January 24, 2005

Ashland's great flood of 1974, Part 1

Lance Pugh

A warm, heavy "Pineapple Express" rain poured over the expanse of Ashland's watershed, rapidly melting the deep snow that was to be the water reserves for late spring. The already full Reeder Reservoir could not contain the overflowing streams and Ashland Creek quickly turned into a roaring river that thundered down the narrow canyon, destined to encircle, then engulf a block of historic buildings on the Plaza.

I awoke with a feeling of dread around 1 a.m. on Jan. 15, 1974, and drove down to the Plaza, where I owned and operated Lithia Grocery; a natural foods grocery and restaurant at 47 N. Main St., the current address of the Plaza Café. Ashland Creek was close to overflowing in the alley and it seemed only a matter of time until our basement would flood. I, with a handful of friends, found some sandbags and we were able to build a small footwall in the alley, but when the culvert under the road began to plug with uprooted trees, we knew it would be only a matter of time before we would be surrounded and inundated by the rising waters.

At that time I sported waist-length hair and a beard, looking every bit an industrious entrepreneur or the devil incarnate, depending on the mindset of the viewer. Seeing that a load of sand bags had been deposited at the bottom of Granite Street, a few of us ran over to get more ammunition in our war with the floodwaters. It was then that we were confronted by the police, in the person of one officer who exited his squad car and shouted at us to leave the sandbags alone. While at the time there was some chafing between the counter-culture and the locals, it rarely reduced itself to shouting or, as I was soon to discover, something potentially much more dangerous.

I identified myself and the reason for our presence, all of which seemed lost on the officer. He said that he had orders not to let "us" take any of the sandbags. I pressed the matter, as my business was in jeopardy, the floodwaters were rising. A pile of sand had previously been deposited nearby and the only thing we needed to help ourselves was access to the sandbags. I attempted to explain the nature of the emergency, while occasionally pointing to the swollen creek, which, by now was beginning to rumble and thunder, with massive boulders the size of cars being swept downstream. Making no progress and my livelihood on the line, I stepped forward, declaring that the sandbags were there for a purpose and we were the only volunteers at hand to use them.

It was than that the officer un-holstered his gun and aimed it at my stomach, this in front of a half-dozen volunteers, saying that a certain high City Official had issued the "hands-off" order, declaring that the "hippies" would take the sandbags and make clothes out of them. I was full of adrenaline and my choice was clear: "Either help us or get out of the way," I shouted. Doing neither, the officer got back in the car and burned rubber in reverse for about a block, then backtracked over the viaduct and away from the dilemma.

I've always admired how he realized that his orders were out of line and he left us the best way he could. I especially admired the way he uncocked his pistol and holstered it. Shooting a merchant seeking self-help in an emergency would not have looked good on the old resume. The whole incident was symptomatic of the times, as our nation was deeply divided over the war in Vietnam. Unfortunately, the media was awash with pictures of "hippies" protesting and police responding with force.

The raging waters were soon amplified into a two-foot deep sidewalk trough of speedy rapids, the crossing of which required a heavy rope from the bumper of local barber Vern Cordier's truck into and around the leg of Lithia Grocery's pot belly stove, upon which a large pot of soup was cooking. I used the rope to gain entrance to my store to retrieve a few valuable items. It was during several of these crossings that I happened to be in the right place at the right time, catching a handful of someone who had slipped upstream and was being swept to a certain death in the roiling, churning waters that overflowed what was then called Bluebird Park. Only last month one of those I rescued made the save known to me, for things were unfolding during the flood at such a rapid rate that there was no time to acknowledge many occurrences. When thanked for keeping him from being swept away I didn't know quite what to say, so I improvised:

"I'm basically lazy. If I hadn't grabbed you then I would have had to drive to Gold Beach to pick you up and I didn't have time to do that."

Basements began to flood and we all banded together, hippies from the Grocery, redneck hippies from the Log Cabin and other merchants and employees helped move inventories from below to higher ground. This cultural bouillabaisse formed lines to pass boxes of shoes from the basement of Perrine's, then located on the ground floor of the building that now houses Alex's Restaurant. We all pitched together, emptying Perrine's basement of inventory, then evacuating Patricia Cole on a stretcher from the waist-deep freezing waters that reached from basement to basement to a depth of seven feet. It was during that stretch of fast, cold and hard work that we all dropped our stereotypes of each other. I was no longer a "hippie," but a merchant. The title "redneck" was similarly dropped and the new fond term was either "friend" or "neighbor." Friendships that would last decades were forged on the spot, all being bonded in the crucible of a natural disaster.

We worked together until all that could be saved was secured, then pulled back from the Plaza and admired the tremendous strength of the raging waters. Someone reached into the back of his truck and produced a case of beer, a can of which was proffered to each member of this newly formed band of rescue workers. We each, in turn, told of a highlight of the last 24 hours, taking great enjoyment in sharing some simple deed or humorous episode.

Hours before, we were a people divided by ridiculous generalizations. Now we were all family, joined by sweat and circumstances, bathed in the warmth of acceptance and understanding.

Next week in Part Two: The Water Treatment Plant, we travel with an all-volunteer band of Water Warriors, who blaze a trail up to the isolated and flooding Water Treatment Plant and help avert total disaster by sandbagging non-stop for 20 hours, allowing time for the National Guard to mobilize and deploy as the waters crest. Regardless, Ashland has no potable water for days and clean becomes a dirty word.