and baked, beans prepared, and much more. Desert Boy kept me occupied for a little while so I didn't get a chance to take photos of all the separate parts, but you get the idea. 

The serving line was set up in the cookhouse. Folks enter through one door and exit through another, making it an efficient process. The smells in the cookhouse are getting better and better as we approach the appointed hour.

At the back door of the cookhouse, the corn station is setup. Two huge pots are filled with water and a flame thrower is used to light the burners. Okay, it's probably not exactly a flame thrower, but it sure looked like one to me.

On the front porch of the cookhouse, this huge cauldron is set up. Can you see the smoke coming off the top? Why in the world do we have a witch's brew for a barbecue? This is the homemade root beer, and the dry ice is making the neat visual effect.

Over on the side the guys are grilling the roasts over a bed of charcoals. The barbecued meat flavor ensures that people are constantly circling around the grill to check out the progress.

Here's some of the circle. In the background of this photo you should see some mountains, but a huge rainstorm came in about half an hour before we were due to start. The wind started blowing, and we could see rain showers on the mountain. We tried to figure out what we would do if it started pouring rain or even hailing. We ended up deciding that the storm would blow through, and sure enough, it did. 

The scary weather did scare some people away, but we still had many come. Here's the line forming at the front of the cookhouse to get the delectable food. 

People whizzed through the serving line thanks to the attentive servers. Ready for the mouth-watering menu? Here it is: tri-tip roast (or hot dogs for the kids), baked potato, corn on the cob, beans, salad, roll, watermelon, cake, root beer, and lemonade. 

I was trying to help sell tickets, so I parked Desert Boy with one of the oldest inhabitants of the valley. He quickly tried to steal her watermelon. 

Some of the kids thought stirring the cauldron was really fun. The aroma of root beer filled the air.

After we had eaten as much as we could hold, it was time for the games. I guess I'm still a kid at heart because I volunteered to organize them. Here we are getting ready for the watermelon seed spitting contest. It's not so easy with seedless watermelons. (Thanks to K. Rountree for this and the next photo.)

 
The water balloon toss was a huge hit despite the little sprinkle of rain we had right before the dinner. In fact the kids clamored to do the water balloon toss again. So we did it again. And again, until we ran out of balloons.

Finally it was time to clean up. Leftover meat was bagged and sold, chairs and tables taken back to the school, garbage taken to the dumpster, and the floor mopped. It was a good, but tiring day. But we saved enough energy to head out to the dance and dance the night away.