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Liz Hoffmeister knew her husband was not an alarmist. He was a soft-spoken man, afraid of nothing. If Vaughn said they were in danger, Liz knew it was time to leave. She ran to the house and grabbed her dogs. At that same moment, another wall of muddy water came crashing into the valley. The small, shallower secondary channels of the Ca,ada, dozens in number, snaked around every homesite in their little valley. They filled in an instant -- littered with churning logs, fence wire and debris from upstream. Hoffmeister chased after Liz. It was then that he heard the piercing screams: "Mommy! Mommy!" He reeled, looking over his right shoulder toward the wash and his neighbors' property. There, some 75 feet away, marooned between two raging streams, stood five of the Yankovich children -- Moriah, her friend Alisha, Caleb, age 12, Jordan, 11, Emma, 10, and young Gabriel, only 6 years old. They stood helpless, their faces contorted in fear. The foul, ash-laden water was swelling all around them, flowing at 12 feet per second. The smaller children wouldn't have a chance. Hoffmeister saw Moriah struggling to hold little Emma, who was panic-stricken and crying wildly, "I want Mommy!" Hoffmeister forged right into the waist-deep deluge and battled through to the other side. He looked back and saw LeeAnn starting to make her way toward her children. "Don't even think about going into the water!" he yelled. "I'll get your kids out!" He turned to Moriah. She cradled the small family dog in her arms. "Get the kids ready, starting with the youngest," Hoffmeister told her. "I'll be right back." He had an idea. One of the children huddled with LeeAnn was holding a coiled lariat used in livestock roping. "I need to borrow that," Hoffmeister said. He was moving instinctively, but years of experience were guiding him. As a kid, he often played in high-speed irrigation canals in the Arizona farmlands, using ropes to keep from being washed away. In the early '70s, during Army air assault training, he'd learned to rappel 200 feet to the ground from hovering helicopters. The training also included a rigorous exercise known as drown-proofing, where he was forced to survive fully clothed for hours in deep water without touching anything and without a life jacket. Two mesquite trees stood on either side of the stream. Deftly, Hoffmeister tied the rope to the first tree; then he crossed the 30-foot torrent and tied it to the other tree. If the rope

had been a foot shorter, it wouldn't have reached. He bent down and talked directly to the wide-eyed kids, telling them exactly what he was going to do and keeping them calm as water swirled at their shins. "Piggyback me," he said. "Put both arms around my neck and hang on." He flung little Gabriel onto his back and entered the torrent. With his right arm, Hoffmeister pulled the boy's legs snug to his chest, and with his left he gripped the rope, keeping their bodies on the upstream side as he sidestepped across the gorge. The strong, swift current pinned him hard against the rope. The footing was treacherous, the bottom already caked in black sludge. Hoffmeister worked his way across and deposited Gabriel in his mother's arms. Then he turned back for the next child. Thanks to Moriah's calming influence, Emma had settled down. Using the same technique, Hoffmeister ferried Emma across. One by one, he continued with the next three children. But each child was a little older, a little larger, a little heavier, and Hoffmeister was getting tired. Hardly a big man at five-nine, 170 pounds, he was wearing down. The water was at his chest now. His back was in knots from the torque of being jackknifed backward -- time after time -- against the rope. Debris pelted his face and chest, and he swallowed mouthfuls of rancid runoff. Like a Freight Train It was a torrid summer evening in the parched landscape of southern Arizona, just north of Tucson. But the conditions in mid-August 2003 couldn't deter Vaughn Hoffmeister, a busy, selfemployed nurseryman, from enjoying the little private time he got on his daily run. He laced his jogging shoes tight and sprinted out the back door. The Santa Catalina Mountains loomed starkly in the distance. Two hundred yards behind his home, Hoffmeister, 49, dropped into a dry riverbed known as the Ca,ada del Oro Wash and turned south. Eroded over the years by violent mountain storms, the arroyo was 100 feet wide and 4 feet deep. Its banks were lined with gnarled mesquite trees and cactus. The recent Aspen fire, however, had destroyed much of the waterretaining vegetation at higher elevations, leaving the wash susceptible to dangerous runoff. Now as Hoffmeister jogged down the dry track, dark clouds were forming over Mt. Lemmon. A sudden clap of thunder gave him pause. Even a small amount of rain could become a major

