Debby Downer: “It’s Only A Matter of Time”
- Ben Mazur
- 17 hours ago
- 20 min read
“Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you.”
Crowded House's Weather With You has always struck me as an interesting metaphor for the way we move through the world. We carry our moods, attitudes and circumstances with us, and they inevitably influence how we experience what surrounds us. But in August 2024, the weather was not a metaphor. It was very real, and it was coming directly at Eastern States 100.
I have always been something of a weather geek. As a child, much to the dismay of my parents, I would draw cold fronts and large H's on my bedroom wall and make rudimentary weather maps of the United States. I even considered studying meteorology in college, but reconsidered when I realized how much math and science were involved. I did, however, intern with the Penn State Meteorological Service, which produced the daily Weather World program for public television. Even today, when storms approached, I look at the radar and open the curtains.
So when Tropical Storm Debby began making its way north during the first week of August 2024, I was paying very close attention.
At first, I was hopeful. The forecasts suggested that Debby would bring substantial rainfall to the Pine Creek Valley, but that the system would move through quickly. This was not supposed to be another Agnes. We would get a lot of rain, but we would deal with it, make some adjustments and hold the race.
I was wrong.
What happened over the next several days became less about managing a weather forecast and more about responding to a force that was steadily taking away our options, one by one.
Sometime around August 5 or 6, our attention turned south toward a tropical storm with the rather quiet and timid name of Debby.
Initially, I was hopeful. A storm of this magnitude affecting the Pine Creek Valley in early August was unusual, and historically, there were very few comparable events to consider. The obvious comparison was Hurricane Agnes in September 1972, which caused catastrophic flooding throughout Pennsylvania. The forecasts indicated that Debby was not going to be another Agnes. The storm would bring substantial rainfall, but it was expected to move through relatively quickly rather than stall over the region.
The question was how much rain we would receive.
That became increasingly important as the week progressed.
By Tuesday afternoon, the forecast was becoming more concerning. The Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources, Tiadaghton State Forest and Little Pine State Park asked us to participate in an emergency meeting on Wednesday morning.
The forecast was for Debby's remnants to interact with a frontal boundary and bring several inches of rain to the region on Friday. Pine Creek was expected to rise significantly late Friday and into Saturday.
The word “significantly” required some context.
A stream gauge upstream from the race course normally recorded approximately 700 cubic feet of water moving through the river each second during a typical summer day. The National Water Prediction Service was forecasting approximately 21,900 cubic feet per second for Saturday morning. That was roughly 31 times the normal flow, with Pine Creek expected to rise approximately seven feet at the gauge.
We immediately began changing the race.
The first significant change was to eliminate the creek crossing. Instead, runners would leave the course on Naval Run Road, travel toward Slate Run, cross Pine Creek on the Slate Run Road bridge and then use approximately 1.1 miles of the Pine Creek Rail Trail to reach Tomb Flats Campground. The aid station would be moved adjacent to the rail trail. Runners would then retrace the route back to the bridge and return to the course.
That solved one problem, but it created another.
By Thursday, it was becoming apparent that Tomb Flats itself could be underwater.
The River Forecast Center was predicting that Pine Creek could overflow its banks and reach the rail trail, campground and parking area. Aid Station 10 was therefore moved to higher ground in Slate Run, behind Wolfe's General Store. Because there were only about 33 parking spaces at the new location, crews would not be permitted there, although pacers could still begin or finish their duties at the aid station. We also prepared guide ropes for several stream crossings, including Naval Run, Browns Run and Trout Run.
At the same time, we were becoming increasingly concerned about Little Pine Creek Lake.
Little Pine Lake is essentially a giant flood-control bathtub. The dam is designed to hold floodwaters and release them gradually, protecting downstream communities and property.
Little Pine Lake is essentially a giant flood-control bathtub. The dam is designed to hold floodwaters and release them gradually, protecting downstream communities and property.
There was a monument below the park office marking the waterline reached during the January 1996 flood. Heavy snow, intense rainfall and frozen ground had combined to produce extraordinary flooding. The waterline was approximately 50 feet above the normal lake level and appeared almost incomprehensibly far from the normal shoreline.
