An Adventure in a Storm

An Adventure in a Storm BY ANNIE G. LAURITZEN

It was in the middle of July, 1913, that my husband and three sons, Marion, Tommy and John Reed, were repairing flumes up Short Creek canyon, Arizona. Myself and three small children Miriam, Joseph Dean, and Richard, started for a walk nearly two miles up the canyon from our tents near the mouth of the canyon. We went to take the men some dinner. On starting we noticed that a great, massive cloud was fast scurrying from the distant Trumbo mountains to the great box canyon of Maxwell, one mile north of the Arizona line. The clifts of this canyon are perpendicular, towering straight up in the air for several hundred feet. How we gazed in fear and admira- tion as we hurried past Maxwell ahead of this storm for Short ;

Creek was just north, and in order to pass over it before the floods should begin to pour down through each ravine, eddy and gully, we must onward While we were obliged to make rapid !

strides towards our destination, yet we couldn't help turning toward the storm (west of us) while we hurried to the canyon north. Oh, I shall never forget how that huge cloud, seemingly about a mile square, came like a living thing, and savagely rested her great black bulk across the square canyon, completely envelop- ing it. Smaller clouds, white in appearance, like so many white chicks, clustering under the wings of the black mother hen, were angrily darting upward, as if through the black feathers of the massive cloud's wings. They were now writhing and twisting and seething, almost as if the hitherto innocent-looking chicks suddenly had turned into so many white serpents, hissing, in angry determination to see which could outdo the other in racing and chasing, now high, now low. Now we are past the canyon, and have reached the flumes which occupy the length of nearly one mile, in the sand. We hurriedly spread our dishes, called the men, and began our repast. Scarcely had we begun to eat when crash, crash, crash, went the lightning; roar, roar, roar, thundered the heavy artillery of the sky, as it burst the clouds ! Down came sprinkles of rain, softly at first, but intensifying at every moment, until we found ourselves in drenching torrents. "Let us get under that tree, on the north side of the wash," shouted my husband. No sooner said than each of us picked up

one of the smaller children. We found ourselves running with all our might across the Short Creek wash. The wind was blow- ing the rain in our faces. I took a blanket I had brought along and, tearing it into pieces, wrapped myself and the smaller chil- dren to try to keep out the chilly rain. The three older boys, instead of coming with us, were very anxious to see the flood which we could now hear roaring at its source. We stood under the tree only a moment, while the fierce streaks of lightning flashed all around us, with the thunder roaring, making the very earth tremble. Our clothing, blankets and all were soaked through we were drenched to the very skin. ;

On gazing up the wash a few paces, to our utter dismay, we beheld a flood come raging, and tearing down. We must cross before it should reach us. Again taking the children, as before, we started to run. Reed lost a new pair of shoes. He never saw them again. We reached the opposite bank just a moment before the flood touched where our feet had passed. The skies were still belching forth rain, wind, thunder and forked lightning. An emergency, heretofore unlooked for, was now presenting itself in vociferous and tumultu- ous rage before us as if determined to defeat our homeward progress. Every crag, crevice and eddy, every ravine, wash and gully, were furiously pouring forth the raging torrents of the flood, to which was added the drenching rain overhead. The little greyhound was barking and whining. The children were screaming, and mama was praying with all her might. Deai papa, as was his invariable habit, was studying how to get us home before the Maxwell floods would reach our crossing, on their way into Short Creek. This creek already contained a formidable flood whose muddy, forbidding waters were rushing madly along the east side of us, and the Maxwell waters soon would be coming from the west to join them. We reached the first ravine almost exhausted, having run one-half mile in the drenching rain. The waters were then knee deep. My husband stood in the middle of the stream, which was one rod wide at this place, and I handed him one child after an- other until all, not forgetting the small dog, had been safely landed upon the opposite side of the flood. Now we hurried towards the largest of the Maxwell washes, hoping to reach there before the fiercest part of the flood. This wash was several blocks farther to the south and, as we reached ;

it we saw, to our horror, that it was utterly impassable. Huge rocks and trees were being hurled from side to side in the roaring, seething, writhing flood, while the drenching rain and the chilling winds threatened to destroy us. What was to be done with those shivering children? We stood mute, dumbfounded, confounded. Suddenly, as if by in-

spiration, the thought struck me — "let us dig holes and bury the children up to their necks in the warm, wet, soft sand." This we did in very short order. Then, placing" their broad-brimmed, home- made cloth hats over their heads for a shelter to keep the still persistent rain from their heads and faces, they were made quite comfortable, during the remaining hour or more that the flood last- ed. Then papa, ever watching, thinking, planning, suddenly gave a shout of joy "The flood is abating." : We gave three cheers and one cheer more. Soon we were landed on the opposite shore. We ran for our tents, still about one mile farther on. As soon as we were there, I stripped the children, and put them to bed Since that trip, "let's go a picnicking iri the rain" has never been popular with us. We had no more than returned to our tents when the three older boys came, drenched to the skin. That we felt no bad effects must have been because we prayed and worked to- gether.

M. I. A. JR. BOYS' CHORUS, TWENTIETH WARD, ENSIGN STAKE Mrs. G. A. Alder, Conductor Nearly all these boys were awarded M. I. A. pins for having passed the first year's requirements in the three-year junior course in attendance, conduct, and knowledge of the Junior Manual text. The order in the class has been exceptionally good. On the 17th of April the chorus gave a concert in the Twentieth ward in honor of Bishop C. Clarence Neslen's birthday, which was pronounced an aristic and social success.