threat if water, fed through countless tributaries, gushed down the Ca,ada Wash. He didn't want to be caught within its sandy banks. For Steve and LeeAnn Yankovich, moving into the rural valley two years earlier had fulfilled a lifelong dream. Their eight kids, ages 3 to 14, had almost two acres of unrestricted playground. And they had room to stable a few horses. It was about 6 p.m. when LeeAnn, a petite brunette with high energy and a quick smile, stepped outside and heard the thunder. She saw Moriah, her eldest, and best friend Alisha Kram, 13, riding off toward their favorite bridle trail, the Ca,ada Wash. "Girls," LeeAnn called out, looking to the skies, "I don't think you should go just now. Put the horses away." Moriah, at 14, was almost a head taller than her mom. Bright, thoughtful and levelheaded, she was like a right hand to LeeAnn, helpful with the younger children, in the kitchen and around the house. Though disappointed about the ride, she and her friend obediently reined their horses and rode to the corral at the rear of the property where four of the other kids were playing. An eerie, grating squeal like a freight train slamming on its brakes echoed through the desert air. But Vaughn Hoffmeister knew this was no train. He pivoted and scrambled from the Ca,ada just seconds before a six-foot wall of black, foaming water blasted over the ground where he'd been running. In his 25 years of living in the Southwest, he'd never seen anything like it. High in the mountains, a downpour was not being absorbed by the scorched earth. Instead, the ground shed the sooty, charred remains of trees and brush left by the Aspen blaze. The blackened ash careered through the wash like a stampede. Then, in the distance, Hoffmeister heard the howl of a second "runaway train" coursing down the arroyo -- and the Ca,ada was already overflowing its banks. "My God," he said, "I've got to warn everyone." Hoffmeister sprinted through the neighborhood, pounding on doors, yelling as he ran, "Get out! Get out! The water's coming!" When he arrived at his own house, Liz, his wife of 32 years, was not inside. He bolted out the rear door. Liz was chatting with LeeAnn over the back fence. "C'mon," he yelled. "We're flooding!"

Alone Moriah now stood alone on the little island, water sloshing about her knees as she cradled the dog in her arms. She was scared. The current was growing more treacherous, and the saturated rope stretched like a rubber band. Hoffmeister pulled the line taut and retied it, but he was concerned about the knots on the other side. Moriah was almost his size and weight. Would the rope hold their combined 300 pounds? He had to test it. He took the dog from Moriah's arms and placed a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. She was trembling. "I'll be right back," he said. "Don't move." Hoffmeister carried the dog across and checked the knots on the far side. They were holding firm. At that same moment, Jason DeCorte, 28, LeeAnn's son from a previous marriage, drove up on the high ground at the front of the house. "I need your help," Hoffmeister yelled to the young man. "We've got to get your sister!" Jason stood at the base of the first tree, watching the rope and waiting. "When we get close, you grab her," Hoffmeister said. He forced his way across the wash once more and took Moriah's hand. She wasn't certain he could actually carry her. "Are you sure?" she asked. Hoffmeister was breathing heavily, his face and clothes black with soot. "I'll be there," he said. "Just don't let go of the rope." He bent at the waist and draped Moriah over his back, her right arm over his shoulder, her left around his stomach. With both hands, she took the rope, and they entered the frothing river, as did Jason. Halfway across, a surge of water slammed Hoffmeister sideways. He lost his footing in the ooze and went under the rope, taking Moriah with him on the downstream side. She still had both hands on the lifeline, but was on her back, her arms and torso outstretched. The violent flow whipped her body like a flag in the wind. At the last second, Hoffmeister snared her foot. He dug his toes into the slime and pushed up. "Hold on! Hold on!" he yelled. Jason was struggling to help, but the footing was impossible. He slid and grabbed for Moriah. Her fingers were slipping. Knuckle by knuckle, the current was winning this tug of war. I can't hold on, she thought. But she didn't give in to the water's force or to fear. One finger at a time, she re-

gripped the line. In the next instant, Jason seized her at the waist and pulled her sideways toward the bank. They both pulled themselves from the waters that stampeded out of the Ca,ada del Oro. <br><br> Hoffmeister was right behind them -- so exhausted he had to crawl out of the water, while coughing up black sludge. This flood and subsequent rains wiped out Hoffmeister's nursery. After the deluge, many homeowners in the area chose to relocate. The Yankovich family bought a bigger house on a four-acre plot in Oracle Junction. Their new home doesn't have the same trees and greenery as the old place by the wash, but it has something better -- the kind of neighbors you can count on. Vaughn and Liz Hoffmeister have moved there too. From Reader's Digest - November 2004