Even that level seemed possible under the forecast we were receiving.
The calculations indicated that the start and finish area above the dam could be underwater. Although the numbers seemed extreme, both we and DCNR had to plan for the possibility.
So we moved the entire start and finish area.
That meant moving the logistical operation, the race course start and finish, and the runner camping area to the campground below the dam. We also extended the overall cutoff by 30 minutes, to 36 hours and 30 minutes, because the revised course added approximately 1.4 miles and a significant climb to the final section.
We were now dealing with a race that looked very different from the one we had planned.
But it was still a race.
At least, that was what I thought.
Friday morning, the rain arrived.
I had approximately 300 runners preparing to descend on the Pine Creek Valley, along with their crews, families and volunteers. In total, there were approximately 1,500 people associated with the event that we had to consider.
One of my jobs that morning was to take our water supplier back to Lock Haven. The trip was approximately 20 miles each way, and during those hours I saw some of the heaviest rain I have ever experienced. It was raining hard enough that the windshield wipers seemed incapable of keeping up. On Route 44, runoff from a mountain stream had flooded the road, but I continued through it.
Then, around 11 a.m., the rain stopped.
By noon, the skies began to clear.
For a short time, I thought we had gotten through it.
At our new start and finish location below the dam, I remember giving myself a small high-five and thinking that we had done a good job adapting to the situation.
There were still problems. We had no electricity and no internet. More importantly, we were beginning to understand that the water affecting us had not necessarily fallen in the valley.
It was still coming downstream.
Pine Creek is the largest creek in the United States and drains a watershed of approximately 979 square miles. Rainfall that occurs many miles upstream eventually makes its way toward the valley and, ultimately, Waterville.
Pine Creek is the largest creek in the United States and drains a watershed of approximately 979 square miles. Rainfall that occurs many miles upstream eventually makes its way toward the valley and, ultimately, Waterville.
Friday afternoon was the period between the initial rainfall and the anticipated rise of the river. The prediction at the time was that Pine Creek would rise to just below flood stage at Slate Run. What we did not know, because we had no internet access, was how much rain had fallen farther north.
We had received approximately 3.5 inches of rain in our immediate area. Along the Route 6 corridor to the north, rainfall totals exceeded six inches.
All of that water was headed toward us.
Around noon Friday, I went to Little Pine Lake and stood at the pavilion. The lake still appeared to be well below the level that had concerned us.
Then I saw the first wave of water from Debby.
A muddy wave approximately three feet high, carrying debris, came down from the headwaters, crossed the lake and struck the opposite shoreline.
The filling of the bathtub had begun.
The next 16 hours became a series of problems followed by attempted solutions.
By Friday afternoon, the park had effectively become isolated. There was no electricity, downed trees had taken out power lines, and those same trees blocked roads into and out of the park. Internet service was gone and would remain unavailable until Sunday.
Runner check-in was scheduled to begin at 5 p.m. It was not until approximately 4:45 p.m., when the line of vehicles finally appeared, that I knew the road between the park and Route 44 in Waterville had been cleared.
We still had no electricity.
What we did have was clear blue sky.
The irony was difficult to miss.
At the two ends of the Little Pine State Park day-use area, the road drops toward the normal lake level. The water is normally approximately 25 feet below the roadway. During the afternoon, the lake rose rapidly enough to inundate the road.
The park's concern that the day-use area could become inaccessible was becoming a reality.
The volunteers working runner check-in did an excellent job explaining all of the changes. They explained the revised course, the relocation of Tomb Flats, the new start and finish, the new camping area and the fact that the worst of the flooding might still be ahead.
There were also several incidents that had nothing to do with the race but demonstrated how quickly conditions were changing.
A couple who had traveled into the upper portion of the park became trapped by rising water. DCNR and I began planning a rescue that would have required a three-mile trek up a ridge and down the other side. During the planning discussion, someone mentioned the names of the people who were trapped. I recognized one of them immediately.
