8/2/93
By: Mary Lou Montgomery
Courier-Post News Editor

It recently took a trip across the great state of Missouri, from the banks of the Mississippi River to the shores of the Missouri River. What was left instilled in me was the magnitude of the record flooding that has enveloped the Midwest.

It wasn't a trip exactly, but rather an adventure. Until leaving my hill-top home in Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks of the flooding Mississippi, and the security afforded by the town's brand new $8 million flood levee, I hadn't been able to witness with my own eyes the devastation that the heavy summer rains have had on the Midwest.

The picture is bleak.

On July 23, my brother, Robert Spaun, and I traveled the 180 miles across the state on U.S. 36 from Hannibal to St. Joseph, then across the Missouri River to my father's hometown, Atchison, Kan. There were flooded fields along the way, but the highway was open and our trip was relatively uneventful.

Our mission in Atchison was to gather data for a family book. Upon our arrival in the small river town, we checked with the tourist information center for directions, then we confirmed our motel reservations.

The talk of the town, we soon discovered, was the flood. "How did you get here?" was the first question people asked when they saw our Missouri license plates. "We crossed the Missouri River at St. Joe," we responded over and over. "I heard that route was closed," they replied. On Saturday morning, we discovered they were right. We had passed by the low-lying areas on the western bank of the Missouri River just before flood waters covered the roadway.

Our exit from the town was closed, but we were where we needed to be, so we went about our business as planned. We checked family records at the county courthouse, then looked up data at the genealogy section of the town's library. Then first thing Saturday morning we packed the car and headed south to Topeka. After a day of talking, eating and photo-collecting with cousins, we returned, dead tired, to Atchison. Storms skirted the roads we traveled, but the only downpours we experienced took place after we were safely tucked away in our motel rooms.

Sunday morning, we heard the news. The heavy rains from the night before had pushed the Missouri River to record levels, and St. Joseph, 20 miles to the north, was without water. The river was still rising, and Atchison officials were now worried about their water supply.

Everywhere we went, we heard more stories and more rumors. The motel atop the hill, where we wanted to stay, was filled with flood evacuees. A family of five and their pet bird were huddled in the room next to mine in the motel at the bottom of the hill.

The bridges across the Missouri River were reportedly closed at St. Joseph, Atchison and Leavenworth. But were the stories true? There is no television station in Atchison, and the only station in St. Joe is PBS, so we had to rely on Kansas City newscasters for flood information. We never did find an accurate source for up-to-the-minute local news. As a news person, that was hard to deal with.

Sunday evening, we ventured out into this town that our father once called home to assess the flood damage. From atop the town's highest hill, we could see the flooded Missouri ‹ now four miles wide. We walked along the riverfront with the town's current residents, and were all amazed at the river's swift current. We stood by helplessly as car after car came across the bridge, loaded with belongings salvaged from homes located in the flooded Missouri River Valley.

We then ventured to a park just outside of town. From atop a hill, we had a splendid view of a lake that was created during the 1950s as part of the town's elaborate flood control program. (There are 25 such lakes in the Atchison area, and they seem to be doing their job of protecting the town from flash flooding.)

In the distance we could see the cemetery where our grandparents and great-grandparents are buried. We sat on a bench and watched the sun go down over this sleepy little river town.

Just before calling an end to the evening, we stopped at a crowded market across from our motel. It was 9:30 p.m., and every shopping cart we passed up and down the aisle was filled with some sort of bottled water. At the checkout stand we heard the news: A static message on the cable network reportedly indicated that the town's water was contaminated. A panic ensued. But the story was apparently only a rumor. When we left the town early Monday morning, the tap was still flowing; still, the community was shaken.

At dawn, we left town to the south, in search of a bridge that would take us over the swollen Missouri River. We found such a bridge 25 miles downstream at Leavenworth. We crossed over the water, smug in the fact that we had successfully found our way back to our home state. While my brother navigated and I drove, we wound from county road to county road, snaking our way to an elusive interstate that would lead us back to U.S. 36.

We soon intersected with our interstate, then headed north toward U.S. 36. I used my brother's cellular phone to let anxious family members know our whereabouts, then we turned from this unfamiliar territory onto 36, the same route that first brought my father to Hannibal a half century ago.

Twenty feet onto the east-west artery, I saw an alarming sight. A sign was posted next to the road: "Highway closed 39 miles ahead." Our hearts sank. More flooding, this time, just west of Chillicothe. More detours. A call to the highway patrol led us to places we'd never heard of: Winston, Altamont, Gallatin, Jamesport, Trenton and Farmersville. We passed through De Kalb, Grundy and Daviess counties. We followed combines. We followed senior citizens in old cars. We followed a truck and a horse trailer with the left-turn blinker stuck in the "on" position.

But we felt lucky to pass this way. Just a day before, this alternate route had been closed due to heavy rains and flash flooding. Highway workers were still busy patching the spots washed away by the roaring water.

Each of these small farming communities showed bitter evidence of the flooding. The water had receded from some corn fields, but all that was left of the crop was stubble. Farm houses were sitting in lakes. Machine sheds were similarly under water.

Each time we saw the word "creek" or "river" on a road sign, we cringed. These waterways, typically dry in mid-summer, were now mile-wide lakes threatening to cover nearby roads and bridges. Many, in fact, did.

Yellow and orange highway markers were our enemies. Detours were difficult, but "road closed ahead" signs were the real nightmare. And there were many.

Once we finally arrived on U.S. 36, it was a straight shot home. There were no trucks, because the road is closed both at Hannibal to the east and Chillicothe to the west. There are no cars pulling boats and campers, because the lakes and rivers are all flooded. It was just us and a few other people trying to get where they were going.

During this journey, we drove 80 miles out of our way, and our four-hour trip became a six-hour adventure.

When we arrived home, we heard the very unwelcome news that the Sny levee in Illinois, just across the river from Hannibal, failed Sunday morning. The river flooded 44,000 acres, including several small towns, such as Hull and New Canton, Ill. This levee break virtually ensures that the bridge linking Missouri and Illinois at Hannibal will be closed for quite a period of time.

It's ironic that it took a trip out of town for me to feel the full impact of the flooding. All at once I'm feeling very lucky I'm not one of the thousands of people who must cross the river on a daily basis in order to earn a living. I'm lucky my family has drinking water, and water for baths and and sanitary purposes. I'm lucky we have electricity. And most importantly, I'm lucky we have a home. Many, many people don't.

While in Atchison, I overheard a conversation in the parking lot of the town's fast-food restaurant that really hit home for me.

Two men, dressed in work clothes, were standing by old cars and had small children standing at their sides.

"I've just worked three days in the last three weeks," one man said.

"I've only worked four," the other replied.

"I wonder when we'll get back to work?"

This flood impacts everyone.