Montecito Mudslide: Six Years After

By Robert Eringer

Robert Eringer on the Montecito rocks. Photo: Kovi Konowiecki

January 8^th, 2018

I got into bed that Monday evening at the usual time but about 3:45 am, I lay awake, listening to the rain that pounded on my roof. Suddenly the earth began to shudder. This thought occurred to me: On top of a torrential rainstorm on the heels of a recent wildfire, are we now having an earthquake? Only in California…

I slipped out of bed, took a few steps to the French doors facing north toward the mountains and pushed the curtains aside. Astonishingly, an avalanche of muddy water was rushing down my garden straight at me, illuminated by a surreal night sky aglow in orange and yellow. 

Devastation Descends

This was a real-life disaster movie a la Indiana Jones.

I quickly turned and, within several steps, dirty water smashed through the doors behind me. Within seconds I was knee-deep in cold, slimy mud.

I grabbed my five-year old grandson, who had been camping out with me and handed him off to his mother. My younger daughter, who moments earlier had awakened and looked out her upper floor window and seen, as had I, what looked to be an apocalypse poised to consume us. Furry critters below (she later told me) frantically raced in all directions and up trees in their mostly futile attempt to escape a cataclysmic mud-and-debris-slide-in-progress.

All this was happening in the darkness of night, no lights to switch on due to a power outage, amid bursts of lightning and thunder punctuating the eerie orange glow, which I later learned had been caused by a gas explosion that blew up several houses and took lives.

We were lucky to have an upper floor suite in our home; many ranch-style houses in our neighborhood that were similarly invaded by mud did not. 

Moments later, another flow of mud and debris burst through the glass doors on the other side of our house, into the open-plan kitchen/living room, launching furniture in all directions and lodging sofas and stuffed armchairs and tables into the oddest place.

We were not at ground zero.

We were at double ground zero.

Two flows merged into one.

Dressed only in boxer shorts and a pair of Merrell Jungle Mocs that I had somehow managed to slip around my feet, I stood dazed and disbelieving, waist deep in mud and sludge.

In Search of Lulu

One canine – having instinctively made a beeline up the stairs mottled in mud – was accounted for; the other was not. Armed with a flashlight, which quickly muddied and died, I waded through cold debris-filled mud into the den looking for Lulu. I thought I could hear her whimpering. When the whimpers went silent, I returned to the mud-filled foyer to try to open the front door, a presumed escape for my family members and me.

Of course, the heavy door would not budge, as the rising, thickening mud pressured it to remain shut. And good thing, because in my muddled thinking (and having no idea what was out there), trying to leave the house would have been the dumbest move of all – and quite likely fatal.  Had I managed to open the door, the resulting high-pressure flow of mud would have taken me to join a 15-foot river of debris and carry me a quarter mile to Interstate 101, by then transformed into a lake – or further beyond, to the ocean. (A friend of mine, I later learned, suffered this horrifying fate – along with many others – for doing just that. She was identified only by her fingerprints.)

Instead, I returned to the den to try to find Lulu.

After a short rest upstairs, I returned a third time, climbing over furniture, holding onto hope that I would find her, in the process not realizing that my legs were being shredded by sharp debris: mostly parts of trees or broken glass. At one point, I lost my footing, slipped, and became almost entirely submerged, just barely able to keep my head from going under. Had that happened, I would surely not be telling this story. 

My grandson, all of five years old, was smarter than I; every time I descended for another search he tearfully cried out, “Don’t go down there!”  

But I just had to try to find my dear little chihuahua.

Ultimately, I returned upstairs empty-handed and full of sorrow, believing poor Lulu had been buried alive in her doggie bed beneath three feet of mud, probably never knew what hit her. 

Calling On Friends 

Coated in the gooey stuff from head to toe, I got into the dark shower and turned a faucet. No water. No power. Nothing.

My daughter phoned 9-1-1 and found their switchboard operator somewhat discombobulated – and inundated with emergency calls like ours.

I called two buddies. They immediately rallied (4:20 a.m. by then) and tried to reach us, getting only as far as Coast Village Road, the commercial thoroughfare, itself flooded and muddy. Gaining access to adjacent Olive Mill Road was impossible, they discovered, because it was no longer a road but instead part river and part obstacle course, full of boulders and fallen trees – and central to many of the fatalities that occurred.

