By: Wild One

Last year my family and I went camping in a canyon along a creek. It’s a place we go quite often. River rock fills the canyon floor, salt cedars line the bank, quail run through the wet sand of the low water line, and desert bighorn make several appearances to quench their thirst. The slick orange brown cliffs running along each side of the cool flowing water hide haul trucks and heavy equipment of the copper mine just on the other side. You would never know several small towns are just a hiking distance away.

And you would never see the heavy dark clouds of a monsoon sneaking up on you.

Three days into our trip, a rain storm lasted about an hour. It was just long enough to cool the hot July evening. But the next day, the downpour was much worse. Visibility was 10 feet and water was pouring from the cliffs like waterfalls. We set up camp on high ground and were safe from the flowing muddy water.

But the mudslide that buried everything in about three feet of muck took us by surprise and we got worried. We couldn’t drive out because of the deep water and my aunt who lived in a nearby town decided we needed to be rescued.

She tried calling her son. He’s with the sheriff’s office. She then tried to call her husband. He didn’t answer the phone. She then started calling her neighbors so they could get a message to her husband. She finally got ahold of Billy.

I was born in this small town. When I was a teenager, a strike at the mine forced us to move to the city. Billy was the boy across the street. I had a crush on him since way back then. Even after we moved, he remained friends with my cousins who still lived there and thus he was around often.

About three hours later, my aunt got a call from her husband. He and Billy were parked at the top of the road. The storm had washed the road into the canyon and they couldn’t drive any further. They told us to get what we needed and then start hiking. They were on their way to meet us on foot and help us across the high water.

We gathered things we could carry and headed along the road, over a small hill and around a bend to the first crossing. The water had subsided, but was still flowing greater than normal.

I have crossed rivers with higher and quicker-flowing water. I wasn’t scared, but the muddy water was going to make it hard to see where the big rocks were hiding. Plus it would be tough to see extra debris. We were going to have to carry my two nephews across the mess.

Billy and my uncle were waiting on the other side of the crossing. I picked up my one-year-old nephew and started into the crossing. Billy started moving when he saw me enter. He met me half way just as the water became deeper.

He was wearing what I found out later were brand new suede work boots. But he stood in the water and held out his hand to help me.

He was my rescuer and my hero.

I had my hands full with my nephew, a diaper bag and my camera bag. I had no free hand to accept his sweet gesture. I told him, “Thanks, but I’m OK”. He looked at me, surprised. I hope he didn’t think I didn’t want his help. I am good at giving wrong impressions.

I knew my 78-year-old grandmother was crossing the river behind me. Two rounds of chemo hurt her balance, especially on unstable ground. “Can you help my grandma?” I asked. He looked behind me at my grandmother then looked back at me. “Yes,” he said. He walked past me to her.

As I continued across the water, I heard my grandmother behind me. “Oh Billy, thank you. You’re my hero.”