Recalling The Great Flood of 1957

By Charles Hayes - 1989

(in the Breathitt County Journal)

Editor's Note: As with every great event that takes place in our lives, vivid memories are made. But as old man Time has a habit of moving ever onward, our keenest recollections fad with the passing of the years. Most often our mind's eye sees a whole different picture, probably more like what we wished it would have been like. The passing of the years truly does make those days of yesteryear seem like the good old days, even though we must admit that 1989 is a pretty good time be living here in the hill country of Breathitt. And so it is with these thoughts in mind that your editor begins to write about what little he remembers of the Flood of 1957.

As many readers of the Journal may recall from an earlier article (What Happened To Our Little Road?), my family has for almost 200 years lived in what I today call Hayes Valley. Many generations of my kinsmen have watched and taken part in the great story of Breathitt as it has unfolded down through the years. Now it is our turn to appear upon that great stage and of course there are important happenings for every brief lifespan to ponder and report.

Today when one enters Jackson from the west, new Highway 15 allows a traveler to zip by without a thought. There are few curves and not much to slow one up until he enters Jackson's strip. Back in the 1950's the little gravel road that passed our house made many a loop before it finally connected to old Highway 15 at the mouth of Panbowl Branch. For most of its distance our road, which we called the Five-Mile Road, followed the river. From necessity, travelers moved at a slow speed and must have had more time to enjoy the natural beauty of the valley. Our road was a beautiful route, passing through some of Breathitt County's most scenic spots. It was mostly a place of peace and quiet, was that valley of the Kentucky River. But sometimes the old river could turn mean with its high waters trapping us in our little valley for many days at time. Back then Jackson was some five miles away and during flood-time, it seemed much farther away. We were trapped, cut off from town and sometimes from our very neighbors, and had to wait for Nature to take her course. Today the old Five-Mile Road is mostly gone and Jackson's city limits extend almost a mile beyond the place of my childhood. And of course, the river never floods the new road at all.

In January of 1957 I was just a couple of months away from a birthday. Being a young lad of almost ten may account for some unusual details, yet some of the memories are quite clear. For example, I know that only the summer before in 1956 my dad, Chester C. Hays, had been almost killed while working on the cutoff project just up the river from our house. It seems that while he was talking to a fellow bulldozer operator a large rock of several tons fell from the bucket of a steam shovel pinning my dad against a dozer. Of course, several bones were crushed. Doctors put his left arm and leg back together with pins.

This grave accident meant that our family had lost its bread winner for at least six or eight months. It seems to me that he received $32.00 every two weeks in workman's compensation during the time. As the months passed my dad kept working his leg with a bag of sand and slowly he began to regain his strength. Yet he had to walk on crutches.

As the leaves of summer gave way to the cold winds of November rains began to fall. Soon the river (North Fork of the Kentucky) reached flood stage and a great tide covered the flatlands all about. Because our little road had many low spots we were quickly cut off from the outside world. Thus, from generations of experience, most families knew to keep enough food stuffs about so as not to run low during a flood which could last a week. We got through that flood all right. Then another tide came, somewhat smaller than the first but still a good-sized flood. This was in December of 1956, a bleak time for my family as money and all were in short supply.

It was during the third week of January of 1957 that the great rains began and many of the old-timers warned that something terrible was on its way. For days the rain continued and as predicted, the muddy waters of our river were terrible. We did not have a television, but radio reports from up the river told us that Hazard, Haddix, and Jackson were being battered by flood.

However, as those reports were coming in, I recall just how safe we felt. After all, the old farmhouse we lived in was well over 100 years old and no tide water had ever entered it. But the waters kept on raising as the rains kept on falling. Old flood stage records were broken and still the great waters sipped higher. One morning we awaked to the sight of water coming up our little hollow, backing up through the rock underpass as it headed for our house. And then it happened. Not fast, not dangerously, but slowly the water climbed up the old steps and onto our front porch and then it entered.

My parents had had time to prepare by putting everything up on tables and boxes. Our kind neighbors were also there helping. And as night approached I remember my family was divided among those same friends and we spent the first night I can ever remember apart, leaving the old house to the river.

Of course to us youngsters these were exciting times. We could walk along the road and look at the wide waters which seemed miles across at the mouth of Cane Creek and on up Shack's Branch We saw all kinds of things floating by and we shot at the cans and jugs for fun.

One day at the height of the flood my dad, still on crutches, offered to take me for a boat ride on the back waters which covered the wide bottoms. As we pushed the tiny wooden boat from the bank adventure surely lay ahead! At first my dad was content to paddle through the somewhat shallow and eddy waters which covered the fields. Then he headed out to mid river where the current was a raging mass of speed. I don't remember being scared or worried, just excited as our boat headed for the far side of the great river. The current carried us downstream at an angle, but finally we made it across. (I guess I had the same feeling that some of my earlier kinsmen must have had as they fought the same river from atop log rafts as they were carried downstream to market.) Then we re-crossed and floated up Shack's Branch, passing over a picnic table that was anchored at the mouth of the hollow. I can still remember barely seeing the top of the table which was painted a bright orange as we passed over it.

That very afternoon by dad took that same wooden boat and headed upstream to Jackson. It seems that we had run out of food. Now crossing the flooding river had been no small feat, especially for a man on crutches. However, I am glad I wasn't aboard when Dad fought his way through the new Cutoff amid swirling waters that could have destroyed the home-made boat at anytime. (Readers aware of the Cutoff area know that it is a man made funnel which allows the waters of the North Fork to flow quicker without making the long loop around the Panbowl.) Yet, at nightfall, he returned without much celebration loaded with supplies to see us through the flood.

As for our safety while out in the river, we never really thought about it. We had nothing in the way of life preservers or floats of any kind. Looking back, it was a foolish and deadly thing we did by getting out on the raging river. But, oh how glad I am that we did!

In the days that followed, the river settled down to its old bed again and life as usual resumed. When the valley dried it was the habit of everyone to go down on the riverbank and examine the large drifts that had been caught on the trees. We found all kinds of things that had floated down from faraway places such as Hazard, Whitesburg, and Hindman. Toys, furniture, tires, lumber, and a host of everything. could be found. And of course, everyone was always looking for that jar which held some unlucky mountaineer's life savings. This really was a kid's delight after each flood. I remember I spotted a shiny, white wooden sign buried beneath the river's rubbish. It only had one word, CAPACITY, painted on it. For some reason I picked it up and brought it home. Soon after that I nailed it to a large pine tree which stood just above our house, its whiteness gleaming in the sun. Then as young boys will do, I soon forgot both the flood and the sign.

Thirty years later in 1987 I had reason to pass by the old tree again and there nailed to its side hung the weathered sign that I had rescued after the Flood of 1957. It gave me cause to pause and re-live for a moment the memories I have shared with you today: of a young boy fresh from the big city and his experiences with the Flood of 1957. The old sign with its ever-dimming letters yet hangs on that pine which now overlooks my printing office. Every once in a while I glance up at it, grateful for its presence and all that it stands for.

Unlike many of the nameless floods that came before and after, the great Flood of 1957 earned a place in our history books. I am sure it did great damage to others, but for me and my family, just a hard day's work cleaning up the thick layer of mud was about all we suffered. Of the old house, it lasted but two more years as it was torn down to make way for our new highway.