Inside Ike
Editor Bryant Rides Out Storm, Describes Aftermath

Photo: Benny Landrum Sights like this are all too common along the shorelines of Galveston Bay. Ike's impressive storm surge left boats of all shapes and sizes scattered throughout coastal counties.

Life is slowly, and I emphasize slowly, returning to normal for Texas' upper-coast residents in the wake of Hurricane Ike.

I'm typing these words from the upstairs office of my home in Pearland, Texas. Pearland's a suburb just south of Houston in Brazoria County - one of the many areas that took a stinging lash on the back from one of Ike's whirling bands of wind and rain.

If I look up I can see a thick brown line that meanders its way across my ceiling into the corner of the room where it ends in a dried stain of yellowish-brown sheetrock. If I didn't know any better I'd say somebody kicked over a 55-gallon drum of fresh-brewed tea in my attic, but the stains are the result of rainwater that Ike forced through every crack and crevice on the outside of my house.

But before I start sounding like I'm feeling sorry for myself, I want to make it very clear that I'm not. In fact, I feel just the opposite. My insurance adjuster tallied up close to $20,000 worth of damage on my home, and that might sound like a lot, but trust me, that's just a drop in the bucket compared to what a lot of other folks are dealing with.

My wife and I are extremely fortunate. We emerged from our home the day after Ike and neither of us had a scratch on us. We didn't have a giant hole in our roof and our house was still seated properly on the foundation. We were without power, but we had water. And thanks to a gas water heater we had the ability to take warm showers - a luxury most others didn't have and one I'll never take for granted again.

The truth is we made it through this storm relatively unscathed. Yes, it disrupts your life and takes a mental and physical toll on you. Debris cleanup is a lot of work. Sloshing around in flooded, ant-infested yards and streets isn't how you'd normally choose to spend your time outdoors. And being without power is certainly no fun. But in the scope of things, all that amounts to just a minor inconvenience.

I'm sure I don't have to tell you just how devastated this area is. But what I can virtually guarantee is that what you've seen on the news probably doesn't come anywhere close to capturing the true breadth of destruction Ike left behind. The massive heaps of debris are a remarkable sight to see on television - but until you've driven through it, looked into it, smelled it - you just can't imagine how daunting a task starting over actually is.

Photo: Benny Landrum Heaps of debris like this cover coastal towns and beaches from the far western reaches of Galveston to the Texas-Lousiana border.

I don't for a second mean to draw any extra attention to my plight. I'm fine and my life will one day return to normal. But there are thousands of people out there who've lost something or someone that can never be replaced. Save your prayers for those folks.

The Little Things

I've lived in the greater Houston area all my life and remarkably, this has been my first experience with a hurricane. Technically I went through Alicia in 1983, but I was too young to really remember that one.

The memories and lessons I'll take away from this event aren't grand-scale revelations, but rather a collection of obscure, little things that'll be etched in my brain for a long time.

I'll start with the spooky experience of actually being in the middle of the storm. Have you ever seen what it looks like when the electricity goes out in the middle of the night in a house that's boarded up tighter than a tomb? If your answer yes then I know you're lying, because the only correct answer is no. There's nothing to be seen.

That was the blackest black I've ever experienced. It's a strange physical sensation when you open your eyes and you can feel the muscles straining because there's absolutely nothing to focus on. I believe that was the first time in my life I've actually experienced a complete absence of light. I liken it to a sensory deprivation chamber. It's creepy.

Of course, I had my battery-powered lanterns and flashlights nearby, but those few moments when my eyes were rendered completely useless were sobering.

But perhaps what's even worse than being without sight is the fact that your ears perk up and you start to hear all the sounds associated with the effects that 100-plus-mph wind gusts have on trees, fences and manmade dwellings. If you've ever been to a haunted house during Halloween and paid attention to that disturbing soundtrack reverberating in the background, then you've got a pretty good idea of what we were listening to most of the night.

The sound is a combination of whistling, creaking, rumbling and thumping that congeals into a hum of white noise that can only be described as the sound of destruction. Once you get used to the drone it's almost soothing until something slams into one of the pieces of plywood shielding your windows.

I've also learned that water can, in fact, run uphill. I made this remarkable discovery when I stuck my head in my attic as the storm was passing over to investigate the cause of a dripping leak around a light fixture in my closet. The wind was blowing rain through some tiny hole in the outside of my house with such force that the water was actually running up the sloped plywood decking of my roof before hitting a crossbeam where it was dripping down on my insulation.

I could describe that scenario to you to the furthest extent my vocabulary will allow, but that would be useless, because until you've actually watched water defy gravity you just can't imagine how cool it actually looks. I remember watching the water crawl up my roof and smiling at how bizarre it was, then I stopped to consider how hard the wind must have actually been blowing to create such a phenomenon. At that point I quickly ducked out of the attic and didn't return upstairs until the storm had passed.

And keep in mind, we were on the "clean," western side of the storm - where the wind and rain are supposed to be significantly less than what folks east of the eye experience. And this was "only" a category 2 hurricane. Needless to say, I've got a newfound respect for Mother Nature.

