Roswell Flood 2024
It hadn’t rained for months. The ground was perched and every little gust sent dust clouds around covering each and everything in fine, sandy powder. After all – we do live in the desert. We were looking forward to get some rain. And rain is what we got. A lot of rain. Too much rain. Way too much.
Saturday afternoon, October 19th, 2024, started like any other stormy day. The radar showed a front approaching, but it seemed like our area might get sidelined once again. When the flash flood warning buzzed on our phones, we brushed it off—typical. Sure, a few low-lying spots might flood, but nothing major, or so we thought.
By the evening, the rain and a bit of fine hail started to fall, giving everything a snowy look. Rudy and I joked about it, laughed that at least we wouldn’t need to clean our solar panels.
“Hey, look! Our car’s clean too,” we chuckled.
Then, as we sat watching TV, things took a turn. Our street slowly transformed into a river, and the flash flood warnings became more frequent. On social media, we started seeing calls for help, and I could feel a growing concern in the pit of my stomach. It was time to get moving. I activated the Pecos Valley Public Services volunteers—better to be safe than sorry, right?
Not even an hour later, we found ourselves living on an island. Our house, surrounded by water, looked more like it was floating in the middle of a lake. That was our cue. Rudy and I suited up, knowing that our Emergency Response Vehicle (ERV) wouldn’t be much help in these conditions—water was already above knee level. Instead, we jumped into Amelia, our trusty Jeep, and headed into the city.
What our volunteers found was intense. Floodwaters surged through the streets, carrying anything not bolted down—trash cans, debris, even cars. We started pulling people out of stranded vehicles, helping those stuck in their cars, and doing what we could to make sure folks were safe. It was a night of constant motion, but knowing we were making a difference made all the exhaustion worth it.
Somebody waving to the right ….
Rudy yelled and I turned toward the group in trouble. That’s when it happened—the Jeep dove straight into the water. There must have been a dip in the road, but by the time we realized it, it was too late to avoid it. So, I did what I could—hit the accelerator, and Amelia, our trusty Jeep, surged forward, sending a wave of thick, dark brown water cascading over the roof. We made it through, but just barely. Thankfully, Amelia was in 4WD, or we’d have been stuck for sure.
We attached a rope to Amelia, getting ready to tow the stranded vehicle, but things were starting to take a toll on our Jeep. Squeaky belts and a glowing battery warning light were telling us it was time to call it a night. Rudy and I finally made it back to our house—our house in the middle of the river.
The next morning, the full extent of the disaster became clear. Hundreds of homes were flooded or destroyed, and thousands of people were suddenly in desperate need of help. First responders and the National Guard had rescued around 400 people from cars, rooftops, and flooded buildings overnight. With the immediate danger behind us and the waters beginning to recede, our organization shifted from emergency response to urgent care mode. A shelter was set up at the fairgrounds (huge thanks to ENMSF), and the Red Cross volunteers arrived to help. We were quickly asked to provide EMS standby, and of course, our agency stepped up to take on the responsibility.
For the next six days, I provided medical support at the shelter—handling first aid, health checkups, and making sure everyone was taken care of.
Meanwhile, back at home, the reality of the storm hit. Everything was covered in a layer of stinking, sticky mud. The water had stopped just an inch shy of flooding into our house, and we were lucky enough to escape any major damage. Not everyone had been as fortunate, and that’s why we stayed on, helping however we could.
Our dogs had to adapt just like we did. There was no way we were letting them out into the muddy mess that used to be our yard. So, I cleared off the concrete patio, and for the next week or so, that small patch became their world while the rest of the yard dried out.
Since last Saturday, I’ve finally been relieved of my duties at the shelter, and our agency has shifted back to providing general support services. Life is starting to feel a little more normal again. Even the yard has dried up enough for the dogs to roam freely. But as I get back into my routine, I can’t stop thinking about the people who lost everything.
What happens to the families whose homes were destroyed? Their furniture, cars, important papers, photos—gone. Everything swept away by the flood. Some are even on the brink of losing their jobs because how do you manage to balance cleaning up a flooded home, or staying in a shelter, with trying to keep a regular work schedule?
These are things that go beyond what I or our organization can help with. These folks need more resources from other places. And I can’t help but wonder, will that help be there when they need it most? I really hope so.
More infos and images from our agency: www.pecosvalley.org
Here’s a video (not from me) about the night and the day(s) after.
Michaela Merz is an entrepreneur and first generation hacker. Her career started even before the Internet was available. She invented and developed a number of technologies now considered to be standard in modern web-environments. She is a software engineer, a Wilderness Rescue volunteer, a Wilderness Emergency Medical Technician, a FAA Part 61 (PPL , IFR) , Part 107 certified UAS pilot and a licensed ham . More about Michaela ..