Fortunately, the couple was able to make their way around the lake by climbing above the waterline and using the trees to work their way along the ridge.
Later that evening, during runner check-in, a woman arrived and reported that a car had driven into the lake.
I drove above the dam and found a Ford Escape approximately 40 yards into the flooded roadway. The roof of the vehicle was above the water and a man was standing on top of it. Two members of the local volunteer fire company were nearby, and we were trying to determine how we could get the vehicle back to shore because emergency crews were occupied with other incidents.
A man holding a small dog joined us.
I asked him why he was soaking wet.
He explained that he had been a passenger in the vehicle and had swum to shore.
I asked whether he was with the race.
He asked, “What race?”
At that point, I was relieved to determine that this particular incident was not ours.
By then, however, the situation surrounding the area was deteriorating rapidly.
During the overnight hours, we continued receiving information about flooding and road conditions. Because we were disconnected from the outside world, we did not really know what was happening elsewhere. The park manager summarized the situation well when she said, “There is a lot of shit happening out there and we only know a fraction of what is really out there.”
I sent a driver out to inspect roads that crews and volunteers would need to use later in the day. We needed to know whether there were flooded roads, downed trees, washouts or landslides that would prevent people from moving safely throughout the course.
Then we received word that the parking area for Aid Station 12 in Blackwell was on the verge of flooding.
Combined with the loss of Tomb Flats, we had now lost approximately 40 percent of the course.
I sat down with my Purple Lizard map and started looking for another solution.
The idea I came up with was to turn Eastern States into an out-and-back. Runners would travel approximately 52 miles to Aid Station 8 at Dry Run, turn around, and return along the same route.
The idea I came up with was to turn Eastern States into an out-and-back. Runners would travel approximately 52 miles to Aid Station 8 at Dry Run, turn around, and return along the same route.
It was an enormous logistical undertaking. Aid stations that had previously been visited once would now be visited twice. Volunteer shifts would have to be extended or additional shifts added. Food and supplies would have to be available for runners passing through in both directions. Medical, communications and other resources would have to be redistributed.
It was, in many respects, an entirely new race.
When I presented the idea to the race team, I expected some resistance.
Instead, they immediately began figuring out how to make it work.
The communications team contacted volunteers and other race resources. Aid station personnel began adjusting their plans. My co-race director began cutting the hundreds of reflective flags for the new night section. Everyone understood that the proposal was difficult, but they were willing to attempt it.
That is one of the things I remember most positively about that weekend. I have always understood that the race director does not actually make a race happen. The race team, volunteers, medical staff, communications team and countless others do that. That night, I saw that firsthand.
At approximately 3 a.m., we assembled the crew responsible for runner check-in. They would have to explain the out-and-back and all of the other changes to runners who might not have received the latest emails or social media posts.
Around 4 a.m., cars began arriving at the new start and finish area.
Then we received another report.
Floodwaters from Pine Creek had overtaken Route 414 near Cammal.
The road was not part of the race course and was not a route that crews or volunteers would necessarily use. However, it was another indication of how much water was moving through the watershed.
If the water reached Waterville, the start and finish area could become inaccessible. The lake had already flooded roads to the north, and Waterville could potentially be blocked to the south.
Shortly after we learned this, the park manager came to me with a disaster declaration issued by the Governor. The declaration gave the park authority to pull our permit and stop the race.
They did not do that.
Instead, the park manager explained the situation and told me that the decision to cancel the race was ultimately mine.
At that point, I had to make a decision.
The floodwaters were still rising. We did not know what conditions we would encounter on the roads. We could not guarantee that crews and volunteers could travel safely to their assignments. We were already stretching our personnel and resources to accommodate the repeated changes. We didn’t know what other dangers or threats that could be lurking in the deeper forest and mountain streams.
Most importantly, we had a simple rule that we had been repeating throughout the entire process:
You never fuck around with water.
I conceded defeat.
I stepped onto a picnic table.
My left leg was trembling.
And I told everyone that Eastern States 100 was cancelled.
It was not the decision I wanted to make, and it was not the outcome I had spent the previous year planning for.
But it was the correct decision.
