Gibson worked diligently to orchestrate rescue efforts, but by now the full scope of the situation had been revealed: The flooding wasn’t limited to a few canyons; it was spread across 14 counties. In Boulder County, the worst hit, Sheriff Joe Pelle declared a disaster, establishing an incident command center at the Boulder airport and queuing up resources, including two Black Hawk helicopters, several swift-water rescue teams, and dozens of search-and-rescue workers.
Steve and Michelle’s neighbor Russell Brockway had ridden out the night in his tiny outhouse, perched 30 feet up the hill behind his cabin. That morning, a few emergency personnel had arrived to evacuate some of the Salina residents, including the old-timer.
By late Thursday morning, the rain had begun to accelerate, and Gold Run Creek began to surge. What had moments earlier been heavy floodwaters now appeared to be a 20-foot-high wall of water, mud, and debris, sluicing through the canyon.
The surge plowed down the canyon, through the heart of Salina, ripping huge propane tanks from their foundations. The unhitched containers spun and hissed violently, filling the canyon with a pungent white haze. One-hundred-year-old trees snapped like toothpicks.
Farther down the canyon, Steve and Michelle, and Eric, Michelle, and the boys resorted to their last-ditch plan: take refuge in Eric and Michelle’s guesthouse.
The two families piled into the small cottage that evening with another neighbor, Gurpreet Gil, and her cat. Steve, Michelle, Gurpreet, and the dogs and cats settled in the living room. Eric and Michelle climbed into the white wrought iron bed in the back of the cottage. The kids went upstairs to a small loft. The group planned to hike out in the morning to find help, tackling the long, steep trail that led to the ridge.
Steve and Michelle made themselves comfortable under blankets on the floor, their animals next to them. Michelle slept in her hiking boots and her parka, in case of an emergency.
Too nervous to sleep, Gurpreet stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, monitoring the weather.
Around midnight, Steve heard “three loud crashes” and shot up. A massive mudslide had crushed the back wall of the cottage and was gushing into the bedroom where Eric and his wife slept. Steve heard screaming, but without power, during the howling storm, he didn’t know from where.
The mud and water ripped through an interior wall. It picked Steve up and swept him toward the front of the house. As he approached a wall, he jammed his feet on either side of the entrance’s doorframe and braced himself while the mud, water, rocks, and timber stacked up beneath him.
The mudslide then swept Michelle and Gurpreet and the five animals across the living room. The debris piled in the corner of the room before finally slamming out through the front wall of the house.
The animals were gone, buried, he assumed, in what was now four or five feet of mud inside the house. Apparently uninjured, Gurpreet stood in the kitchen. The boys had run halfway down the loft staircase and were shouting for their parents.
Water and mud continued to flow into the house, and Steve realized it had nowhere to go. He kicked at the front door until it burst open, providing some escape for the debris. Despite the chaos, a calm descended on him as he also felt an extraordinary physical strength. Free and seemingly uninjured, he began clawing at the dirt encasing his wife beneath him. She was buried up to her chest. “This is not how I want to die!” Michelle yelled.
“This is not how you’re going to die,” Steve shouted back. But the mud and debris might as well have been wet cement around the huge boulders. He sank his hands into the muck and tried to push away the debris. He had no sense of time. Finally, Steve was able to leverage the stones off his wife, freeing her upper torso.
Then he noticed a dog’s leg sticking out of a pile of mud. He dug at the dirt and unearthed Kayla. Handing the dog over to his wife, Steve resumed digging around Michelle, who scooped mud out of Kayla’s mouth. On impulse, she pressed her mouth against Kayla’s and forced air into the animal’s lungs. Again. Kayla’s eyes flickered and opened. “She’s alive!” Michelle screamed to Steve.
“OK. Help me dig,” Steve said frantically. Michelle put Kayla down and started scraping at the mud that enclosed her legs. When she was free, she looked for Kayla, but the dog had disappeared.
In the bedroom, Eric had been buried up to his neck and entangled in the bedsheets. Muddy water flowed over him. As his wife held up his head to keep him from drowning, she yelled for the others.
Gurpreet had grabbed various kitchen utensils to dig with and passed them to Steve and Michelle. Many of the utensils merely broke in half. Meanwhile, the piles of debris had left just a few feet in which to move. Fearing that the structure could collapse entirely, Michelle Grainger took Colton and Caleb next door to Gurpreet’s house, breaking a window to get in. Gurpreet managed to reach a 911 operator on her cell phone. The dispatcher told her that no one could reach them until daylight.
At the Gold Hill command post, Brett Gibson received word about the mudslide, but there was nothing he could do. “That was one of the worst nights I’ve ever had,” he recalled. “These are my friends. But it would have been suicide to put a rescue team into those conditions.”
Michelle ran up the trail behind her house and reached a neighbor’s home where other Salina residents were taking shelter. Along the way, Kayla appeared, and then, amazingly, Lucy, covered in mud but very much alive. Michelle told her neighbors of the others’ plight. One man followed Michelle back to the cottage to help dig Eric out of the mud. After three hours, the rescuers managed to free him. Finally, at 3 a.m., the ravaged survivors limped to the neighbor’s safe house, where they drank soup, shivering in their soaked clothing. Later, Michelle would learn that she had suffered two broken ribs and a compression fracture in her back, the pain temporarily masked by the adrenaline coursing in her veins.
Between Wednesday night and Thursday night, nine inches of rain fell in and around Salina, twice the previous record. In all, the floods and mudslides resulted in billions of dollars’ worth of damage and claimed eight lives—incredibly, none of them in Salina. On Friday morning, the storm at last abating, rescue efforts began in full force, including those of six helicopters operating continuously for four days.
Later on Friday, shaken and sore, Steve and Michelle hiked back to their house, which had survived the worst. Muck and silt covered their garage, but their preparations had paid off. As they inspected the guesthouse where they’d almost lost their lives the night before, they found Sophie, her leg broken, under a pile of outdoor furniture. Only Izzie was still missing.
The next day, the remaining survivors were to fly from Salina to Boulder. Before leaving, Michelle and Steve made one last attempt to find Izzie. As they wandered into the woods behind the guesthouse, Michelle heard a faint meowing. As she called for Izzie, the meowing got louder. Finally, the cat burst from the woods and into Michelle’s arms.
A few hours later, the couple hiked to a clearing where an Army Black Hawk awaited. Helicopters rarely evacuate animals, but that day the crew made an exception. With Michelle, Steve, the dogs, and the cats on board, the Black Hawk rose into the sky, torn clouds revealing the first peek of blue sky in more than a week. The helicopter flew over the ravaged canyons, carrying the survivors to Boulder, where their long recovery could begin.