Looking out my Backdoor: Tragedy in Etzatlan

Lest we forget. I tell this story lest we forget.

We have suffered a tragedy in our little community.

You are probably tired of hearing me celebrate every raindrop. The rain that makes this mountainous country look like the green, green, green of Ireland, wears the familiar comedy/tragedy mask, same as any country with arroyos and gullies. Water will wear and tear channels through mountains, valleys and hillsides.

Last week the rain turned its tragedy cheek toward our town.

Etzatlan was established by the Spanish in the 1530s as a major shipping point from the gold and silver mines in the mountains above the town; from the mines to Etzatlan, to Guadalajara, to the Gulf Coast and across the Atlantic to Spain.

One of the bigger mines, El Amparo, the ruins of which still stand, is located just a few short kilometers above our town and was still being mined as late as the 1930s. A handful of people live at El Amparo, in homes near but outside of the old mining buildings. The actual mines, the area around them, is huge, as you might imagine an area mined for 500 years.

For the rest of us, it is a fun place to explore, to walk the trails. For one family in town, a place the area had become their camping mecca. My gardener, Leo, knew the family. The young man, 35, and his wife 32, two children, girls 12 and 8, were neighbors. Leo told me the young man was a hard worker, a good man. The family didn’t have much money but they spent many weekends together, tent camping and exploring in the hills, the ruins, the old mining areas at El Amparo.

This is not a cliché. It truly was a dark and stormy night. Lightning flashed and crackled. Thunder crashed and boomed. Rain poured from the sky as from a bottomless, never-ending, tilted bucket.

We will never know the details. Did our family go to their pickup truck for shelter from the storm? Was it the next morning, searching for a better campsite? Did they get caught in a flash flood, as a wall of water roared through the arroyo while they were crossing? Did they misjudge the depth and strength of the waters?

I tell you this story because every community in Montana has a similar story. Any country riddled with canyons, arroyos, gullies, with creeks dry most of the year, or gentle rivers, until the rivers are not gentle. It is easy to forget, to not pay attention, to misjudge the dangerous strength of water.

A couple days after the stormy night, the family pickup truck was found in the river with the bodies of Dad, Mom and the younger daughter. The older daughter, the 12 year old, was nowhere nearby.

Immediately, the grieving community came together to search the area, which encompassed numerous side streams and a huge burn from last year. The National Guard, the Army and Navy were all engaged in the search along with Police from all the communities around us.

Four days after the storm, the body of the other daughter was found and brought to town to join her family for burial. This sadness, this grief, touches all of us, even those of us not native to this place. We all feel the loss of this young family.

Take care. Be vigilant. We may not live at the bottom of a coulee but we either live in or drive through lands prone to flash floods and surging waters.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].