A Dark-of-Night Flood Escape at the River Inn in Texas

The screams were coming from outside, through the dark and the din of the thunderstorm. People along the overflowing Guadalupe River were desperate, scared for their lives.

The rain had been coming down hard, into the grim early hours of July 4, but it was the lightning and thunder that kept people awake. The electric sky lit up the landscape like a strobe light, providing glimpses of what was happening and adding a surreal effect to the night.

In a flash, the manager of an inn saw the river where he had never imagined it could reach. A family saw into the house next door, where furniture floated in the living room.

It was the middle of the night. The water was rising. And somewhere out there, people were screaming.

As all this played out around Marymeade Drive and River Inn Resort, in Texas’ Hill Country, other scenes of horror unfolded up and down the river in the early morning of July 4.

At Camp Mystic, an overnight camp for girls about a mile downstream, hundreds were in their beds and bunks. The youngest campers slept closest to the water. At least 27 of the campers and counselors died in the flood.

They were victims of the cruelest perfect storm: a severe, stalled weather cell wringing out over a remote river basin in midsummer holiday, all in the dark of night.

Had this one come 12 hours before or after, when the light of day would have allowed people to see what was happening before it was too late, there would likely have been far fewer fatalities. A 1932 flood of similar scope struck the region during midday. It ripped away six cabins at Camp Mystic, but no campers died.

This storm was far more sinister. Stories of tragedy, heartbreak and regret abound from the dark hours of July 4 and the days since. There are also tales of heroism, survival and luck.

This is the story of one place, on one bend of the Guadalupe River, that experienced all of that in a matter of about two hours.

A man and his wife, sweethearts since the summer of 1967, escaped into their car and intended to head uphill. They did not get there.

Three generations of a family, ages 6 to the 80s, nearly trapped inside their house, found the only path was through the water.

In a tiny cabin nearby, a grandmother and four young girls clung to a tree, climbing higher and higher to escape the rising water. They screamed into the dark — heard, but not reached.

Off Marymeade Drive, people shuffled uphill, the only place that might be safe. Many were barefoot, in nightgowns and pajamas. On the slope, shivering in the rain, they could see the swirl of chaos below — their beloved river, coming to get them.

Desperation and Panic

Scott Towery, 66, is the general manager of River Inn, a two-story, 60-room resort on a small rise along the Guadalupe. The units are individually owned, and they’re commonly rented out for retreats and family reunions. Parents with children at nearby summer camps, like Mystic, stay there when they drop the kids off or pick them up.

Nearby, the two-lane Highway 39 crosses the south fork of the river with a low-water bridge. Locals call it the River Inn Crossing, and they know that water can cover it sometimes. Just don’t cross when the water’s deep.

The rooms were full for the holiday weekend. The evening before was nice. People talked, grilled and played games outside to dusk. But by midnight, rain was falling hard. Most people were in bed. A weather alert reached some phones at 1:14 a.m. A flash-flood alert. No surprise. It happens a lot.

But the storm cell seemed to have stalled over the Guadalupe River. The lightning and thunder were relentless.

Connie Towery, Scott’s wife, was one of those who could not sleep. At about 2 a.m., she got up and looked at a rain gauge: 4.5 inches. She woke up her husband. In minutes, another inch had fallen.

“Intense lightning, intense thunder and raindrops as big as your fist,” Scott said.

He quickly understood that the river was rising, fast. The boathouse disappeared. The water was coming for the River Inn next.

“The water sounded like a bunch of train engines running together,” Scott said. “A big force of noise.”

The Towerys woke up Lisa Coffey, 61, who was staying in one of the two units she owns. We’ve got to get everyone up, he told her.

The three split up and banged on doors. Not everyone moved quickly. Many were confused. “It’s 2:00 and we’re telling people to get up,” Scott said. “‘You gotta get off the property.’”

He told people that the cars in the lot behind the resort could carry them to safety. Take a left, and then head up the hill.

The river kept rising. Soon it was washing into the first-floor rooms, rearranging furniture. Then it was in the parking lot, moving cars. Desperation and panic rose with the water.

The three repeated their pleas with more urgency and louder knocks. Scott sent Connie to higher ground in the car; she returned to say that the road was flooded. They were trapped.

Among those who got into a car were Randy and Mollie Schaffer, a couple in their 70s. They had been together since 1967.

Mollie drove, Randy explained in a social-media post. She took a left, as directed, but ran into a jam of confusion — cars stopped, some making U-turns — and pulled over. Water rose up the doors around them. Soon, the car was floating and banging against a tree. The doors wouldn’t open. Mollie told Randy to climb out the window. He struggled as she slipped out her side.

“You have to push harder,” she said, and then was gone.

Randy escaped through the door and was pulled under. He thought he was going to die until he bumped into a pole and hung on. He scanned the rushing water, searching for Mollie and the car. He never saw them.

He clung to the pole for an hour, he said, inching up it to stay above the water’s rising reach until he nearly got to the top. The landscape around him was black; the power was out, and sunrise on July 4 wasn’t until 6:40 a.m.