In retrospect, I have very few regrets about how we managed the crisis, although I do wish we had cancelled earlier. What I did not know at the time was that the disaster declaration had been issued approximately 12 hours before we received it. Because we had no internet access, that information did not reach us until shortly before the race was scheduled to start. The notice eventually came through an old-fashioned fax.
Throughout the week, our approach had been to communicate every change as clearly as possible. We explained what was happening, what we were doing about it, why we were making the change and what it meant for runners, volunteers and crews. We tried to communicate frequently and in a concise and compassionate manner.
After the cancellation, a participant told me that she worked as a crisis communications consultant for Fortune 500 companies and believed the way we handled the week had been a masterclass in crisis communications.
That was probably the best compliment I received from the entire experience.
Once the cancellation had settled in, we also began to understand how fortunate we had been.
The communities along US 6 and in the Lycoming Valley had received even more rain. Entire communities were dealing with flooding and significant damage.
We had nearly a thousand participants, crews and volunteers already assembled in the region, along with food and supplies that had been collected for aid stations and would no longer be needed.
I made an announcement that the communities around us were suffering and that, since we were already there, we should do whatever we could to help.
By mid-morning, we had assembled several truckloads of food and supplies from the unused aid station provisions and delivered them to a disaster staging area in Hepburnville which was in the next valley to our east.
I had expected some anger from participants after the cancellation. These runners had made significant sacrifices to be there. They had spent months training, traveled long distances, spent money on registration and lodging, and organized their lives around preparing for a 100-mile race.
Instead, most of the responses were compassionate and understanding. Some people even expressed gratitude that we had made the decision.
Later that afternoon, Grayce Langheine and Eric Kosek of The Running Mullet organized a picnic. They expected perhaps a handful of people to attend. Approximately 100 people showed up.
There was food and there were games, but more importantly, people were together. They talked, laughed and made the best of a weekend that had not gone the way anyone had planned.
There was food and there were games, but more importantly, people were together. They talked, laughed and made the best of a weekend that had not gone the way anyone had planned.
Watching that from a distance was the first time during the entire week that I allowed myself to step away from the responsibilities of the race. I walked away from the crowd for a while and finally let myself process what had happened.
The following is an email Jade Oakes (co-RD) sent to participants:
It’s hard to predict what your running career will hold from one year to the next. Month to month and day to day, it all feels different. That goes for race directing, too.
This past week came down to minute to minute.
A battle of wills between rapidly rising water and a race team who poured their collective hearts into one 36-hour window, while Mother Nature and her friend Debby poured enough rain to dampen the weekend many of us spend 11 months anticipating. By sheer numbers and determination it’s a battle we should have won. But we all know you can’t beat Mother Nature.
Disappointed? That’s an understatement. Heartbroken? A little. Determined? Always.
The water will recede and the sadness will fade, but how do we turn lemons into lemonade? Sometimes you can’t wait for the silver lining. Sometimes you have to find it yourself.
You may have heard that Lycoming County was declared a disaster. Some of you asked me to repeat the name of the county because you hadn’t heard of it. I have. I live here. Those blank faces who everyone wants to help but don’t connect personally to are my neighbors. Much like this trail community, they are also my community. My worlds collided.
We have a choice. We can sit on the sidelines and watch a tragedy unfold, feeling sad and wishing there was a way to help. Or, we can do what the trail community is known for, and we can push forward. We dig deep and put one foot in front of the other. There’s no crying in trail running? Nah. There’s a lot of room for crying in trail running. There’s also room for the silver lining. In my mind, it comes in the form of reflective flagging tape.
When your headlamp hits that tiny, shiny piece of material hanging in the woods, you feel a sense of victory. You made it to another one and you’re on the right course. Being on the right course is important. It means progress. It’s a series of choices that get us to the next reflective ribbon. One foot in front of the other.
This weekend, we chose to find the next ribbon. It’s ok to be disappointed, sad, mad, all the feelings, but letting negativity take root isn’t our style. We’re all still here. We’re all still healthy. We all still have work to do.