Photo: Benny Landrum Ike's gusting winds turned these kayaks into pointy, plastic wrecking balls.

The Aftermath

I'll always remember the anticipation I felt when turning the knob on my front door the morning after Ike. You pull that door open and remove those boards not knowing what you're going to see on the other side. You hope everything looks just like it did when you shut the door the night before, but you're pretty much certain it won't.

What I saw when I opened my front door was both good and bad. First the bad.

I looked out to see my street flooded, and since it was still raining I assumed the water was still rising, which is never a good feeling. The debris on the street ranged from shingles, limbs and fence boards to metal carports and small storage sheds. Trees were laid over on top of houses and a thick layer of leaves and other organic debris covered every surface it could stick to. It was obvious we - and when I say "we" I don't just mean my wife and I, but everyone impacted by the storm - had a big job ahead of us.

But I also saw something that encouraged me. I saw neighbors helping neighbors. I saw folks at the end of the street reaching their arms into the gutter to remove clogged debris. I saw people already starting to pick up the pieces and almost instinctively attacking the task of getting their lives back to normal. That's when I knew that although it might be a long, tedious process, everything was going to return to normal somewhere down the line.

Fast-forward to 2 weeks later. Today. There's still plenty of debris to be cleaned up, but there's nowhere to put it. The sidewalks are covered from one end of the street to the other in fence boards, shingles, limbs and bags of leaves. It's not that debris removal crews aren't working tirelessly to clear the streets, there's just a seemingly endless pile of junk to be collected.

I know that between my neighbor and I we've got enough to fill up a large garbage truck. Now consider if every two houses have the same amount of debris. I can't even fathom the math on that one, but I know that's a heck of a lot of trips back and forth to the dump.

The debris doesn't bother me so much. At least it doesn't stink. With the power out, many people were forced to clear out their refrigerators and freezers immediately following the storm. That translates to a whole lot of garbage bags full of rotting food sitting on the hot sidewalk. Not an appetizing aroma by any means.

Now consider that with all the fences down, people's pets are running wild and having their pick of the spoils. The animals tear into the garbage bags, which results in spoiled vittles spread all over the street. Multiply that scenario by a thousand occurrences and before you know it you're living in a landfill.

That's the kind of stuff I never thought much about before Ike rolled through.

Forget About Fishing?

Like many of you who'll read this piece, fishing is my life. Not only is fishing what I do for fun, but as a member of the OutdoorsFan Media staff, it's a big part of my job.

Ike's impact on the greater Galveston Bay system is still unknown, other than our fishery is messed up pretty severely.

I've talked to a few brave souls who've ventured out in boats, and from the sound of it the bay's a very dangerous place to be right now. There's a substantial amount of floating and submerged debris clogging the waterways, and Ike's powerful storm surge has completely altered the bottom contour in many places.

Texas Parks and Wildlife stated on its website last week that it was monitoring 26 contaminant spills related to the hurricane. And oxygen-deprived "black water" and localized fish kills have been reported in various parts of the bay system.

Photo: Benny Landrum Even heavy vehicles like this SUV were no match for Ike's powerful storm surge.

People are starting to fish again, and they're putting some good numbers of solid fish in the boat. Keeping and consuming those fish is what I'd consider a risky endeavor at this stage of the game, but at least they're out there to be caught.

In a natural sense, hurricanes are known to be largely positive in terms of their effects on coastal estuaries. The storm surge creates a flushing effect and has a way of revitalizing shallow bays and marshes. For evidence of that look no further than the southern reaches of Louisiana and the awesome fishing they've experienced in the wake of Katrina and Rita.

When you consider the punishment Hurricane Ike mercilessly dealt out to this region, it's tough to say anything positive about the storm. But if there's any silver lining to Ike's dark, rain-filled clouds, it comes in the positive effects this storm will likely have on our fishery in the years to come.

Credit is Due

Before I put a cap on this piece there are some people who deserve to be mentioned.

Thousands of folks are at work right now restoring power, cleaning debris, saving lives and keeping our streets safe. And it's not as if those folks don't have their own Ike-related problems to be dealing with, but they put their own issues aside and answered the call of duty as public servants. I think that deserves some recognition.

So to all the first responders, the line workers, debris removers, insurance agents and other hard-working folks who've flocked to this region from all over the country to help us get back on our feet - thank you. Many of you are going above and beyond the call of duty just by showing up to work, and we're sincerely appreciative of your efforts.

Notable

> Aaron Reed, a public information officer for Texas Parks and Wildlife, has a fantastic collection of photos and observations in his Hurricane Ike blog. Click here to check it out.

> Post-Ike photos are all over the net. Some of the best come from the Boston Globe, and NOAA has an extensive collection of post-Ike satellite imagery available here.

> The Houston Chronicle reported yesterday that Ike's Houston-area death toll is up to 32. However, there are still 365 people reported as missing. The Associated Press tallies Ike's nationwide death toll at 67.