The Nashville Flood of 2010
The pilot dropped the plane through the clouds. His move seemed aggressive, almost Kamikaze-like. I imagined that he made his dive to counter the updrafts he had said we might encounter. “He must be attacking the weather head-on,” I thought to myself.
He had put us underneath the wall of clouds in pocket. He took another dive and the ground appeared beneath us. He guided the plane out toward the lake and brought us in from the north. Despite his admonitions, the approach and landing were smooth.
In Chicago, confusion reigned. The airline wanted to reduce weight on the plane so that they could carry more fuel. It might be necessary to fly to another airport if the plane could not land in Nashville. Reducing weight on the flight meant removing people from their seats.
Nashville had been deluged with rain.
I had seen the front end of the storm yesterday on the television. It had turned Churchill Downs’ track into slop. Super Saver, the winner of the Derby, must have been a mudder. The same storm had engulfed Nashville with 13 inches of rain in 48 hours. For some reason, I had not made any connection between the rain in Nashville and the storm in Louisville. As I stood amongst the confusion at the gate, waiting to get my boarding pass, the connection became clear. The brutal effect of weather on everyday life became apparent when the attendant at the gate offered 300 hundred dollars in travel vouchers for anyone who would be willing to give up their seat.
“Travel vouchers,” I said under my breath, “the currency that the airlines use for bribes.” No one volunteered. The airline bumped the ante up to $400.
“I paid full price for this ticket,” the woman ahead of me in line stated. The attendant, whose eyes swelled, struggled to hold back the tears and informed the woman that she had been, despite holding an assigned seat, placed on the priority stand-by list.
“I’ve had this ticket for five months, five months! I paid full price and I will not be removed from this flight,” the woman responded. In a fit of aggravation, she stammered and repeated herself as if it would bring her point home and get her on the plane. The attendant’s eyed just continued to swell as she handed the woman her ticket to the priority stand-by list. The woman walked away from the counter shaking her head anger. I passed her and handed my ID to the attendant.
“I’m sorry sir,” the attendant said, “we are going to place you on the priority stand by list.” I felt the same feelings that the woman ahead of me had vocalized. I knew, though, that any protest would not amount to anything. I internalized my anger, smiled, took the stand-by voucher, and walked away.
“Thank you,” I muttered halfheartedly.
One by one, passengers that had been bumped walked up to the counter, argued their case, and took their voucher. Some argued vociferously, some quietly, many cried, others claimed that their lives had been ruined by this heinous act.
Those who had not been bumped began to board the plane. The attendants began to call individuals up to the counter.
“Grant,” the attendant called, “Ms. Grant”
The ostensible Ms. Grant approached the counter and snatched her boarding pass greedily. She practically ran to the gate as if someone might steal her ticket from her.
“Johnson, Frailey, Olson,” the attendant called.
I beat Mr. Johnson and Ms. Frailey to the counter. I snatched my boarding pass from the attendant and rushed to the gate.
As we approached Nashville, I saw the wall of clouds. Even from a distance, it was evident that the clouds were saturated with water. Moisture oozed from every expanse. The pilot utilized a series of steep dives to step his way through the gray wall. The approach and landing were smooth despite warnings to the contrary.
In Nashville, the clouds seemed to be holding back the water. The rain had reduced to a sputter. There was water everywhere, though. On the first level at the airport, near the car rental counter, large fans tried to dry the floors as several pumps move the water out to the street.
From the airport, I took I-40 to the Briley Parkway. Shortly before the Two Rivers Parkway, the Police were diverting traffic. I followed the Two Rivers Parkway to McGavock Pike. At the low point on McGavock, the water bubbled up through the manhole covers. Across the road, several parishoners attempted to squeegee water from the first floor of their church. I drove to the high ground and came back down the hill. I could see the entrance to the Gaylord on the other side of the Briley.
The Cumberland River overflows onto the Briley Parkway
Famished, I stopped at the Waffle House.
“There’s more rain coming,” my waiter pointed to the dark gray clouds to the southwest. They may have been the same clouds I flew through earlier. They were swollen and gray, almost pinkish.
“I’ve heard,” he said “that the power is out down at the Gaylord.”
The Gaylord Opryland Hotel sits inside an oxbow on the Cumberland River. It is about five miles, as the crow flies, from the Old Hickory Dam. The water level at Old Hickory Lake had reached 451.4 feet above mean sea level. At 452 feet, the water would spill over the dam. The J. Percy Priest reservoir sat at 504 feet, 59 feet over the normal pool. The lake threatened to overflow the dam and flood, even further, the Stones river.
Flooded Entrance to the Gaylord
The Cumberland River approaches Opryland Drive
The Corps of Engineers had been bleeding water from both dams.
I finished my eggs, paid my bill, and drove down to the Gaylord.
At Opryland Drive, I could see the Cumberland River overflowing its banks. I turned into the parking lot and drove to the entrance. The area seemed deserted, almost ghostly. Most of the lights were out, there were no attendants in the parking kiosks. The gates had been left open.
I parked the car in the loading zone near the entrance and hiked down to the lobby.
I entered. It was strangely deserted. Large fans dried what moisture they could. I could hear the hum of pumps moving water.
“Haven’t you heard,” a man, obviously an employee of the hotel, said as he accosted me, “we’re evacuating everyone to the Presidential Ballroom.”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t,” I answered.
“You need to get up to the Presidential Ballroom,” he said, “the levee might break.” He left the word “levee” mysteriously ambiguous.
“What about my car,” I asked, “it’s parked out in the loading zone.”
“Probably better move it up to the pay lot,” he said, “then go up to the Presidential Ballroom.
A fairly strange exchange, I thought to myself, if the levee is going to break, why would I, or he, be worried about where my car is parked.
I went back out to my car and opened the driver’s side door before my phone rang.
A colleague was up at the Radisson, he had located some rooms up in Brentwood. High ground.
The Grand Ole Opry House flooded by the Cumberland River
As I inspected the damage on Monday, I was struck by the fact that Nashvillians were rolling up their sleeves and getting to work. Everyone had a boat, or a bus, or blankets. Everyone wanted to help. It should have come as no surprise, Tennessee is, after all, the volunteer state.
Floods at the Cumberland River
Floods at the Cumberland
Rescuers
More pictures of the Flood Damage on Picasa