Before dawn broke on July 4, 2025, the Hill Country of Central Texas was transformed by a flash flood of devastating proportions. The Guadalupe River, usually a placid ribbon winding through Kerr County, surged to nearly 24 feet, swallowing homes, camps, and entire neighborhoods in a matter of hours. According to The Associated Press, the catastrophe claimed at least 136 lives, with victims ranging in age from 1 to 91. Among the dead were more than two dozen children and counselors at Camp Mystic, a century-old summer camp for girls. As the floodwaters rose, cries for help echoed from pitch-black woods, rooftops, and attics—many of them unanswered due to a patchwork emergency response and a lack of timely warnings.
The story of that night, pieced together from first responder recordings, survivor accounts, and official testimony, reveals a rescue effort beset by confusion and missed opportunities. The first signs of trouble appeared between 12:30 and 1:15 a.m., when a National Weather Service forecaster alerted emergency managers to the risk. Yet, with spotty cellphone service and a sluggish alert system, many residents never received the flash flood warning issued at 1:14 a.m. By 2:00 a.m., staff at Camp Mystic began evacuating campers, guiding them through rising waters in the darkness. But, as The Associated Press notes, none of the emergency communications between midnight and 6 a.m. referenced the camp—an early sign of the chaos to come.
As the hours ticked by, the situation deteriorated rapidly. Emergency dispatchers received the first water rescue request at 3:35 a.m., with frantic calls pouring in from flooded homes along Highway 39 and from other camps like Camp La Junta, where dozens of boys found themselves in the water after a cabin flooded. Volunteer fire departments and law enforcement scrambled to respond, often with little information about where help was needed most. People clung to rooftops, attic rafters, and even trees as the river tore through the landscape. Jane Towler, a resident near the river, captured video of muddy water filling her kitchen and told her son, “Everything in our yard has floated away. I want us to be prepared to go up in the attic.” She and her family survived the night on their roof.
By 4:16 a.m., the U.S. Geological Survey’s river gauge near Hunt recorded the river at major flood stage. At 4:22 a.m., fire rescuers requested a “CodeRed” alert—a system that could send urgent cellphone warnings to residents. Yet, no such alert was issued during the height of the emergency, a decision that would later become a source of deep frustration and grief for survivors and families of the victims. As one rescuer reported at 4:35 a.m., “We’re trying to keep people out of the water but they’re trying to go in on their own to get those children. We need some law enforcement down here, now!”
Rescue crews from San Antonio arrived by 4:45 a.m., but with no command center established, they waited for instructions in a fast food parking lot—just miles from the worst-hit RV parks. The water soon overtook their trucks and stranded their boats. It wasn’t until after 6 a.m. that an official command center was set up, leaving out-of-town crews to rely on word of mouth and their own instincts to find those in need. “Sir, we don’t have an incident command right now,” a dispatcher told one crew at 5:32 a.m. “Received,” came the reply. “Please advise when you have an assignment for us.”
As daylight broke, the catastrophic scope of the disaster became clear. Rescuers scanned the river from bridges and crossings, often able to hear survivors yelling for help but unable to see or reach them. “I have multiple people in backyards hanging onto trees yelling at us, but we can’t see them,” one rescuer said over the radio. By 8:33 a.m., dispatchers were still receiving reports of people signaling for rescue, including a person flashing a light in the trees near Tranquility Island. Helicopter rescues and body recoveries continued into the afternoon and for days afterward. The search for two missing victims persisted into August.
In the aftermath, questions mounted about why so many were left unprotected. As The Associated Press and San Antonio Express-News both reported, Kerr County’s top official was out of town, the sheriff was asleep, and the emergency management coordinator was sick in bed when the flood struck. The county’s flood warning system was outdated—a fact long known to local authorities. Since 2016, both Kerr County and the Upper Guadalupe River Authority had the option to spend about $1 million to modernize the system but repeatedly declined, even turning down a $950,000 interest-free loan from the Texas Water Development Board. When $10.2 million from the American Rescue Plan Act arrived in 2021, flood warning upgrades were again not prioritized.
This reluctance to invest in life-saving infrastructure stands out as a tragic example of a broader political and civic mindset in Texas. As San Antonio Express-News pointed out, the decision to forgo a modern alert system, in a region known as “Flash Flood Alley,” reflects a pattern of undervaluing public investment in safety and welfare. The consequences of this ethos are not limited to flood response. The state’s leadership has also been criticized for vetoing $450 million in federal funding for summer food aid to poor children, offering only minimal increases to public education funding despite rising costs, and refusing to expand Medicaid—even as Texas leads the nation in the uninsured.
Political divisions have further complicated the picture. The proposed redistricting plan by Texas Republicans, which could pack Democrats into as few as eight districts, has drawn criticism for marginalizing millions of voters and narrowing the scope of public debate. In this climate, the prevailing view in many circles is that less government is better government, often at the expense of long-term investments in education, health, and safety.
For the families along the Guadalupe River, the cost of inaction is measured not just in dollars but in lives lost and trauma endured. Memorials have sprung up along fences and riverbanks, bearing witness to the grief that now marks the community. “How many lives would a modern alert system have saved?” asks San Antonio Express-News. “Whatever the answer, it would have been worth such a small expense.”
As lawmakers and residents alike search for answers, the tragedy in Kerr County serves as a stark reminder of the stakes involved when public safety is weighed against fiscal restraint. The hope now, as families rebuild and officials reckon with the aftermath, is that the lessons learned will inspire the investments needed to honor the value of every Texan—and prevent such a disaster from happening again.