Texas Tragedy: When the River Turned Ruthless

I’m in Spain right now, on holiday with my family. Warm nights, children playing, the Mediterranean calm. It should be a time of peace. But even here, thousands of miles away, I can’t escape the horror of what’s happening back home in Texas.

Because Texas is my home.

I may have been born in Germany, but the Hill Country has my heart. I moved to the Austin area in 2011, and from the moment I first stood beneath the live oaks and watched the sun set over the limestone hills, I knew this was where I belonged. I’ve raised my children there, camped along its rivers, and made friends who became family.

Now, I’m on the phone constantly—checking in, gathering updates, listening to voices that tremble. Because over this past Fourth of July weekend, something unimaginable happened.

A stalled rainstorm became a wall of water. The beloved Guadalupe River—one of the most beautiful waterways on earth—turned deadly. And in its wake, it left the kind of grief that doesn’t fade.

A River of Memories

I’ve walked the banks of the Guadalupe more times than I can count. Camped under the twisted arms of old cypress trees. Fished in the cool, clear water with my kids. Laughed with friends around campfires under Hill Country stars.

The Guadalupe isn’t just a river to Texans—it’s memory, beauty, life. And now, sorrow.

Over the holiday weekend, a stalled weather system unleashed torrents of rain into the already saturated terrain of Central Texas. The result was catastrophic. Flash floods swept through the region with terrifying speed.

Eighty-two lives were lost.
Twenty-eight of them children.
Twenty-seven from a single summer camp—Camp Mystic.

Entire families were caught off guard. Communities were destroyed in the dark. And those of us who know and love these rivers are left grappling with the truth: this didn’t have to happen.

The Beauty and the Power of the Hill Country

To understand this tragedy, you have to understand the land itself.

The Texas Hill Country is a place of rugged grace. West of Austin, stretching out across cedar-covered hills and limestone ridges, the region is home to wildflowers, white-tailed deer, and swimming holes so clear you can see the pebbles at the bottom.

The Guadalupe River, in particular, is sacred to many of us. Cold, fast, and impossibly clear, it winds its way past towns like Kerrville, Hunt, and New Braunfels. Shaded by enormous cypress trees, it offers Texans a place to float, fish, cool off, and connect.

But not all my Hill Country memories were made on the Guadalupe.

We also spent years camping with Texan families at Camp Ben McCulloch in Driftwood, nestled along Onion Creek. It’s a place soaked in history and heart. Every June, the Camp Ben Reunion brings families together for eight days of music, washer pitching, swimming, brisket, bingo, and storytelling under the stars.

Camp Ben: A Personal Connection

Camp Ben McCulloch was founded in 1896 by Confederate veterans and their families. But today, its spirit is one of community, not conflict. Generations of Texans return each summer to reconnect with each other and the land.

The site spans forty acres on Onion Creek. It’s shaded by some of the finest oak trees in Texas, and offers a natural swimming pool, rustic stages, and the kind of hand-built charm you can’t replicate. We spent many evenings there—watching kids chase fireflies, drinking Shiner Bock with neighbors, telling stories late into the night.

It is—like the Guadalupe—a place that feels eternal. Until nature reminds you otherwise.

Texas Weather: Wild and Always Has Been

People are quick to blame climate change. But Texans know better. The extremes here aren’t new. They’re just part of the deal.

Texas weather can change three times a day. You wake up in a hoodie, shed layers by lunch, and by dinner you’re dodging hail. I’ve seen temperatures drop 40 degrees in a matter of hours. I’ve gone from shorts to winter coat and back again all in one day.

The reason is geography. Texas has no mountain ranges to buffer it. That means nothing stands between us and the frigid air masses sweeping down from Canada and the Arctic. In winter, they hit hard and fast—blue northers, we call them. You’ll feel the temperature fall through the floor like someone opened the door to a walk-in freezer.

Remember the February 2021 deep freeze? That was no anomaly—it was an extreme version of something Texans have lived with forever. That brutal Arctic blast killed hundreds, collapsed our power grid, and left millions without heat or water for days. It was a stark reminder that this isn’t a gentle land. It demands respect.

And then there’s the rain.

The Hill Country sits on a base of limestone and thin soil—beautiful, but nearly useless when it comes to absorbing sudden downpours. When the skies finally open, the water doesn't soak in—it bounces, slides, and rushes down every draw and gully it can find.

Flash floods here are not rare. They’re legendary. In 1987, just a few counties over, a sudden flood killed 10 teenagers at a summer camp in Kendall County. Entire cabins were swept away. In 2015, torrential rains led to the catastrophic Blanco River flood in Wimberley, killing 13 people and ripping homes from their foundations. That flood was so powerful it picked up a vacation house—with a family inside—and hurled it miles downstream.

