Flood Stories

2010 - The Year of the Flood

How we had hoped the El Niño we had been experiencing for the last 10 years would vanish into the annals of history. Well it did. In early August the summer's rain came, lashing down in a ferocity rarely seen for many a year.

It went on and on - through September October and November. We cheered. La Niña had come at last. But we must be careful what we wish for.

Emerald, riding on the mining boom, had expanded at a rate only to be envied by the southern states. New homes had mushroomed over the town, filling all vacant blocks and low lying areas. It was only on December the 3rd when 120 mls of rain fell overnight that people began to worry. Would it flood again? After all, the 100 year flood had come last year. What were the odds?

But Mother Nature is a fickle mistress. She'd purged the land with drought, now it was time to give it a good drenching. So the rain kept coming.

Water poured in torrents, down from the ranges and slowly, inevitably, it crept through the town. The press flocked to report the disaster. For a week it made the national news. But alas! Today's headlines become yesterdays old news. The country moved on to the next catastrophe and Emerald was left with its mud-soaked houses and swarms of sandflies.

Margaret Finger (Clermont)

Flood Story

‘"We'll all be rooned" said Hanrahan, "if this rain doesn't stop."' John O'Brien's words are brought to mind with each deafening surge of driving rain on the corrugated-iron roof. The creek will be rising for sure. Why didn't I make the escape three days ago - before the rain? Waiting for Perc to leave so that I could ensure everything was left in order.

A pounding on the door interrupts my thoughts. Perc is standing on the doorstep looking like a drowned rat; hair plastered to his scalp and clothes clinging to his lanky frame.

‘My car's stuck in the creek!' he bellows above the storm.

‘I thought you'd gone to bed,' I'm puzzled. Why had he gone out and who in their right mind would drive through the creek on a night like this?

‘No. I was at a bloody meeting,' he snaps. ‘I need to get the car out of the creek.' Not a patient man at the best of times, he is clearly agitated and this is not the time for questions.

‘What do you want me to do?' Why am I asking? My tiny car couldn't possibly tow his new van and besides, I don't even have a rope.

‘I don't know ... I just need to get the car out of the creek before it gets any higher.' He is beginning to sound like a broken record.

‘What about your mates? Have you tried ringing one of them?'

‘Yes, I've rung John but he's taking too long to get here.' His tone has taken a volatile turn as he paces up and down, directing his frustration at me.

‘Ok. Get in the car ... we'll drive down and see what we can do.' I know it's futile, but Perc has already run the two hundred yards from the creek and action seems the better choice, rather than commiserations. I'm hoping his mates will be there waiting because, beyond driving him back, I'm out of suggestions.

Perc flings the door open while we're still rolling, becoming another silhouette in the gathering crowd. The headlights of a parked vehicle illuminate a bedraggled figure wading thigh-deep through the torrent, rope in hand. Perc's van lists to one side, resting on a sandbank brought down by the wall.

As I stand at the water's edge chatting to fellow onlookers the creek is rising rapidly, swirling around our knees. Unidentified objects slither against bare calves in the darkness.

‘They seem to have things under control,' I remark to no-one in particular. ‘I think I'll go home.'

The rain is still pelting down when Perc's van arrives outside on the end of a rope. Perc appears in the doorway as I'm preparing a cup of tea.

‘Is the car ok?' I enquire.

‘I'm gonna leave it to dry out before I try it,' Perc is calmer now. ‘I won't be going away for Christmas though.'

This is not what I want to hear. When Perc moved his caravan into the back yard three months ago, the agreement was that he would be moving on by the end of November. It is now mid-December and I have postponed my departure accordingly.

‘Ok. Well I'll be leaving as soon as the creek drops ... and I'll be entrusting you with the care of the house ... and I hope your car's ok.'

The creek doesn't drop for two days. I am packed and ready to leave. As I drive away issuing last minute instructions to Perc, his van sits in the same spot, doors akimbo, soaking up a brief spell of sunlight between showers.

The drive to Victoria involves a series of detours to avoid flooded roads and, shortly after my arrival, the rains come and with them, more flooding. Two months pass and large portions of the eastern states go under water, some areas more than once. Throughout these weeks the constant media coverage produces feelings of helplessness and despair. In parts of Victoria, family and friends are affected, and we are bombarded daily with the Queensland situation and, in early February, Cyclone Yasi.

By March, the trip home is uneventful. Roads are passable; the only sign of the recent disaster is fences leaning; debris hanging like old laundry from every wire strand. The lush, green countryside is filled with promise.

After three days on the road, the comfort of driving into the familiar terrain of the Gemfields is like a warm blanket. The creek is still running, diminished to a trickle. Rounding the bend towards home, Perc's van is the first thing I see, exactly where it was when I left. Sadly, it is ‘rooned'. It will never drive through the creek again.

Jan Ward (Anakie)

Water views

The one thing I remember most vividly about the Central Queensland floods was not sad or tragic. It was a television news story about a woman who was camped out in her Queenslander. It was a bright sunny morning, and the woman was sitting on the top of her blue front steps with her two little dogs, a Jack Russell and a scruffy little Maltese cross. If you ignored the flooding all around, she could have been sitting on a jetty on holiday somewhere. The flooding was hard to ignore, however, as the entire area was being evacuated.

A journalist had pulled up in a boat and was interviewing her, and she was angry. It was not, however, the floods that were upsetting her. Instead, she was furious about having to move. She was, she said, completely prepared. She had her gas camping fridge and stove, a small generator for lights, and plenty of tinned food and water. She had a store of long life-milk, batteries for her radio and more than enough dog food. The river, she said, would go down as surely as it had come up, so what was all the fuss about?

It soon became clear that what was causing her the most anxiety was worrying about being robbed if she left her home and, most of all, having to put her dogs into a shelter. The more she spoke to the journalist about not wanting to go, the more upset she got.

In the end, I don't know if she was evacuated, but I like to think that the trio all stayed there, with their music on the radio, the kettle bubbling away on the gas stove, and their new water views.

 Donna Brien