A few clouds. A stray shower or thunderstorm is possible. Low around 65F. Winds WSW at 5 to 10 mph..
A few clouds. A stray shower or thunderstorm is possible. Low around 65F. Winds WSW at 5 to 10 mph.
Jackson High School Football Field/Garage
Flooded home in Lost Creek.
Mobile homes destroyed near Lost Creek
Debris and empty home sites along KY 15 in Breathitt County.
Flipped vehicle along KY 15 in Lost Creek
Destruction at bus garage along KY 15 in Breathitt County
Jackson High School Football Field/Garage
Flooded home in Lost Creek.
Mobile homes destroyed near Lost Creek
Debris and empty home sites along KY 15 in Breathitt County.
Flipped vehicle along KY 15 in Lost Creek
Destruction at bus garage along KY 15 in Breathitt County
On Saturday, Aug. 6, I loaded up my little Corolla and drove the two hours from Frankfort to the nearest section of eastern Kentucky. My car held everyday items donated by amazing Frankfort citizens ... bleach, paper towels, toilet paper, ammonia, mops, brooms, bottled water and an envelope of gas and grocery cards . Nothing remarkable . But as soon as I arrived in Breathitt County and saw just how dire the situation was in the wake of last month’s flash floods, my cargo became more precious than I could imagine.
Heading east on the Mountain Parkway, there were very few signs of the destruction that lay ahead. Out of state license plates as far as I could see, loaded up with camping gear, kayaks and mountain bikes — most likely looking for a fun weekend outdoors at Red River Gorge. The relentless drizzle wouldn’t deter them .
But as I got closer to the exit for Campton, and KY 15 that would lead me to the focus of my journey, two flatbed trucks loaded with pallets of bottled water and what looked like canned foods chugged along in the lane next to mine. They followed me all the way from the parkway to Jackson, some 20-plus miles east.
Even turning left into Jackson, I wasn’t fully aware of what I was about to witness . It was a familiar drive, so nothing really seemed out of the ordinary . That was, until I made a right turn off KY 15 heading downtown, and saw the debris still scattered across the campus of Jackson High School.
The bus garage for the city school district was open and piles of lumber, twisted metal, clumps of wire and mounds of unidentifiable debris were parked where buses normally would be seen. Strapping young men, who I can only assume were members of their rather formidable football team, were carrying stacks of soggy drywall, garbage and dragging tarps loaded down with all matter of detritus toward a huge mobile dumpster near one of the end zones of their field.
I rolled down my window and heard a resounding crash as the cleanup continued . I dropped off a case of water and a handful of gift cards with the adults nearby, three school employees who were taking the time out of their personal recovery efforts to help the only place that meant more than their own homes.
I also realized that this wouldn’t be a trip for clever soundbites or a snappy quote. These were proud people who had their lives quite literally washed away in the night, and instead of worrying about themselves, were far more worried about “their kids” … their students.
One staff member had spent the previous week driving into the surrounding area, looking for students and their families, taking an assessment of who made it, and who might not. Luckily, she had been able to track down most of her students and was going to drop off supplies to many of them later that day . If the rain didn’t make roads more impassable than they already were.
I dropped more goods off at an auto repair shop on KY 30, a little way west of town . They told me to head to Perry County ... they were much worse off because they had more people to serve. But not before expressing effusive thanks for everything that people outside of the area were doing to help.
Continuing out of Jackson southeast toward the Breathitt/Perry county line, it was striking just how much better those on higher ground fared than those whose homes lined Lost Creek. Pieces of aluminum mobile home siding were wrapped around tree trunks like bandages. Concrete pads where homes had stood just days before were bare, littered with debris . Large vehicles were flipped on their roofs and pieces of wooden decks were smashed against the metal guard rails on the opposite side of the two-lane road.
The rainy air still carried the smell of destruction — a musty, unnerving odor that anyone who has ever had a home flooded can easily recognize. Emergency and utility vehicles from around the commonwealth, and even some from neighboring states lined the narrow shoulders on either side of traffic. U-Haul trailers towed by church vans, SUVs were pulled into every service station parking lot and church pavilion.
Just around a bend was the building that served as a bus garage for the Breathitt County school system. A bus had been spun around and its flattened front end was lodged in the façade. Gov. Andy Beshear had mentioned this sight during a press conference at the Capitol . Another bus that had been demolished by the water had since been removed.
Properties along the roadway were marked with an eerily familiar vision — the letter X. In the days and months following Hurricane Katrina in 2005, this mark was used by rescue and recovery crews to mark homes they had “cleared” and were slated for demolition. The spaces between the legs of the X were used to mark if and where bodies had been found; north, south, east or west sections. I was fortunate to see nothing but zeros in the symbols. But as we all know, dozens of people ultimately lost their lives.
A family in a large brick home near two trailers flagged with these marks of destruction were busy tossing what was left of their possessions out onto their front porch. Blankets, clothes, books, furniture. Nothing was spared. One older gentleman was using an old push broom to clear mud out of his driveway. There was a pond in front of their home that hadn’t been there before the flood.
I parked at the end of the drive and got out to ask if they needed help, he said “No, hon, but th ank y ou. We ’ve g ot all our fami ly he re . We ’re o ff to my sister’s after this. Not sure what she has l eft, but we ’ll s ave what we can.” I handed him a few bottles of cleaner and some shop towels and more gift cards. I ran off before he could protest.
