Sunland-Tujunga Awash in the Politics of Rain Puddles

The morning after the worst of it the sky was blue and clear and the clouds floated like egg whites whipped with helium. The San Gabriels loomed large, frosted with snow. In a driveway on the north side of Big Tujunga Wash, Patricia Davenport stood in the crisp breeze and aimed her camera toward a wide bend in the swift brown current.

This was where we happened into each other. I wanted to see whether El Nino was carving out new channels in a capricious terrain where property owners envision an 18-hole golf course. Davenport, a field deputy for Councilman Joel Wachs, was there to document the storm’s impact.

The night before, residents called to report flood waters covering the broad width of the Big Tujunga Wash--more proof, they said, that this was a stupid place for golf.

At this hour, in this particular flood, Davenport pointed out, it seemed that reports had been exaggerated. The results of this particular test, it seemed to me, were inconclusive.

But Sunland-Tujunga’s great golf course debate isn’t necessarily the first concern for people who live where the city climbs into the crumbly foothills of the San Gabriels. Storms of yesteryear have sent homes slipping down hillsides and caskets sliding out of an old hilltop cemetery into suburban streets. The slides that hit West Hills would have seemed less surprising here.

So Pat Davenport had a few more checks to make and invited me to ride along. One of her jobs, she explained, was to make sure the city was prepared and thus prevent “big stories” from happening. Yes, as people in Santa Maria and Laguna Beach know too well, no news tends to be good news.

*

Next stop was the spot where Oro Vista Avenue dipped down off Big Tujunga Wash Road and reached into the community known as Riverwood Ranch. Here the waters roared across the road, leaving Riverwood Ranch isolated except by a dirt back road.

City firefighters blocked the road, and it was easy to understand why, otherwise, a motorist might be tempted to cross. The water wasn’t that deep but it was swift enough to have moved several boulders. It would be foolhardy, Battalion Chief Walt Wilkinson said, for anybody to try. So as a safety precaution, a paramedic company had spent the night in Riverwood Ranch.

At about 9:30 the night before, Davenport said, she had encountered four young adults here with umbrellas strolling at the water’s edge, watching the show, unaware of the danger coming down from deep in the canyon.

Davenport knew something they didn’t know. She had been in touch with county engineers who operate Big Tujunga Dam and thus knew that, at about 8:30 p.m., the dam’s capacity had crested its spillway.

A flow that would measure at 250 cubic feet per second in the morning would escalate to 400 and 850 later in the day. When it went over the spillway, the flow had peaked at 3,900 cubic feet per second.

It would take roughly 90 minutes, Davenport said, for the water to rush down to Oro Vista. The four strollers, she said, appreciated the warning and quickly moved to higher ground, about 30 minutes before the river would rapidly rise.

Even people who live near the wash may be unaware of how flood-control practices alter the flow. Ken Swanson, a supervising civil engineer for Big Tujunga Dam, said that the dam did its job well. At the peak of the deluge, Swanson said, water flowed into the dam at 8,600 cubic feet per second--more than double the peak outflow.

Davenport took a few more pictures and we were back in her car, parked next to a stand of bright sunflowers with a backdrop of snowy ridgelines.

After working decades in nursing, Davenport, a Sun Valley resident, became active in neighborhood improvements and only a year ago found a new calling as a trouble-shooter for Wachs. She talked about the smaller tasks in preparation for El Nino storms--the storm drains that needed clearing, the brush cut away from obscure gutters.

She was easing off the shoulder when suddenly she braked. A red Corvette rocketed past and up the curving canyon road.

“Idiot,” Davenport muttered. “If he hits mud up there, he’ll say it’s the city’s fault for not clearing the road. You try to idiot-proof things but there are so many idiots and they’re so persistent.”

*

Davenport drove and talked. The old cemetery, she said, apparently wasn’t presenting much of a problem this year. We drove down one dead-end street where water had formed a large pool--just a nuisance for neighbors. Now it had receded considerably. Back at Wachs’ field office, we entered through the back door. Sandbags that had been placed to keep the water out were now moved aside.

A man behind the counter was explaining how the storm had turned the dirt road that leads to his home into a muddy bog. He wouldn’t be alone. Many people had similar problems--and people who live on dirt roads point out that they pay taxes, too.

The morning was over and I had places to go, people to meet. I bid Davenport goodbye and was driving down Foothill Boulevard when I saw five helicopters hovering over a place in Big Tujunga Wash. Uh oh, I thought, turning on to Wentworth Street where I saw the fire trucks and paramedics.

All of this, it turned out, concerned a horse named Dakota stranded on an island in the wash. “File this under Stupid People No. 107,” the embarrassed horsewoman said. Why No. 1O7, I don’t know. A lovely day for a ride, but the rider conceded that maybe this wasn’t the best trail for this particular day.

Perhaps you already heard about how Dakota panicked walking through calm water and bolted into the current, prompting her rider to grab a tree. Perhaps you saw the video or newspaper photos of Dakota being lifted to safety by helicopter.

The morning after the morning after the worst of it, I took another trip up here, this time on my own. The water seemed to have receded a bit and there was no evidence of emergency rescues of living things. Later I turned on the news and knew, yes, life was returning to normal.

There had been yet another thrilling police pursuit on the freeway. Film at 11.