These aren’t freak events. They’re what happens when intense rainfall meets shallow soil, steep terrain, and complacency. And when they hit in the middle of the night, on a holiday, with no warning systems in place—the results are as devastating as what we’ve just seen.

We’ve seen them before. We’ll see them again. But we’re supposed to be ready.

A Preventable Disaster

This wasn’t just a weather tragedy. It was a man-made failure—of preparation, of leadership, of action.

In 2016, then-Kerr County Sheriff Rusty Hierholzer begged commissioners to install outdoor flood warning sirens. He’d seen firsthand what happened when rivers rise fast. He spoke of pulling “kids out of trees” with helicopters after past floods. He referenced the 1987 Kendall County disaster, when ten teenagers drowned.

Kerr County discussed it. Debated it. Applied for a $1 million grant. It was denied. And so, they did nothing.

Meanwhile, neighboring counties like Comal and Kendall installed sirens. In Comfort, sirens wailed as floodwaters surged. But in Kerr County, the same river rose—and no one was warned.

Meeting records show repeated acknowledgment of the risk. Summer camps and RV parks weren’t all connected to wireless alert systems. A siren system was “strongly recommended” as a backup. Officials knew the Guadalupe basin was among the highest-risk flood zones in Texas.

But again and again, they chose to delay. “It was probably just... priorities,” one commissioner admitted. “Trying not to raise taxes.”

The result? Sirens were never installed.
Lives were never warned.
And now, children are never coming home.

A Mother’s Last Call

One of the victims was Joyce Catherine Badon, a 21-year-old art student from Savannah. She was staying at a house in Hunt, near the river, with friends. As the water began to rise, she called her friend’s father.

They couldn’t get into the attic. The cars were gone. The current was already too strong.

“They’re gone. The current.”
Then: “Tell my mom and dad I love them.”

That was her last message.

Her mother, Kellye, now leads a 50-person search team. The only thing left of the house is the foundation. Each day, they walk miles of riverbank—refusing to give up.

“We haven’t had guidance,” she said. “No one tells us what to do. So we search.”

Lives Swept Away, Lessons Unlearned

Camp Mystic’s longtime director, Dick Eastland, died trying to save girls by driving them to safety. His vehicle was swept away.

At a press conference, Rep. Chip Roy called it a “once-in-a-century flood.” But that’s not true. These floods happen again and again. The only thing “once-in-a-century” is our unwillingness to act on what we already know.

He’s right about one thing, though. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

A national holiday.
Before dawn.
No visibility. No sirens. No warning.

The flood gauges showed the river in Kerrville rose almost 35 feet between 4 and 4:30 a.m. People were sleeping. Some never woke up.

The Sounds We Didn’t Hear

In 2015, the county relied on a system called CodeRED—which sends alerts via phone. But many residents said they either didn’t get the messages or had long since stopped trusting them. “You get 15 flash flood warnings and start ignoring them,” said George Moore, a local who rushed to wake neighbors as the river rose.

He saw trailers and trees swept away in the dark. He heard cries for help—but could do nothing.

An outdoor siren would have changed everything.

Grief in the Community

Churches have become shelters. Schools are now family reunification centers. Parking lots serve as rescue hubs, supply depots, and mourning grounds.

And through it all, the water flows.

Helicopters still search the banks. Rescuers comb the debris. Friends still hold out hope. Parents walk the river like pilgrims, seeking closure in a place that once gave them joy.

We Can’t Let This Happen Again

The Guadalupe will heal. The banks will green. Camp Mystic will one day welcome children again. So will Driftwood. So will Camp Ben.

But the memory of this weekend will never fade.

This is not a story of freak weather. It’s a story of ignored warnings, abandoned responsibility, and lives lost to bureaucracy.

We can’t undo what’s been done. But we can act.

We must install sirens.
We must fund real warning systems.
We must stop pretending this is rare.

Because it’s not.

A Promise to Remember

I will return to Texas. To the rivers, the trees, the places that have given me so much.

I’ll take my children back to Driftwood, to the cold water of Onion Creek, to Camp Ben and all it represents. And I’ll tell them what happened in Kerrville—not just the sadness, but the truth.

That beauty and danger can live side by side.
That freedom demands responsibility.
And that silence, in the face of known risk, is its own kind of violence.

We owe these families more than thoughts and prayers.
We owe them action.

No more missed warnings. No more unread minutes. No more sirens that were never installed.

The rivers will rage again. That’s Texas. But next time, let us not meet it with shrugs and stalled budgets.

Let us meet it with the urgency of memory—and the dignity of those we lost.