Through increasingly blurry eyes, I kept traveling east toward Hazard. The destruction seemed to ease up along my way as the altitude increased. The rain came down harder as well, and I was really worried for the people I had seen working earlier. More rain is the last thing they need .
I drove to Hazard Community and Technical College, where the Federal Emergency Management Agency had set up a field office, to see if they had any information about conditions beyond Perry County. I had planned to drive further on 15 toward Letcher County, where I knew people who had been directly affected .
“What are you driving?” a staffer asked . I told her, and she shook her head. “No. I would not recommend you go any further toward Whitesburg. Not in a car . You’d barely make it in anything that isn’t one of the utility bucket trucks.”
She instead directed me to the JCPenney back toward town. That was where the Perry County donation distribution center was relocated after their old home was needed by chef Jose Andres’ World Central Kitchen, who had mobilized within 48 hours of the flood to feed anyone who needed it.
Pulling up in the back of the store, I witnessed a well-oiled response team at work . All volunteers, as vehicles pulled up, they rolled pallets out, loaded them up, pulled them inside on a pallet jack and another empty one took its’ place. The next vehicle would pull up, and the ballet would begin again.
After everything had been delivered, I headed back home to Frankfort. On the return trip on KY 15 toward Jackson, a whole other path of destruction was quickly discovered across the two-lane road from Lost Creek . More debris was lodged in the guardrails, and most disturbing of all was the sheer volume of belongings hanging from the maple trees.
Floods in Frankfort bring what a friend of my father’s called “diaper trees ” — plastic refuse lodged in the lowest hanging branches along the banks of the Kentucky as it winds through town. But this debris was stuck easily 30 feet up on a 50-foot tree. Leaves had been stripped off by the flood waters, and it looked more like January outside, if not for the stifling humidity.
This trip changed me. Deep down I always knew that you do not stand a chance against flood waters. I am just old enough to remember what happened to former governor Bert T. Combs, whose namesake parkway I traveled on. But to see just how much destruction can happen in such a short amount of time with little to no warning is jarring. The tornadoes in western Kentucky last December caused destruction, yes. But after a tornado, most of the land affected is cleared, with pockets of debris. Floods cause a path of chaos that quite literally hangs around . It doesn’t blow 5, 10 or even 50 miles away. It leaves a trail of muck, mess and tragedy that is hard to comprehend unless you see it firsthand and it stares you in the face.
But it also cemented my respect and admiration for the residents of eastern Kentucky. They have been dealt losing hands on multiple occasions by humanity and nature, and still they persevere. Theirs is a strain of pride, strength and honor that I wish everyone could bear witness to. Some will rebuild, some will not be able to. And, there is a long road ahead for the entire region — recovery will be a slow process, with reconstruction of schools, roads, power infrastructure and homes an e ndless task. But if this trip taught me anything, it is that you might count a Kentuckian down ... but never count them out.
Anna Latek is a State Journal reporter. She can be emailed at anna.latek@state-journal.com
Email notifications are only sent once a day, and only if there are new matching items.
Your comment has been submitted.
There was a problem reporting this.
These well-written words aroused my emotions much more than any of the television video clips have done. Good job Anna.
State-Journal.com’s comments forum is for civil, constructive dialogue about news topics in our community, state, nation and world. We emphasize “civil” at a time when Americans, in the words of the current president, need to “turn down the temperature” of political debates. The State Journal will do its part by more carefully policing this forum. Here are some rules that all commenters must agree to follow: Absolutely no attacks on other commenters, on guest columnists or on authors of letters to the editor. Our print and online opinion pages are sacred marketplaces of ideas where diverse viewpoints are welcome without fear of retribution. You may constructively critique the ideas and opinions of others, but name-calling, stereotyping and similar attacks are strictly prohibited. Leeway will be given for criticism of elected officials and other public figures, but civility is essential. If you focus your criticism on ideas, opinions and viewpoints, you will be less likely to run afoul of our commenting rules. Keep comments focused on the article or commentary in question. Don’t use an article about the Frankfort City Commission, for example, to rant about national politics. Hyperpartisanship that suggests anyone on the other side of an issue or anyone in a particular particular party is evil is not welcome. If you believe that all Democrats are socialists intent on destroying America or that all Republicans are racists, there are lots of places on the internet for you to espouse those views. State-Journal.com is not one. No sophomoric banter. This isn’t a third-grade classroom but rather a place for serious consumers of news to offer their reactions and opinions on news stories and published commentary. No consumer complaints about individual businesses. If you’ve had a bad experience with a private business or organization, contact the Better Business Bureau or the government agency that regulates that business. If you believe the actions of a private business are newsworthy, contact us at news@state-journal.com and we will consider whether news coverage is merited. Absolutely no jokes or comments about a person’s physical appearance. No promotion of commercial goods or services. Our outstanding staff of marketing consultants stands ready to help businesses with effective advertising solutions. If you state facts that have not been previously reported by The State Journal, be sure to include the source of your information. No attacks on State Journal staff members or contributing writers. We welcome questions about, and criticism of, our news stories and commentary but not of the writers who work tirelessly to keep their community informed. Corrections of inaccurate information in news stories should be sent to news@state-journal.com rather than posted in the comments section.
Please log in, or sign up for a new account and purchase a subscription to read or post comments.
Would you like to receive our daily news? Signup today!
Check your email for details.
Invalid password or account does not exist
Submitting this form below will send a message to your email with a link to change your password.
An email message containing instructions on how to reset your password has been sent to the e-mail address listed on your account.
Thank you. Your purchase was successful.
A receipt was sent to your email.