So Who's to Blame?
Flash floods have always been part of life in the Texas Hill Country. We get those alerts on our phones - the kind that blare like Amber Alerts - nearly every time the skies darken. For most of us, it means avoiding low-water crossings, watching the rain gauge fill, and hoping maybe, just maybe, our thirsty lakes will drink their fill.
But this was different.
What came in the night wasn't just rain, it was a reckoning. A violent, rising wall of water that didn't knock, it broke down the doors.
Meteorologist Travis Herzog put it simply: flash floods are among the hardest weather events to predict. "No meteorologist could have told you with high confidence more than a few hours in advance that this much rain would fall in those exact locations," he said. Even with double the normal staff at the monitoring station for our region, no model foresaw the worst, because what happened was beyond the worst-case scenario.
The atmosphere defied the forecasts. The storms exceeded even the worst projections of the computer models both in coverage and amounts of heavy rain. Still, the National Weather Service issued warnings as the event unfolded in real time. A flood watch went out at 12:41 a.m., forecasting up to seven inches of rain. Then, at 4:03 a.m., a flash flood emergency: Evacuate immediately. Seek higher ground.
But by then, in places like Kerrville, Hunt, Center Point, Streeter, and Ingram, tiny towns tucked in the folds of the Hill Country, it was already too late.
The Guadalupe River rose 34 feet in two hours.
Imagine that. Thirty-four feet. In darkness. While people slept. In homes tucked far from cell service, on land where neighbors are separated by acres, not fences. The water came with rage. A half foot higher every minute. Carrying trees, metal, cars, walls. It tore buildings from their foundations. It erased entire RV parks. It killed.
And now, more than 100 people are gone.
So who's to blame?
That question has begun to echo across social media, in hushed conversations, in angry ones. People want someone to point at. Someone to hold responsible for the unbearable weight of loss. But I urge you to pause.
Because I remember a flood like this. Ten years ago, when my own hometown of Wimberley was ravaged in the night by another flash flood. Entire families swept away. Homes ripped off their slabs. Our beloved Blanco River turning into a monster.
And back then, we didn't ask who was to blame.
We cried. We prayed. We showed up.
We linked arms - strangers, neighbors, friends. We searched the riverbanks. We rescued pets from crumbling homes. We passed out hot meals, clean water and diapers. We took in the displaced, fed the volunteers, wrapped the grieving in blankets. Not because we looked for someone to blame, but because we looked for someone to help.
That's the choice in front of you now.
You can rage. Or you can reach out.
You can look for fault lines, or you can look for someone to help.
This flood was no one's fault. It was a freak convergence of nature's fury - unpredictable, unstoppable, and unforgiving. But what happens next is in our control. That's where our power lies.
So go. Volunteer with search crews combing the riverbanks. Give to organizations that are on the ground: The Community Foundation of the Hill Country, Mercy Chefs, The Cajun Army, Team Rubicon, Austin Pets Alive. Cook meals. Hold hands. Open your wallet. Open your heart.
Tell your children you love them. Tell your neighbors you're here. Tell the broken they are not alone.
Tragedy has come. That part is done. What we do now - who we are now - that's the story still being written.
Let it be one of grace. Of grit. Of fierce love in the face of grief.
Let it be the kind of story that proves: the Hill Country may flood, but it does not fall.
Say what you will about Texas - but when the rivers rise, so do we.
Not with blame. Not with bitterness.
But with boots on the ground, arms around strangers, and hearts wide open.
That's the Texas I know. And that's the America I believe in.
Authored by Bex Hale
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