Their presence was a blessing because they informed emergency crews already on the scene precisely where we were trapped, far more effective than a 9-1-1 call. Though at this juncture no one could reach us.

The good news: No new mud surges; just that awful rosy-yellow glow in the sky that made no sense.

The bad news: Looking from the upstairs balcony onto the yard below, I saw only devastation as far as the eye could see.  Many of my favorite trees, including a 50-foot pine, were no longer standing. (One had rocketed into the garage.)

In addition: Though it did not occur to me at the time, there was a risk of the house collapsing due to pressure from mud against the structure. There was also the possibility of explosion and fire from ruptured natural gas lines.

Saved at Last

A rescue crew on foot eventually arrived and called up to us. Ascertaining we were not in need of immediate medical assistance they trudged off to tend to life threatening emergencies on our lane, promising to return for us. Cries for help could be heard, followed by the sound of jackhammers and chainsaws as rescuers (including a scuba diver) went to work freeing those trapped beneath trees and walls and caved-in roofs.

The Johnson family, our next-door neighbors, appeared – somewhat surreally – in our forecourt, which was relatively free of mud because my house acted as a buffer; it had taken the hit from behind and kept the mud inside. They hollered up to me, asking if they could remain on our forecourt until the rescue team returns. I hollered back instructing them to access our garage, and the apartment over it (higher ground), which they did.

Augie Johnson had just pulled a toddler from beneath a car. The toddler had been swept from about a mile upstream and had become mangled in debris. Augie handed him off to a fire chief who appeared on the scene, removed mud from the toddler’s mouth and got him breathing.

As dawn broke, the rescuers returned, ready to evacuate all of us. They entered from two parts of the house, axing their way in.   

Finding Lulu

One of them hollered, "You have a little dog?"

"Yes," I hollered back. “He’s here upstairs."

"No, down here."

I could hardly believe my ears. “A little tan dog?”

“Got it in my arms.”

I had been grieving the loss of Lulu, certain she was gone forever. She’d somehow scampered onto one of the chairs or sofas wedged up against the walls. Somehow, being reunited with her made everything all right.

But there was no time to celebrate Lulu’s presence, we had to move fast; the rescue team needed to get us out and get on with evacuating others. They quickly configured our safest route, broke through an exterior window-door in a room less affected by the mud flow and led our procession of family members and pets into a wasteland.

What would normally have been a 30-second walk down a country lane to a main road took a harrowing 15 minutes as we negotiated waist-deep pools of mud, downed trees, boulders – a zigzag path through unrecognizable terrain; past my neighbor’s wreck of a house.  

The river of mud from Olive Mill Road had by then emptied into what had once been Interstate 101, transforming that vital artery into a deep crater lake.  

We were greeted by a slew of heavy-duty vehicles, lights flashing, engines humming; and by overwhelmed rescue workers, who helped us into the backseat of a firetruck.  

Journey to Safety

About ten minutes later a flatbed cattle truck carrying survivors like us pulled up alongside.  Hoisted up, we joined them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, shivering in the morning chill, everyone covered in mud from head to toe, including a woman suffering from flu.

The vehicle lurched and rolled south on Olive Mill, leaving everyone aboard wide-eyed and aghast at the devastation around us. A long stretch of ranch houses on the east side of the road had been ripped from their foundations, walls down, roofs collapsed; we could see clear through every house. Cars, trucks, and minivans had been pushed into hedges and wrapped around trees.  

A strong smell of natural gas filled our nostrils as new survivors were led from the remnants of their homes to join us. For the first time, it dawned on me that we were in the middle of a major natural disaster, a true life-and-death situation. 

Not a Latté to be Had

The vehicle stopped twice more to collect survivors that we managed to squeeze within the confines of the flatbed, along with their very grateful, very muddied pets. Dogs that hitherto loathed one other, who ferociously faced off at fences, were too shocked to defend turf they no longer had and, in a bout of canine compassion, appeared happy to reacquaint themselves with one another. 

You made it out, too? Whew, what a night!

To avoid flooding and obstacles, the flatbed truck took various detours, finally grinding to a halt just before Montecito Mart.

A latte would have been nice, but, alas, on this dark, wet, and very muddy morn, even Starbucks was closed.

This story first appeared in the Santa Barbara News-Press and is re-edited here with the approval of the article’s owner and author, Robert Eringer.