The water slowly receded. Randy shimmied down the pole to the ground. It was still dark. He wandered the area looking for Mollie.

Her body was found on Sunday. Randy identified it through a photo of her ring.

“I met Mollie in June of 1967, weeks after we graduated from high school,” he wrote on Facebook. “We’ve been together ever since, separated only at the end by the raging waters of the Guadalupe River.”

It’s unclear if anyone else who stayed at River Inn died that night. The resort does not keep a precise list of occupants.

But dozens made it up the hill to safety before the rushing currents turned the resort into an island and pulled parked cars downstream. Most were stranded on the property. They waded through waist-deep water, with the storm in full bellow, unsure where to go.

Two River Inn employees in a nearby cabin were among the last to wake up, finding their room flooded. They survived, returned this week to grab their belongings, and said they were never coming back.

Lisa Coffey and Scott Towery credited Connie Towery for getting people moving.

“I don’t want to think what it would be like if Connie hadn’t woken up,” Lisa Coffey said.

“We could have been the next Camp Mystic,” Scott Towery said.

‘Middle of an Ocean’

The river climbed higher, past the River Inn. Like others, the Killians never saw it coming.

Matt and Leslie Killian, from the Houston suburbs, had arrived to a relative’s home with their four children, ages 6 to 12, after dark. Everyone was excited for the holiday weekend on the river.

They parked their gold Toyota Sienna van behind the house and didn’t unpack everything, like battery chargers, life jackets — things they wouldn’t need overnight, certainly.

The house belonged to Matt’s uncle and aunt, Tom and Sandy Killian. They built it in the 1990s and lived there full time, near where Buffalo Creek merges with the Guadalupe River. That acute angle, a wedge, between two swollen waterways, became the site of destruction.

The children went to sleep. Matt and Leslie played on their phones, and then dozed, off and on. The rain was loud on the metal roof. Matt looked out the window at the van at 2 a.m. The driveway was merely wet. Nothing to worry about.

A cracking sound stirred them at 3:30. From bed, Leslie glanced out the window and saw two deer, or some kind of big animal, dart past. That’s what she thought, anyway. She stood to use the bathroom. Her feet landed in a puddle. A light showed that it was growing fast.

Stirred from the fog of sleep, Leslie looked out the window again. What she had thought were running animals were logs and other debris, rushing past in a current.

The Killians woke up their children and told them to get dressed. They roused Tom and Sandy, both in their 80s. Through the home’s glass doors, they could see water rising against the panes. Soon things were floating in a swirl — mattresses, tables, cushions, the refrigerator.

The most surreal sight was dozens of deer antlers, floating through the house. Tom and Sandy had a huge collection, and now they were loose, crashing all around them.

The sound was unforgettable: groaning wood, shattering glass, clacking antlers, all under a downpour on the roof and the rush of water through the seams of the house. The smell, too: sewage up from the toilets, gasoline from spilled containers in the garage.

The water in the house rose, now to the edge of the counter, now to the chin level of 6-year-old Cora, soon beyond 6 feet. There was no upstairs, no attic. The only escape was out, into the open water.

“The lightning is flashing, and it’s like we’re living in the middle of an ocean,” Leslie said. “It felt like the story of Jesus and Peter, when Jesus was commanding Peter to walk out onto the water. And Peter was like, ‘No.’”

The doors were pinned shut by the force of the water. Matt used all his strength to fight the weight of the flood. The parents and the children rushed through the opening before it snapped shut. Tom and Sandy were still inside.

Matt lifted the children atop a 4-foot garden wall, the water up to the last brick. He looked for a way to climb to the roof so that everyone could hang on to the chimney. He pushed the door open just enough for his uncle and aunt to squeeze outside.

Lightning flashed. “Land!” 12-year-old Case shouted. He had spotted a rise behind the house.

The parents instructed the children: Jump into the water. Case, carry Cora on your back. Gemma, Ruby — follow them. Steer to one side because the current might drag you the other way. The water was up to 9-year-old Ruby’s neck.

They pushed uphill. Matt helped Tom and Sandy. They shouted encouragement and instructions. Those were the screams that others nearby had heard.

“If we were a minute or two or five behind, we wouldn’t have gotten out,” Matt said.

Just two hours earlier, the van sat in the rain. Now it was gone, carried downriver with the life preservers inside. Tom and Sandy lost one of their three dogs, too — only to discover it safe the next day, floating on a mattress in their ruined home.

The family made it uphill to solid ground, to a neighbor’s house, where the water licked the front steps. Leslie took their children higher, up a steep gravel road. There was no reason to think the water wouldn’t keep climbing, too.

For a few terrifying minutes, in the confusion and dark, Matt lost sight of his wife and children. He ran up the hill, frantically.

“Dad!” one his daughters shouted.

“It’s the best feeling in the world,” he said, “after the worst feeling in the world.”

Dawn approached. The sky started to brighten. The water began to recede.