While you didn’t get to run the race we all so desperately tried to make happen, you all did something just as important. You helped the community that collided with yours.
Because the race was canceled, we had a lot of extra food that we wanted to get into the hands of those who could use it. We loaded up the trucks and donated. We…us and you. Grateful doesn’t even begin to describe how thankful Hepburnville Volunteer Fire company was to get our aid station food. It fed families, volunteers and first responders. They felt our community hug theirs.
In the weeks to come, we will give our time and resources to the local communities who welcome ours to help them regain a sense of normalcy. Us and you. They thank you. We thank you. I thank you.
While the quest for the buckle will have to wait until next year, we have 363 other days to find more reflective flagging. Giving all we can is more than a buckle. Doing all we can is the prize we should all keep our eye on.
Some will remember 2024 as the year that Mother Nature and Debby won the coveted axes. I’ll remember 2024 as the year that I watched hundreds of friends set aside their own goals to help strangers. It may be my favorite year. After all, this solo sport of running is all about community.
As plans unfold, we’ll keep you all posted on race details and everything you’ll want to hear about 2025. Just give us a minute to sort out the practical, the emotional, and the logical. The waters are receding, we just have a lot of cleaning up to do.
Sincerely,
Jade Oakes
President, Eastern States Trail-Endurance Alliance
Late that Saturday evening, several friends and I went to the breast of the dam, above the filled “bathtub” that had occupied so much of our attention during the previous two days. Below us was the dark, murky lake, swollen with the water from Debby. Above us was the night sky, and it happened to be the night of the Perseid meteor shower.
After everything that had happened, it was difficult not to look up.
Shooting stars crossed the sky while the dark water sat below us. The race we had spent the better part of a year planning was gone. The weather had won. Yet there we were, safe, together, looking into a sky that seemed completely indifferent to everything that had happened below it.
I could not help but think of one of my favorite songs, “Grapevine Fires” by Death Cab for Cutie.
When the wind picked up the fire spread
And the grapevines seemed left for dead
And the northern sky looked like the end of days
The end of days
A wake up call to a rented room
Sounded like an alarm of impending doom
To warn us it's only a matter of time
Before we all burn
Before we all burn
Before we all burn
Before we all burn
We bought some wine and some papercups
Near your daughter's school when we picked her up
And drove to a cemetery on a hill
On a hill
And we watched the plumes paint the sky gray
And she laughed and danced through the field of graves
There I knew it would be alright
That everything would be alright
Would be alright
Would be alright
Would be alright
And the news reports on the radio
Said it was getting worse
As the ocean air fanned the flames
But I couldn't think of anywhere I would have rather been
To watch it all burn away
To burn away
The firemen worked in double shifts,
With prayers for rain on their lips
And they knew it was only a matter of time
The song describes a landscape being consumed by wildfire. The wind picks up, the fire spreads, the sky turns gray, and the news reports that things are getting worse. The people in the song understand that the situation is beyond their control and that it is only a matter of time before the fire reaches them.
Yet, in the middle of all of that destruction, they buy some wine, take some paper cups, drive to a cemetery on a hill and watch the fire from a distance. Their daughter laughs and dances through the field of graves. In that moment, the narrator realizes that everything will be alright.
That contrast had always been one of the reasons I liked the song, but sitting on the dam that night, I understood it differently.
There was something similar happening around us.
We had spent the previous 48 hours trying to solve one problem after another. We had rerouted the course, moved aid stations, moved the start and finish, developed evacuation plans, created an entirely new out-and-back course and repeatedly tried to stay ahead of the water.
Eventually, we could not.
The lake was full. The river was rising. Roads were becoming impassable. The race had been cancelled. There was nothing left for us to fix.
The lake was full. The river was rising. Roads were becoming impassable. The race had been cancelled.
There was nothing left for us to fix.
So we stood on the dam and watched the Perseids.
In “Grapevine Fires”, the image of the child dancing among the graves does not deny the disaster taking place around her. The fires are still burning. The situation is still getting worse. The people watching them know that they cannot stop what is happening. But for that moment, they are together, they have each other, and they are able to find something beautiful in the middle of something frightening.
