The Rains Came Down and the Floods Came Up

I hear a low-flying helicopter again this morning, a sure sign that they're still monitoring the Cedar River. This is day three of the flooding.

January 8, 9AM. I walk over to the bridges and bike trail to see just how high the Cedar River is. I am not surprised to find water on the lowest part of the trail, under the two bridges. Typically it's maybe five feet above the river level and I've seen the water nearly on it before. I am surprised to see a new river gushing out from around the bend, flowing steadily to join the Cedar River. Seattle and the nearby mountain areas had one of the whitest Christmases on record. Follow that with a tropical storm with about 12" of rain and temperatures in the 50s and nearly every river in western Washington--maybe every river, actually--swells to near record highs.


The mighty Cedar River. Water normally flows parallel to this part of the trail, not around and through it.

11AM. I go out with the kids later to see if the levels had changed at all, and to check on the houses across the way. We walk on a little rock trail close to the hill to see if any homes have flooded. Fortunately, the Cedar River is only creeping into people's back yards. It is within maybe twenty feet of one little cottage, and hopefully it will keep that distance. The river is supposed to crest this afternoon.

We walk to the gate of our apartments. It's located on a hill and gives a better vantage point of the golf course across the way. Sure enough, there is a new little lake on the green.

1PM. The kids and I head onto the trail once more. This time, we are not alone. A few people lined the bridge, watching the bulging, muddy river roar down our little valley. Jane recognizes the curve of the trail. We can't get across that," she says. "We need a boat."

We walk down the trail toward the entrance of the golf course, and start up a conversation with an old timer. He talks with a light air, a near optimism that comes from living through floods like this for probably thirty or forty years. He lives in the neighborhood we've been crossing our fingers for across the way.

"I probably live in the lowest house in the neighborhood," he says. "But it would have to go through all of them before it gets to me." He relates to me what this area used to look like. A "crick" used to run down the hill by the golf course. "We used to get flooding from that," he says. But they have since rerouted that little waterway.

"This used to be a railroad bridge," he points to the intersection we're approaching, "and water would come under the trussels. We used to come out here and watch people try to drive through the water." He laughs. "They'd get stuck and we'd say, 'well, what did you expect?'"

I'm delighted to see that the new lake on the golf course has only closed the back nine. The restaurant and pro shop both display lit open signs. This does seem typical of many of the golfers we see around here. I kind of wonder of the back nine might even be open after all. That pile of water coming through the course? It's just a new water hazard.

Walking back to our apartments, we strike up another conversation with two women. They are also from the neighborhood the Cedar River might invade.


The Cedar River at Wells Avenue, one of the many bridges in downtown Renton. Courtesy of Brad.

"We know the Riviera Apartments flooded, the ones closest to the river? They always flood," says the one with short, blondish hair. "And I just feel so bad for people." We stand on the bridge and watch as the river carries a huge chained log. "Oh my gosh," she says. "What if that log gets caught underneath the library, or by the community center?" The Renton Library stands on a bridge over the Cedar River, and nearby there are several bridges that could trap the victim log.

"We've been evacuated before," She says. "Once they told us to go to the Carco Theater. Another time they told us to go uphill to any of the libraries." I ask her if they've been told to evacuate this time and she says no. We part, wishing each other well.


The Cedar River meets Lake Washington. Courtesy of Brad.

I'm not sure what we will find when we venture out today. I'm guessing the water will still be high, but probably not as high as yesterday. We might see another tire or trash can flowing with the angry waters, or maybe more wooden debris. Chances are we will be thankful once again that we are not in any immediate danger, and we still have power, and the roads around us are open. And I'm very likely to try to make some philosophical conclusion about how crazy it is that we have so much water, too much, when places like Boulder, Colorado are burning up. But that might be one for the ages.