As the afternoon wore on, so did the gloom. Unstated, Jeanne and I knew that much of what we owned would be destroyed as the surging river passed through our mountain cabin, east to west, trashing everything in its path. Yet, we were safe -- even the dogs. The rest was simply stuff, but it was difficult to be cheery, nonetheless.

To avoid depressing reflections (and either because of the stress or because I had been drenched, I was chilled) I slept the afternoon away. A couch in the kitchen, a blanket from an upstairs closet which Jeanne spread over me, and I left the frightening and insecure world I was now inhabiting. A refugee no doubt, but a sleeping one, out of the dark reality of the moment.

All was not askew in our world: hummingbirds continued to gulp sugar water at Kathy's back porch feeder, despite the dense and pounding rain. At six-thirty dinner was served: hamburgers cooked upon a propane fueled kitchen range, accompanied by ripe tomatoes from Kathy's garden, massive onion slices and pickles. There was even enough ice remaining in the power-less freezer from a cocktail hour martini.

The rain stopped at six p.m. Fourteen hours of rain, two inches to the hour (Kathy had a rain gauge). TWENTY-EIGHT INCHES OF RAIN IN A SINGLE DAY, but it was over.

Jeanne and the dogs went for a walk: up the gouged and deeply pocked and rutted state road to our cabin. I was too fearful, frightened of the discovery to accompany her.

"It looks to me like we were spared," Jeanne said upon her return. She could only look from the state road: our driveway was still a river.

We retired early, to a window-less room, with a skylight, which extended out to a windowed porch. Jeanne read with a flashlight on the porch for an hour or so. I awoke in the middle of the night, seemingly suffocating in the dark, closed-in room. I fumbled for a flashlight in my Dobbs kit, in a near panic. Light was found and I opened a window on the porch, but I still felt trapped, with an irrational panic gripping me. Was it fear of drowning -- suffocation -- subconscious residue from the torrent?

Before sleep would come again, I remembered that flood damage is not covered by homeowners insurance; we, of course, had no flood insurance. I thought of the ruined photos and mementos and of the family good-times our four generations had enjoyed over a span of thirty years in that old cabin. I also swore to God that I would do my best to act like an adult, not be an impediment to Jeanne, as we started over. I remembered how smug I once had been about paying off the mortgage on the cabin, how I would have a leg up on my old age: always a place to return to. Finally, I remembered the truth in the old saw: the only certain things in life are death and taxes. Then I returned to fitful sleep, in a small window-less room, in a strange house, where I was a refugee.

By Saturday morning, it all passed. Kathy's home had not been touched by the flood waters passing through her land: the overloaded stream had cut a new channel away from the house. The terrible storm had passed to the north, and the sun was shining with a piercing brightness that, perhaps, can only be experienced after the darkest and most threatening of storms. It was a gorgeous day in Jewell Hollow.

Jeanne rose early and quickly from our borrowed bed. She, Duda and Attila the Hun moved immediately to inspect our altered environment. I met her as she was beginning her return walk down the state road. We had been spared. We had been blessed. Our beloved, funky cabin, nestled into the western slope of the Blue Ridge Mountains, backed into the national park, was safe. Even the cars escaped damage parked, as they were, slightly higher than the driveway-river.

Debris and wreckage were everywhere: the state road had three-feet-deep river beds running on each side; water had criss-crossed in places, leaving impasssable chasms. Bridges were underwater. There was neither electricity nor telephone service. Our cars were trapped in that portion of the driveway nearest the cabin by a gaping hole, dug by the raging overflowing water, around the drainage pipe bringing water into the pond. On Sunday, Jeanne and I worked with shovels for three hours refilling the hole with the very aggregate that had been flung away by the viciously wild water.

Where new brooks were given birth by established streams rampaging over their normal banks, large hardwoods were ripped up by the roots. One fell within a few feet of the back of the cabin; it's now completely sawed into rounds, with its substantial limbs already sawed, stacked and air-drying. Other large Oaks and Maples await the cutting edge of my chain saw.

Sunday, Jeanne and I took an inspection walk to determine the damage the storm had foisted on our forest. The most memorable loss is the largest Oak tree I have ever seen. Jeanne and I measured it at the base of the trunk with a very long piece of twine, long ago; alas, the measurement is lost, but it was a monster Oak, hundreds of years old. Its time had come: the base of the trunk is badly diseased. RIP, old fellow. We also discovered that 100 pieces of hardwood I had split on the opposite bank of the back stream (which I had intended to toss over the stream for stacking on our side) had been swept away in the flood. Five or six very large hardwoods were uprooted and lay about near the stream bank. I won't have to seek out hardwoods for sawing, splitting and stacking for years to come.

Saturday of flood week was a day of cleanup: Jeanne cleared out the mess that was occurring in her powerless refrigerator; I began to rake up the massive load of sticks and limbs which had floated onto our land. I then sat almost inert, still in an emotional stupor over our trauma, and then good fortune. Early in the evening we listened, for the first time, to an entire Prairie Home Companion on our battery radio. I sipped a few scotch and sodas, continuing to revel in the sun and tranquility of the day and early evening. Jeanne made dinner of a lovely salad, with greens from our tepid refrig, and basil-garlic pasta. Sleep was more peaceful that night, at home.

Almost miraculously, VDOT crews came to Jewell Hollow Sunday to patch our mangled gravel road. A large bucket-loader filled in the middle, so that even our autos could traverse the road, along with the four wheel drive pickups and fancy Jeeps and Explorers, so in fashion today.

The Power Co. crews arrived Sunday afternoon. I cheered, for with all of the power outages in our county, we had little hope for restored power before the new business week.

"We hope to have you hooked up afore evenin," said the driver of the lead white truck, a welcome sight, with its big, top-mounted hydraulic bucket. True to his word, an hour later the lights came on and our water well pump gushed fresh, clean water. Just in time too: Jeanne, on her way to work the next morning in Washington City, had sworn to bathe in the freezing, still-swollen creek, if power was not with us at dusk. Telephone service arrived, unannounced, Sunday evening when our phone rang.

Monday morning Davey arrived as scheduled, always a bit of a surprise; he had promised to help me fill in the driveway hole Sunday, but found other activities to take his time. Jeanne took his place on the second shovel. Sunday, Davey spotted a heavy top-limb of the Maple tree growing at the corner of the summer house hanging precariously by a thin strip, poised to fall on one of us as we walked into the screened structure.

I'll be up tomorrow to shoot that sucker down," were his words. Good as his bond, he arrived Monday morning with a 50 caliber black-powder, muzzle-loader. He shot; splinters flew, but not the tree top. He retamped a load of powder and slug and shot again, and again. Eleven times Davey shot that small-time cannon at the sliver of live Maple holding a couple hundred pounds of tree top. After the eleventh blast, down it crashed. I was inside the cabin calling Jeanne to describe the bizarre scene when the fatal shot thundered through the forest: man shoots down tree top. Our only lingering threat from Hurricane Fran was shot out of the sky.

Events have returned to normal in Jewell Hollow: the hummingbirds have left us for their long journey across the Gulf of Mexico, debris is being raked and burned, on clear days. Only our yacht (raft), marooned and askew as it overhangs the pond spillway, without a stream-swept support barrel, reminds us of the terror Hurricane Fran inflicted upon us.

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