Jim Greuel
Downburst: A strong downward current of air from a cumulonimbus cloud, usually associated with intense rain or a thunderstorm. (Oxford)
Windthrow: trees uprooted or broken by wind. (Wikipedia)
During the summer of 1977, I was a 20 year old camp counselor at North Star Camp for Boys in northern Wisconsin. In early July, I and two other counselors led 13 twelve year old boys on a whitewater canoe trip on the nearby Flambeau River. The river flowed through unbroken forest - aspen, northern hardwoods, and the state’s largest area of old-growth hemlock trees. Limited road access and an undeveloped shoreline gave it an aura of wilderness.
On July 4th, we pulled into a campground abutting the river and set up tents amid excited chatter about the rapids we’d conquered that day. The sky began to darken. Gray, pregnant clouds lumbered from the west and winds rose. Twelve year olds don’t often do the right or wise thing without prompting, but we didn’t have to tell them to take refuge in their tents. We leaders donned rain gear and stood watch outside as the winds became more fierce and the sky turned to an eerie white. Then the rain came, hard, and the trees began shaking their crowns like rhythm-challenged dancers.
The forest began falling around us. Trees in the campground groaned and toppled, uprooted. We ran tent to tent yelling “Go to the canoes!”. The boys sprinted at our command, and we followed them. We counselors knew that an aluminum canoe is no protection from a falling tree, but moving to the river exchanged 360 degrees of danger for 180 degrees of danger.
At the river the boys crouched under the canoes and I did a quick head count. One too few. Who’s missing? Todd - where’s Todd? I ran back to the tent where he had been. A tree lay across it, the tent flattened save for a bulge. Fearing the worst, I made my way to the small mound, shouting Todd’s name. I placed my hand on it, and relief passed through me like a sigh. It was a sleeping bag. At the same instant I felt a scratching at my back and discovered that another tree had just fallen a few feet away, and I’d been whacked by one of its smaller branches. I raced back to the river.
Turns out Todd had been there all along. In my panic, I had mis-counted, and then not seen him.
The rest has dimmed in my memory. The storm subsided. The boys climbed out from under the canoes and gazed awestruck at the destruction around them. Did we have dry clothes? Were we able to build a fire? I don’t recall, but I think we were all able to stay warm. We managed to make dinner and crammed into the tents that were still standing. The next morning the boys made a game of walking around the campground on downed trees without setting a foot on the ground. Later in the day we heard chain saws as workers and volunteers clearing the access road neared the campground. Eventually leaders from North Star Camp reached us. They exuded relief upon learning we were ok, and then smiled broadly as all of the boys simultaneously shared their personal near-death experiences. When the boys were given the option of ending the trip or continuing on, they chose to continue. Replacement tents and supplies were delivered; the next morning we broke camp and loaded up. Just before we pushed off, another canoe party floated by. One of their canoes had a single paddler, in the stern, the canoe’s mangled bow rising up several feet above the water.
[The July 4th, 1977 storm system, of which the Flambeau downburst was a part, travelled 800 miles in 14 hours from Minnesota to Ohio, damaging or destroying approximately 1 million acres of forest. It knocked down 1/3 of trees in the 92,000 acre Flambeau River State Forest and destroyed all but a few patches of its old-growth hemlock trees. One person in a camper was killed. Storm-wide, 37 people were injured.]
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