Chapter 35 - It’s Just Like Molalla

Oso, Washington 2014

Chris, my work partner, called me when the Oso mudslide hit.

"There are people dead."

Chris lived in Everett, not far from the slide. He was distraught. Chris had worked for the Red Cross for about twenty years by that point, since he was seventeen. He taught me "Red Cross."

But we had never deployed together. He had never worked for Mike, my boss.

Chris rattled off all of the things he was doing. They were all the right things-he was just shaken up. I knew how to calm people in crisis. That was my specialty.

"Perfect. You know exactly what to do," I assured him. "They are lucky you are there."

Chris walked me through what he was hearing about the response. People were missing, homes had been destroyed. Firefighters were dropping in by helicopter.

"Do you want me to come up?" I asked.

"Yes."

By the time my boss put together a call, I was already at Kelso/Longview in Washington. When I arrived, I went directly to the County Emergency Operations Center.

This was my first Red Cross operation of this kind. No one knew how many people were dead at that point. The entire mountain had slid down, destroying homes, taking lives, and cutting off the only road.

Our communications person, Colin, was at the EOC. The sheriff wanted him to go with him and give families updates on the status of the deceased.

"I don't do that," Colin said. "We don't do that."

I told him I would take care of it. I didn't really know the Red Cross stance on going with police on status updates, but I was sure that it shouldn't be the PIO. I winged my way through it-I had not run into this situation before-but I apparently managed it well enough that I ended up in a car with officials heading out to the site.

Rescue crews were waist-deep in mud. It felt like every firefighter and police officer in two counties was out there.

Someone standing next to me-either from the state or FEMA-said, "We have to get those locals off the hill."

I heard the sound of heavy equipment and chainsaws. There were folks on the upside of the pile, making substantial progress clearing the trees and mud. You could tell they were familiar with the mud, the equipment, and the trees. This was their home ground. And they had the advantage.

Without thinking, I said, "They won't leave. These are forest people. They are your best chance of getting folks out alive."

Oso was just like Molalla. A logging and lumber town. Full of back roads and forest trails. Everyone had a chainsaw, and most people had heavy machinery.

I went back and worked the disaster, leading External Relations but also helping to set up Planning. The Red Cross didn't have a fully-fledged planning process yet-we were just starting to use ICS.

By the end of the week, we had confirmed that forty-three people had died.

I called my husband. I was sick with a cold, but also sick at heart. I had the next day off.

"Drive home," he said.

I did. I cried in his arms.

As I was getting ready to go back, he told me, "Take the dog."

We had an Irish Terrier named Guinness. Guinness loved people. I loved that dog.

I had a Toyota 4Runner with a bed in the back for Guinness. I could crack the window, and he would gladly stay in the car. He was also crate trained.

I took the dog back with me, and he became a comfort dog for everyone on the disaster. I would go to take him for a walk and he would be gone-someone else was walking him.

One of my friends at FEMA asked me to bring him down to their offices in Bothell.

"All the comfort dogs are helping the rescuers," she said. "My people need some comfort too."

At the end of the day, Guinness and I would go back to the motel room. He never was allowed to sleep on our bed at home. But he jumped up on the bed the very first night. It's like he knew I needed comfort too.