David Carpenter knows every piece of the Guadalupe River; his family’s roots in the Hill Country town of Ingram predate Texas. He grew up learning the currents, finding the holes for catfish, jumping from rope swings with his friends and, later, his children. But his time at the river is different now.
Since July 4, Carpenter has greeted each dawn by reading his daily devotional and praying. Then he makes the twelve-mile drive and approaches the banks of the river alone. With a four-foot saw in hand, the sawmill owner hacks his way through dense cypress trees and hundred-foot tall debris piles in the most dangerous areas of flood destruction. He spent the first days on the river shouting into heaps of brush, tears falling freely, calling out the names of missing friends and campers. He never heard any responses. One evening, he had to be pulled off the river because he was racked with full-body cramps from lack of food and water. But he refuses to ease up.
In the hours after flooding swept the county, Carpenter saw the parents of missing Mystic campers waiting and hoping for answers at the Ingram elementary school, a reunification center for victims and families. “It broke me,” he told me. “I prayed with them. They cried. They told me their daughters’ names. So what do I have? I’ve got a chain saw.”
Nearly five hundred people have since worked alongside him on the South Fork of the Guadalupe. On July 7, his 24-year-old son, Sam, joined him and teams of state troopers and retired Navy SEALs to sift through stuffed animals and tiny shoes. That day, the crew found three bodies. One of them was Carpenter’s close 26-year-old friend, whose family he sits next to every Sunday at church.
Later that evening, I spoke with Carpenter beneath an oak tree in his backyard. His driveway was filled with the vehicles of teens from Kerrville, Ingram, and Hunt who gather at his house for youth-group meetings. Many of them were grieving friends and family members.
These towns share a culture, a heartbeat bound by the river. The community now also shares collective grief. As of July 10, more than 120 people have been confirmed dead and at least 161 are still missing. Grand cypress trees that once stood nearly one hundred feet tall, creating shaded canopies overhead, now lie mangled, snapped like toothpicks and covered with shards of clothing, homes, and crushed cars. Moss-covered stones that once lay peacefully on the bottom of the teal river are whitewashed and piled up amid mounds of silt. Thousands of dead trout and bass lie strewn out nearly five hundred feet from the river.
I grew up in Boerne, a small town just thirty minutes southeast of Kerrville, where the Guadalupe is a short twenty-minute drive east of Main Street. As a child, I waded in the shallow, bright green water of the river with my sister, my hands reaching for the smooth stones below. I still visit my grandparents in Center Point, a small community outside Kerrville. And I’m still friends with fellow campers I met through summers at Laity Lodge Youth Camp, about forty minutes past Camp Mystic. In fact, a camp connection was what led me to the passenger seat of Sara Kendrick’s bright red Jeep on the afternoon of July 7. Some locals endearingly refer to Sara as the unofficial mayor of Hunt, an unincorporated community with a population of not much more than a thousand. Sara and her husband, Sean, live on a ranch at the headwaters of the North Fork of the Guadalupe. Normally more than a hundred feet away, the river reached a foot high at their house, with fish flopping against the side of their home. They were stranded, without electricity, but they were safe.
Sara drove me from Kerrville along Texas Highway 39 to Hunt, weaving down familiar stretches of road I’ve driven so many times. Her phone rang incessantly: a friend needing prayer; another, struggling with the loss, asking for her to pick up whiskey and coke from the liquor store; a neighbor asking her to field donations. She’s also fielded lots of calls from national news reporters, who’ve asked how she’s doing. “We’re squeegeeing mud off of one room off of one house, and I have fifty friends that I could be helping right now,” she told me. “I feel so overwhelmed.” Sean, an elder at Cross Kingdom Church, in Kerrville, received a text that day from a friend asking for prayer for PTSD—a search-and-rescue crew had just found seven bodies in the debris near the HTR TX RV park, in Ingram.
“Lord Jesus, please bring peace. Please bless this river,” Sara whispered as we drove. We passed the flooded remains of the Hunt Store, the hub of the small community and a favorite stop among camp families in the summer. The Kendricks are close friends with the owner, Haley Lehrmann, and they stop by to say hello almost every day. “There’s guys that every morning, they’re there having coffee. And then every afternoon, there’s a table that the locals sit at and have a beer and just talk about the day—every single day,” Sara tells me. “And that, you know, may sound small to someone else, but this is our community’s life. Those people, I don’t even know if they’re alive right now.”
Sean and Sara, who have lived in Hunt for twenty years, met at Vista Camps, a 104-year-old duo of boys and girls summer camps along the Guadalupe where Sara now works full-time. A pink beaded necklace with silver charms hangs from her rearview mirror, the charms treasured tokens from her time as a camper there. Vista Camps, which is split into Rio Vista and Sierra Vista, sits on the heavily battered South Fork of the river between Hunt and Ingram, not far from other cherished spots such as La Junta, Mystic, Heart O’ the Hills, Honey Creek, and Waldemar.
The Kendricks spent the day cleaning the flooded camp directors’ home on the Vista Camps property: sifting through ruined heirlooms and trying to salvage the codirector’s wedding dress. The son of the directors, Justin Hawkins, was almost swept away saving Vista’s “war canoes,” which have held generations of campers as they competed in the camp tradition of racing down the river. “We were supposed to drop our kids there for four weeks today. And instead, my nine-year-old is squeegeeing mud out of the owner’s house,” Sara said.
Of the ten women in Sara’s Bible study, two had children at Camp Mystic. One of them was an eight-year-old student at Hunt Elementary who was a friend of the Kendricks’ younger daughter. Renee Smajstrla, who Sara’s daughter Mercy fondly called Naynay, was a camper in the Bubble Inn cabin when she was swept away. Her body was recovered the night of July 4. In a Fox News interview, Mercy talked about scrolling through Sara’s phone for videos and pictures with Smajstrla, crying over the loss of her friend. (The video has more than 92,000 views on Instagram.) When Renee’s mother, Catherine, saw the video, she texted Sara that it brought her comfort.
Sara told me that across Kerr County, churches and elementary schools are overflowing with donations. Texans from across the state drove in to set up tents on street corners to grill burgers and wrap burritos for first responders. Homes and businesses that went untouched by the flood are empty because people are out helping neighbors and strangers alike. “So many people—the plumbing companies, the contractors . . . everybody’s dropping everything, regardless of finances,” Sean said.
One of those people is his friend David Carpenter, who finished the day back at his home full of hurting teenagers, preparing for another dawn among the piles of debris. He trusts that the Guadalupe will once again be a place of joy for him and his community. “People will be forced to deal with that river again, like we’re dealing with our grief,” he told me. “And people will play. And they will laugh again in that river. And that river will be redeemed.”