That is what I remember about that night.
The lake below us represented everything that had gone wrong. It was the physical evidence of the storm that had overwhelmed our plans. The shooting stars above us represented something else: the fact that the world was still there, and so were we.
The race had been lost, but we had not lost everything.
We had our friends.
We had our race team.
We had our volunteers.
We had our participants.
We had our health and safety.
We had been able to help some of the communities that had been hit even harder by the storm.
And, perhaps most importantly, we had each other.
The song's repeated reminder that “it's only a matter of time” has always struck me as somewhat unsettling. In the context of the wildfire, it refers to the inevitability of destruction. Eventually, the fire will reach its destination. There is only so much that people can do to stop forces larger than themselves.
The song's repeated reminder that “it's only a matter of time” has always struck me as somewhat unsettling. In the context of the wildfire, it refers to the inevitability of destruction. Eventually, the fire will reach its destination. There is only so much that people can do to stop forces larger than themselves.
That was true of Debby as well.
There was only so much we could do.
We could plan.
We could monitor the forecasts.
We could move the course.
We could move the aid stations.
We could change the logistics.
We could keep communicating.
We could keep adapting.
But eventually, the decision was no longer about whether we could find another way to conduct the race. It was about whether we could responsibly put nearly a thousand people into an environment that was becoming increasingly unpredictable and dangerous.
At that point, there was nothing left to prove.
The lesson I took from Eastern States 2024 was not that we should have tried harder to save the race. I believe we tried about as hard as we possibly could. The lesson was that there is a point where leadership requires you to recognize that you cannot control the outcome and make the responsible decision anyway.
That is not always an easy lesson to accept.
As a race director, you spend an enormous amount of time trying to anticipate problems before they happen. You build contingency plans. You develop backup plans for the contingency plans. You convince yourself that if you work hard enough and think far enough ahead, you can solve almost anything. Debby was a reminder that you cannot.
As a race director, you spend an enormous amount of time trying to anticipate problems before they happen. You build contingency plans. You develop backup plans for the contingency plans. You convince yourself that if you work hard enough and think far enough ahead, you can solve almost anything.
Debby was a reminder that you cannot.
Sometimes the circumstances are simply bigger than the plan.
What mattered afterward was how everyone responded.
The volunteers stayed.
The race team stayed together.
The runners, for the most part, responded with extraordinary compassion and understanding.
When we realized that our surrounding communities had suffered even greater damage, we gathered the food and supplies that had been intended for the race and sent them to people who needed them.
The race itself was gone, but the purpose of the community remained.
That is what I think about when I remember that night on the dam.
I don't remember the cancellation as much as I remember what happened after it.
I remember standing with friends under a sky filled with shooting stars while the swollen lake sat below us.
I remember realizing that the things I had spent the previous two days trying desperately to control were no longer mine to control.
And I remember being grateful.
The race was gone.
The weather had won.
But we were still there.
Perhaps that is the real takeaway from that weekend in 2024. There are times when events become larger than anything we can do about them. We can fight them for a while, and we should. But eventually, there comes a point when the best thing we can do is accept what has happened, take stock of what remains and be grateful for it.
Eastern States 100 did not happen that year.
That was a loss, and I don't want to minimize it.
But the experience also showed me what we still had.
We had people who cared about one another. We had a race community that understood that the race was important, but that people were more important. We had volunteers who continued to help even when there was no race to work. We had participants who turned disappointment into fellowship. We had a team that never stopped trying to find a solution, and then stood together when there was no longer a solution to find.
And we had that night.
A full lake below us.
A sky full of meteors above us.
A few friends standing together after one of the most difficult weekends we had experienced.
There was nothing we could do about the weather anymore.
There was nothing we could do about the river.
There was nothing we could do about the race.
But there was still plenty to be thankful for.
Sometimes that is what you discover when everything you planned goes wrong. You stop thinking about what you lost and start recognizing what you still have.
And sometimes, as “Grapevine Fires” suggests, that is enough to realize that everything will be alright.
One of the swollen mountain streams,
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