As I step out from under a line of cedar trees and onto the scoured limestone, I feel like I'm stepping into another part of the country. Thousands of feet of bleached limestone boulders are gleaming under the midday Texas sun, stretching across the horizon before meeting up with the dark green of the juniper-covered hill on the other side. It was raining last night, but today the clear blue sky and mild temperatures belie the fact that it’s the middle of February. And as I walk across the previously-forbidden ground, the feeling of tremendous energy that flows through me brings me back to July of last year -- the last time I felt the awesome power of Canyon Lake.
I’ve been waiting for months to see this place. When Canyon Lake crested its spillway for the first time on July 4, I was there behind the barracades with a handful of local photographers. When the water started running down the hillside that evening, through a creek that crossed under South Access Rd. just below the dam, I knew what was about to happen and headed down to the bridge to watch the water. The quiet trickle that I had seen at midday had become a flow of mud the size of a small river, and the quiet evening air was punctuated with the sound of trees snapping in the distance. Little did I know that by 1:30 that morning, the bridge would be gone, and by dawn on the 5th, the Guadalupe River would show everyone from the lake to the Gulf of Mexico a new meaning to the phrase “flood plain.”

Fortunately, those memories are fading. Our house has been rebuilt, and life is getting close to something resembling normal. But the canyon before me is a reminder of how instant and permanent change can be. Not even the Army Corps of Engineers could have predicted that Canyon Lake would rise 40 feet in 4 days, and that 3 times its total volume of water would pass over the spillway. Nobody knew what would happen when it did. But the experts were amazed to see what was left when the waters finally subsided.

Last summer, the cedar trees covering the hills behind me and off in the distance extended around to my left, forming a giant curve of the juniper so typical of the Glenrose limestone formation. But the arc is broken now – ripped in two by millions of gallons of water and pummeled for weeks by a seemingly endless torrent. In its wake lies the newest geologic feature of Comal County: the nameless canyon formed below the spillway of Canyon Dam by an amount of water that exceeds comprehension. Off-limits to the general public, its twisted, torn, scoured bed extends downhill beyond my sight now, and today I will finally get to see it for myself.
July 4, 2002 - 12:30 p.m.
July 4, 2002 - 5:30 p.m.
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July 5, 2002 - 2:30 p.m.