Friday was the worst day. I was working with records, organizing photos, dental charts and other information that kept coming in, and providing files of information to the medical teams who were working on identifying remains. By the end of that day, I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. I went home and talked non-stop to anyone who would listen until I finally fell asleep.
In November 1977, I had work to do in Estes Park and I ventured up the highway. The canyon felt haunted. Buildings were deserted, very few other cars were on the road, no fishermen cast their lines into the water. I hurried on up the mountainside without stopping.
My work took me up and down the canyon fairly often and I saw that the canyon was recovering and humans were gradually returning. Finally, in the third summer after the flood, I stopped at one of the parking areas and sat down along the river bank. The sun was warm, bringing out the smell of the Ponderosa pines, water bubbled along over the rocks. It looked shallow enough to wade across. A dipper flew up and down along the bank, a good sign that the aquatic life that sustained it had returned. After a while, I reached down, put my hands into the cold water and made my peace with the river.
Here is a link to the multi-media presentation about the flood and its aftermath, presented by the Fort Collins Coloradoan newspaper.
