Deluge
Written on 6/22/24
I saw the flood warnings and decided to go birding anyway. Not only did I go birding, I went up Nine Mile Canyon, which is prone to flash floods. There are numerous dips in the road, paved with reinforced concrete, that cut through wide desert washes. If it started to rain while I was up there, I’d be marooned. I’d have to find a high spot and wait out the storm. I took around three gallons of water with me, but no food. I was after an Indigo Bunting, a bird I hadn’t seen in over ten years. The skies were clear when I left home, which gave me a false sense of security.
Indigo Bunting are rather uncommon in the state of Utah. They breed here in minuscule numbers, and it’s possible to go years without seeing them, even if you’re looking in the right habitat. Last week, I saw a report of one in the farthest northeast reaches of Carbon County, and since the sighting was by a credible friend, I had to go after it. Friday was my only day to do so. I pulled up the location in my maps app, and saw that it was a two hour drive from my house.
I drove as quickly as I could, making no stops for birding along the way. I took the flood zone dips in the road slowly, thinking about the dangerous amounts of water that could course through during a heavy storm. I realized how careless I was being, but pressed on after a single species of bird. I made it to the reported location in just over an hour and a half, partly because I was speeding, and partly because Google Maps was inaccurate.
I pulled up to where my friend had started his checklist, and it was the perfect riparian habitat for an Indigo Bunting. Despite being there later in the day, the birds were still singing. I listened for a song that sounded just a little different than the much more common Lazuli Buntings. I heard the bird in a distant cottonwood. I started to pish, and it flew from the tree to a lower tamarisk. I was able to see its deep indigo body, and darker black wings, for just a moment, before it flew further upstream.
After it flew off, I realized that I had attracted a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, and I began to photograph it. While doing so, I heard the clucking of Chukar on the hillside behind me. I turned around, and saw two fly up and over a rock ledge. Amazingly, I hadn’t yet seen Chukar this year. I looked above the hillside, and saw cumulonimbus clouds piling up and crashing into each other along the horizon, even though the sky above me was still a brilliant turquoise. I needed to get away from a desert stream, and leave Nine Mile Canyon before I got stranded there.
Flash floods come quickly to the desert. A clear sky is meaningless. Roils of muddy water rip through low lying areas, carving scars in the earth. The ferocity of rushing water can overtake one without them having the merest clue that it was coming.
I drove home more quickly than I drove out there, taking the curves at speeds that unsettled my stomach, hoping to not run across deer foraging alongside the roadside, filling up before the storm. Huge columns of fleecy clouds were boiling upwards in the sky.
As I turned on to Highway 6 towards home, I saw the big part of the storm. A thick layer of steel-gray clouds was anchored over Price, and curtains of rain obscured the Wasatch Mountains to the west of town. I made it out just in time. The rain held until I got home. When I walked in the door, a torrent began to fall from the sky, as if it had been waiting for me to get safely inside.
I set down my binoculars and camera. I could hear the rain violently pelting off the awning over the back porch. I opened the back door, and the clamor was so intense that it was hurting my ears. I had to step back into the kitchen while I watched the rain poor off the house. The precipitation quickly turned to hail, which sounded like a string of firecrackers on the metal roof. I had to shut the door.
My house is situated just south of a juniper-topped plateau. Just below the raised earth is a sloped section of land where construction on a new housing development began two years ago. The developers went bankrupt shortly after they cleared all the vegetation. Roots of plants hold soil in place, but nothing has grown back, so the water flashes down our street every time it rains. After a few minutes of non-stop downpour, I looked out the front door, and saw that my street had become a river.
The flood looked like boiling chocolate milk, and it flashed down the street. Sediment clogged storm drains. Pools developed over flat land, and where the water was still moving, it rushed up onto the sidewalks, creating a braided stream. It was an impressive sight for a desert that only receives nine inches of annual precipitation.
This was one of the most awe inspiring storms that I have seen throughout a lifetime in the desert. I shuddered when I thought about the fact that I could have been stranded up nine mile canyon, stuck on high ground between two raging arroyos.
According to weather.gov, flash floods kill an average of 127 people per year. Before I went out birding, I saw the weather alert, and chose to ignore it. I was after a great bird. After watching the power of the storm, I realize how foolish it was to drive a Ford Fiesta into an area that is prone to violent flooding. My life could have been in danger had I continued birding half an hour longer.
The desert can be treacherous, and it is unforgiving. Storms rarely give one time to leisurely pack up and go home. A blue sky does not signify safety, and flash flood warnings should always be heeded. I’m glad I got the opportunity to see a breathtaking Indigo Bunting, even if only for a moment. I’m even more glad that I got to watch this storm rage from the comfort of my front porch.
Some awesome footage of this flash flood event (not taken by me) can be found here. This video was taken around four hours south of me, but the entire eastern portion of Utah, from Price to Monument Valley, received incredible amounts of rain in a very short period of time.
Like boiling chocolate milk- what a great description of the flood, and what a tense trip, captured well in this writing.
So glad you were safe.