People watching the swollen Guadalupe River in Kerrville, Texas. — Loren Elliott/The New York Times
SLIGHTLY downstream from where the San Marcos and Blanco rivers meet in central Texas, Tom Goynes likes to show his visitors the “symphony of birds” in the morning – woodpeckers, cardinals and the occasional deer, bobcat or coyote.
“You’re surrounded by God and everything that he’s created,” said Goynes, 74, who has run campgrounds on the San Marcos River since 1972.
“It’s a whole lot better than being in any cathedral.”
In the Texas Hill Country, a sprawling region of rugged terrain and semi-arid scrubland, rivers have always been the defining feature. They bring cool relief from blistering heat, access to wildlife and a beauty that often borders on the spiritual.
But on July 4, when several of those rivers rapidly rose and unleashed floodwaters that killed over 100 people, the catastrophe offered a brutal reminder of the dangers lurking in what’s long been called Flash Flood Alley.
At the same time, the scale of loss spoke to the rivers’ powerful allure.
The flood surged through cherished summer camps, holiday homes and riverbank properties.
Some belonged to families who had lived there for generations; others were newcomers drawn by a dream of rustic Texan life.
“People are drawn to water,” said Colie Reno, 54, speaking from his property on a secluded stretch of the San Saba River.
“It’s so relaxing and magical, but it can also be devastating.”
The Hill Country – comprising roughly two dozen counties in central Texas – has seen a dramatic influx of people in recent decades. Parts of it rank among the fastest-growing areas in the state, even nationally.
Along the Interstate 35 corridor between Austin and San Antonio, what were once distinct towns now blur into one vast, sprawling urban mass.
On summer days, thousands flock to the rivers in inner tubes, bringing business to shops and restaurants – and clogging the roads.
That growth has strained the landscape, depleting groundwater reserves and limiting how well the soil can absorb heavy rainfall. Concrete replaces grass and rainwater has nowhere to go.
“We often think about the risk of loving the Hill Country to death,” said Katherine Romans, executive director of the Hill Country Alliance, a group dedicated to sustainable growth and conservation.
“The very things that drew us here could very easily disappear.”
This patch of Texas is a cultural blend of German, Mexican and indigenous heritage, with food, music and festivals reflecting its many influences.
Wildflowers bloom in spring, and small towns come alive with Oktoberfests, Lavender festivals and the distinctive twang of Hill Country country music.
But it’s the rivers – the Comal, Pedernales, Medina, Frio, Nueces and Guadalupe among them – that most define the place.
It was the Guadalupe that caused the most destruction in the July flood, with at least 87 deaths in Kerr County alone, many of them children.
These rivers have a long and violent history of transforming with little warning.
Locals mark past disasters by year: 2002, 1998, 1987, 1978. In 2015, a wall of water crashed through Wimberley, northwest of San Marcos, killing 13 people.
“This is the most dangerous river valley in the United States,” Kerr County judge Rob Kelly told reporters just hours after the flood began.
The region is prone to intense rainstorms, but its thin soil, exposed limestone and steep slopes make it especially susceptible to flash floods. Development has made things worse by disrupting natural water flow.
Another issue: the flood of newcomers and tourists often lack local knowledge.
They haven’t grown up hearing stories passed down about what a dry creek bed can become – or how dangerous it is to drive through just half a metre of water.
“They don’t have the benefit of seeing that change in a dry creek bed or the low-flowing river to know the risk,” Romans said.
In Wimberley, mayor Jim Chiles recalled an old flood-warning system: a spotter upriver would watch a specific tree. If the water reached a certain height on the trunk, Wimberley could expect flooding shortly after. That tree, of course, eventually washed away.
Reno remembers seeing floodwaters submerge a 10m-high bridge – and the time 60cm of rain fell in under 18 hours.
“That has been my biggest teacher,” said Reno, who runs Texas Tubing, a rental business in New Braunfels.
The scale of the July disaster has fuelled anger about the lack of warning systems – no sirens, no formal alerts – and prompted calls for better safeguards.
“I think the events have opened people’s eyes,” Chiles said.
But many stress the need to respect the rivers themselves – to understand their rhythms and unpredictability.
“We need to learn and deepen our appreciation for rivers as more than just our playground,” Romans said.
Rafael Delgado goes nearly every day to a park straddling the Guadalupe River. A Kerr County resident for 25 years, he traces his ancestry to the Penateka band of the Comanche people.
“It was a life source,” he said, recalling how his ancestors fished the waters and gathered pecans along the banks. He still does both.
Back in San Marcos, Goynes grows weary of the rowdy tubers who swarm the river from noon onward, often intoxicated, blasting music. The city’s population has tripled since he first moved there.
Sirens now pierce the air. Light pollution dims the once-pristine night sky.
“You used to be able to see the Milky Way,” he said. “Now you’re lucky to see half the stars.”
Goynes has endured countless sleepless nights, watching forecasts and worrying that the high ground his campers rely on might not be high enough next time.
Still, he can’t imagine being anywhere else.
Muscular dystrophy has slowed him, but he continues to run his modest campground with his wife, hosting Scouts and children from the cities.
By 7pm, the last of the tubers usually pass. The sun fades. Campfires crackle. Frogs croak. Owls hoot.
Sometimes the kids put on skits and howl with laughter.
Even in the blackest night, Goynes can hear the river – the lifeblood of this land, and the force that shaped him.
“When you get in it, it makes sense,” he said. “It’s what you come for.” — ©2025 The New York Times Company
This article originally appeared in The New York Times
