I VOLUNTEERED FOR A WEEK. WHAT I NEVER EXPECTED, BUT WILL NEVER FORGET.
By Ralph B.
On the morning of July 5th, I woke up, picked up my phone from my nightstand, started scrolling, and was horrified at the devastation that had occurred overnight. I was compelled to do something. I HAD to do something. I was being drawn to help.
I sent an email to my boss telling her that I was going to be taking a week off. I didn’t know what to expect. What I did experience changed my life.
I never expected to encounter the raw fury of nature mixed with the heartbreaking remnants of shattered lives. The flood turned the peaceful Guadalupe River into a raging monster that swallowed homes, RVs, and entire neighborhoods. (The same peaceful river that I tubed down as a teen).
I’d seen the news clips—the death toll climbing, search and rescue teams combing the riverbanks for bodies, and mountains of debris piled like graves along the shores. As a local from nearby San Antonio, I felt compelled to help. I loaded up my truck with gloves, trash bags, and bottled water, and drove out to Center Point, just outside Kerrville, where the destruction was total. The volunteer fire department was there directing us civilian volunteers on how to clear the debris. Little did I know, the cleanup would be a battle against not just mud and ruin, but creatures displaced and desperate, and symbols of innocence lost that will probably haunt me for years to come.
The first day hit me like a wall. We waded into what used to be an RV park, now a twisted graveyard of mangled trailers wrapped around trees, cars crushed like soda cans, and household items scattered everywhere. The air was thick with the stench of river mud and decay, and the ground squelched under our boots. As I hauled HEAVY soaked mattresses and splintered cabinets to the curb, I felt something slither across my ankle. I looked down just in time to see a water snake—probably a harmless one, but in that moment, it didn’t matter—darting toward higher ground. It wasn’t alone. Volunteers around me shouted warnings every few minutes as more snakes emerged from the debris piles, chased out of their flooded habitats and seeking refuge in the same dry spots we were. One guy from a search and rescue team got pursued by a cottonmouth that had coiled up under a flipped-over boat; he had to jump back, heart pounding, as it struck at his boot. We learned quickly to poke every pile with a stick before diving in. The floods had displaced everything, and these reptiles were just trying to survive, but so were we. It added this layer of constant vigilance—every shadow, every rustle could be a threat.
And then there were the spiders and insects, turning the cleanup into an itchy, crawling nightmare. Black widows and brown recluses love the dark, damp crevices of the debris; I’d flip over a piece of sodden carpet, and a cluster would scatter, their webs tangled in the mess. One volunteer, a woman from a nearby church group, screamed when a wolf spider the size of her palm dropped onto her arm from an overhanging branch. But the fire ants were the worst—those floating rafts of red devils that the floodwaters had carried downstream. They’d reformed into biting swarms on any patch of dry land. I got bit bad on my legs while clearing out a flooded tiny home; the burning welts swelled up, and I had to pause, gritting my teeth, as others shared stories of entire teams getting attacked while moving boulders and mud. (Did you know that rubbing gasoline on fire ant bites makes the itching go away? I don’t recommend it, but the relief was palpable. Thank you Gary!)
Mosquitoes buzzed in clouds, drawn to the standing water, and flies swarmed over anything organic. It wasn’t just physical discomfort—it was a reminder that nature doesn’t pause for tragedy. These critters were reclaiming the chaos, making every step a test of endurance.
Amid all that peril, though, came the moments that broke you emotionally. Sifting through the debris, you’d find personal treasures that told stories of lives upended. I remember pulling a waterlogged teddy bear from under a pile of shattered furniture—it was small, with one eye missing, clutching a little heart that said “I Love You.” My stomach twisted as I imagined the child who had hugged it tight during storytime, now maybe displaced or worse.
Other volunteers shared similar finds: a soaked stuffed elephant wedged in a tree branch 20 feet up, like the flood had hurled it there in mockery; a collection of plush animals spilling out of a burst suitcase, their colors faded but their softness a stark contrast to the sharp edges of broken glass and metal around them. One guy teared up recounting how he found a child’s backpack full of toys amid the ruins of a cabin, right next to where rescuers had pulled bodies from the water. We heard eyewitness accounts from locals about the screams that night—families honking horns, children crying as the river devoured everything. Holding those stuffed animals felt like holding fragments of innocence washed away. It made the loss feel so intimate, so human. I’d pause, staring at the river that still murmured threateningly, and wonder about the families, the kids who might never see their beloved companions again.
By Thursday the exhaustion hit hard—the mud caking our clothes, the bug bites throbbing, the snakes slithering just out of sight, and the emotional weight of those discoveries threatening to pull us under. But as we worked alongside the fire departments, the game wardens, and fellow Texans who showed up with generators, water, and sheer grit, something shifted. We cleared roads so mule teams could deliver supplies to cut-off areas. We helped displaced pets at shelters, where Aggie vet teams had rushed in. We saw communities rally, sharing peanut butter sandwiches and grilled meat from a donated cow when official aid fell short. The kindness was supernatural—the way a SAR tech would crack a joke after extricating a stuck vehicle from the mud, or how strangers hugged after finding a lost photo album intact. In Kerrville’s Louise Hays Park, even the deer wandered lost amid the flattened trees and debris, but volunteers kept going, hauling tons of trash that would take months to fully remove.
In the end, it was all worth it. The hazards—the snakes chasing us, the spiders lurking, the ants biting—paled against the resilience we witnessed and the bonds we forged. Finding those stuffed animals reminded me why we were there: to reclaim not just land, but hope for the families who lost everything. As I drove home, covered in grime but full of purpose, I knew that in the face of such devastation, showing up matters. It turns strangers into survivors, and survivors into a stronger community. I was there 6 days, and I’ll be back—because helping heal those wounds, no matter the risks, is what makes us Texans.