St.
Francis Dam Disaster, 1928
By RON PINKERTON.
July 16, 1979.
Construction began in '24
On the St. Francis dam and reservoir;
Forty-eight miles north of L.A.
West of the canyon they call Bouquet.
It was a concrete wall 200 feet high,
A thousand long and a hundred wide -
Twelve billion gallons of water
inside.
In Saugus and Newhall, below the
lake,
Rumors were swapped that the dam
might break.
A rancher leaving the Saugus Cafe
Turned to hear his neighbor say
"I'll see you, Donahue, later
today,
Unless we all get washed away!"
Donahue knew his friend had been
joking,
But something was in the words he'd
just spoken.
Just thinking about it didn't set
right,
So he turned and stayed in town that
night.
It was the twelfth of March in '28
When the friends made light of a
watery fate.
But as they joked, a call was made
To Bill Mulholland and his closest
aide.
There was muddy seepage beneath the
wall.
The men were concerned, though the
leak was small.
As the limousine sped them along,
They hoped to find the damkeeper
wrong.
Wm. Mulholland and Harvey Van Norman
Studied the crack that prompted the
warning.
The leak, they decided, was nothing
to fear.
At the mouth of the crack, the water
was clear.
This made both the engineers sure
The dam's foundation was completely
secure.
They returned to the office late that
day
Relieved that the dam wasn't washing
away
* * *
The night was dark. There wasn't a
sound
As folks in the canyon bedded down.
The only sight was the bouncing light
On Mr. Hopewell's motor bike.
Minutes before the midnight hour
He parked the cycle and killed the
power.
From behind him came a rumbling
sound.
He lit a cigarette and frowned.
"Another landslide!" he
muttered aloud.
"Tomorrow I'll call and have the
road plowed."
So he put the nuisance out of his
mind
With no idea what he was leaving
behind.
Meanwhile, north, at Powerhouse One,
Signs of trouble had already begun.
Gauges to measure the current said
The lines to Los Angeles went
suddenly dead.
Raymond Silvey expressed his doubt,
But Patrolman Lindstrom was quickly
sent out
To see what all the fuss was about.
Down in the rugged canyon below,
Raymond Rising was first to know.
His house began to rattle and shake.
In a single bound he jumped awake.
As he opened the door and stepped
outside
He was hit by a wave a hundred feet
high.
There in the deadly churning sea
He swam for a piece of floating
debris.
The roof of a house was now his raft.
He owed his life to the unfortunate
craft.
He and two others were discovered at
dawn,
But 28 workmen and their families
were gone,
And still the water roared on.
Eight miles west in the town of
Castaic,
Nearly an hour after the break
The sound of the water the dam had
released
Seemed like an earthquake far to the
east.
The innkeeper and his son were awake.
They heard the roar and felt the
shake.
In the nick of time, they grabbed one
another,
But neither one reached the younger
brother.
The pair was swept near a utility
pole.
They were lucky enough to reach and
grab hold.
The father screamed out, "My
God! I'm hurt!"
The only thing left was a piece of
his shirt.
Into the torrent, the younger one
dived,
But fate was kind, and he survived.
The naked and injured refugee
Spent the night in a cottonwood tree.
From there he saw, by the light of
dawn,
That his family and business and home
were gone.
And still the water roared on.
The state's main highway was buried
in mud.
Three counties were dark because of
the flood.
Yet those who were in a position to
know
Hadn't sent word to the valley below.
Near a railroad shack at the siding
of Kemp
Edison workmen were sleeping in
tents.
The security officer's name was
Locke.
He was outside on his nightly walk.
He saw brilliant flashes and sounds
like thunder.
"Could it be a windstorm?",
he wondered.
The camp was suddenly hit by a wave.
There were a hundred and fifty men to
save.
The fearless sentry did what he
could,
And though his efforts did some good,
Eighty-four of the men were lost
In the horrible swirling holocaust.
* * *
It was nearly two o'clock in the
morning
When Santa Paula received the
warning.
Thornton Edwards of the Highway
Patrol
Jumped on his cycle and began to
roll.
When someone rang the fire bell
Twenty-four men showed up to help.
As the volunteers reached the fire
station
They were told of the perilous
situation
And asked to lead and evacuation.
Santa Paula was notified
In time to leave to the countryside.
For the last twenty miles, from there
to the sea
Most of the people were able to flee
But millions in housing and crops
were lost
In the farms and ranches nearest the
wash.
Down the stream past Saticoy,
The Montalvo bridge was completely
destroyed.
The wave was more than two miles wide
When the floodwater finally began to
subside.
At six a.m. or shortly before,
The waters met the Pacific shore,
And the terrible flood was no more.
* * *
More than 400 died that night,
And the final figure will never be
right.
Sixty or more were never found,
Caught in the flood and probably
drowned.
A thousand homes and ranches were
lost
But the City of Angels covered the
cost.
They spent millions of dollars in aid
and relief.
They rebuilt the valley and paid for
the grief.
But after demands for reparations
Came the questions and threats and
accusations
At the county coroner's
investigation.
What had caused the dam to break?
Was it sabotage or a careless
mistake?
At the inquest everyone testified
The facts of the case to try to
decide
If a charge of murder was justified.
No one was ever found negligent
Or responsible for the accident.
It was a good dam built in a bad
location,
But that decision was no salvation
From the watery death and
devastation.
* * *
It's been fifty years since the
structure fell
And the clues of the story are hidden
well.
The only witnesses left today
Are some pieces of concrete,
weathered and grey.
They are the stones that mark the
site
Of the chain of events on a cold
spring night.
Yes, the effects of disaster have
long been gone,
But the St. Francis legend will
always live on.
© Ron Pinkerton, 16 July 1979.
