Texas Come Hell or High Water

By RICHARD WOODBURY BAILEY''S PRAIRIE

Inching her Chevy van across water-covered roads and mud flats last week, Mayor Jo Mapel of Bailey's Prairie, Texas, couldn't begin to guess how huge the damage bill would be. Most of the ranching hamlet (pop. 634) near the Gulf Coast lay submerged under the dark red waters of the Brazos River and adjoining creeks. Said Mapel: "Nobody's escaping without big problems. This mess is going to be with us for months."

Across southeast Texas, the Brazos, Trinity and Colorado rivers, swelled by nearly 9 in. of rain that pelted their headwaters last month, overflowed their banks for miles, sweeping away buildings and vehicles. With losses in the tens of millions of dollars and 15 dead, 25 counties were designated as disaster areas by President Bush. Lamented James Phillips, chief administrator in Brazoria County: "Nobody expected this in a hundred years. We were practically defenseless."

The onslaught may be only a forerunner of more destructive flooding to come in Texas and other flat, low-lying sections of the country. Helter-skelter population growth along some rivers and the mushrooming of commercial construction at the edge of floodplains are putting thousands of people in disaster's path. The danger zones, some 50 miles or more wide, are so vast that newcomers are often unaware of their potential peril. Warnings to evacuate frequently go unheeded, as they did along parts of the Brazos.

The rampant paving of the countryside -- from parking lots to malls and office complexes -- has made deluges more dangerous by robbing the terrain of its natural ability to absorb rainwater. Water racing across concrete or asphalt travels up to 10 times as fast as it does across a meadow. Often it is funneled into streams and creeks too narrow, shallow and winding to accommodate the rushing runoff.

The changing topography is befuddling flood-control planners and straining the complex system of dams, reservoirs and levees along major waterways like the Brazos. The Texas floods were inevitable because of the size of the downpour that fell on an already soaked region. But their destructiveness was multiplied when runoffs from unexpected points turned quiet creeks into torrents. In Brazoria County, Oyster Creek flooded and combined with the Brazos to create a lake nine miles wide and up to 50 ft. deep.

Like other recent deluges, this one raised questions about the value of flood-control measures. Some experts believe that straightening small tributaries and lining them with concrete for stability only compounds flood problems by moving water faster. "The water down below doesn't get a chance to get out of the way before the other water is there on top of it," observes Fred Liscum, a hydrologist with the U.S. Geological Survey. Levees built to protect towns can also restrict river flow, which in turn can force the waterway to crest and wash out the barriers on either bank. Says Robert Cox, Louisiana floodplain administrator: "You don't get rid of the water; you just pass it on downstream to the next guy."

More and more experts now think that additional construction should be discouraged. The Federal Emergency Management Agency imposes building and development codes as a prerequisite for communities to qualify for subsidized flood insurance. In Bailey's Prairie many newer homes were spared serious damage because they were built on higher ground. The trouble is, says Arthur Storey, executive director of the Harris County Flood Control District, "regulations look at worst-case scenarios, but those are always exceeded by nature's storms." And hundreds of thousands of other structures erected before the mid-1970s are not covered by the rules and are vulnerable.

Most distressing, only 17% of those living in flood-prone areas buy flood insurance, which typically costs $300 yearly for $80,000 coverage. Explains FEMA insurance administrator Bud Schauerte: "Some people think they're covered by homeowners' insurance. Others think the government will come to their rescue. But that's wrong; they may not get anything but a hotel room for a few days."

Such warnings have only limited effect. Under dark skies that threatened cloudbursts, evacuees at a Red Cross shelter in Angleton talked eagerly of returning to rebuild near the Brazos. "I prayed the water would never get too high," said Mike Horn, 32, an electrician who fled with creek waters lapping at his lawn. "But I don't care. I'm going home."