I have a phobia of earthfill dams

Large earthfill dams that confine huge bodies of deep water have always amazed me since my childhood, with a constant subconscious bearing that they will fail. To me, it’s not if, but when. We all have our hang-ups and phobias. My dad and his generation were great Will Rogers followers. One of Will’s great lines was, “Everybody’s crazy, only on different subjects.”

I started at an early age, a freshman in high school, operating heavy earth-moving equipment of building dams and highways that now has eclipsed well over 60 years. I have worked with the very best and the very worst in the industry, having taken jobs with any contractors that were in the region. A “who’s who” list of construction companies include Obrigewitch, Ritter, Wagner, Leorke, Shultz, Lindsay and Meyer before owning and operating our own Lowman Construction. There’s many ways to move dirt, but there’s only one correct way of securing the best earthfill compaction, time efficiency, and machine health.

With a lifetime in the business, I’m aware of a small handful of major earthfill dam disasters. There was one back in 1884 in England that killed over 200 people, but the very worst one in history was on May 31, 1889, when a South Fork Dam breach above Johnstown, Pa., totally obliviated the town on the Comemaugh River. The official records show over 2,200 dead, but bodies showed up down the Conemaugh, Allegheny, and Ohio Rivers clear to Cincinnati as late as 1906. The big steel mills, coal mines, and lumber industries employed thousands of transient workers from all over southern Europe. The main Pennsylvania Railroad lines transported businessmen and tourists alike from the cities of Chicago, Pittsburgh, and New York that came through Johnstown on that same river. I could write a full chapter on this one, but in 1968, David McCulloch published a very well documented book, “The Johnstown Flood,” on the disaster. I’ve read it twice now. The carnage is unbelievable. The 60-foot wall of water ripped through and plundered everything in its path. Houses, big office buildings, and entire trains were swept into the wake. Horses, cattle, pets and people rolled, tumbled, and bobbed in total panic. At the lower end of town, the high railroad grade crossed the valley with a sturdy concrete bridge over the river. The massive amount of debris at the vanguard of the flood blocked the rivers outlet under the bridge, resulting in a massive dam that covered the entire town. The “bounce back” waves were as disastrous as the main front. Fuel from supply tanks spilled out over the water and was ignited by the hot coals of many kitchen stoves that set massive piles of debris on fire. Those that didn’t drown were cremated alive. The shoddy reconstruction of the original old dam as a summer resort for Pittsburgh’s elite “Iron Magnets” was bitterly blamed for the disaster. Many lawsuits followed, but “power over the common” ruled.

A young lad that survived by riding a portion of a torn off roof top down the flood was recorded with a most memorial statement, saying, “If I were the greatest liar on the face of the earth, I could only tell half.”

But the one that really brings my fears home was the 1976 Tetonia Dam blow out in Idaho. With the gorgeous Grand Tetons piercing a large portion of the distant skyline to the east over nearby wheat fields, the newly built dam on its first filling flooded the rich valley farmland clear to Rexburg, depositing up to eight feet of sediment over their fields. Idaho Senator Frank Church was making national headlines in his bid for the Democratic nomination for President. The Tetonia Dam project was high on his resume of accomplishments, as he secured federal funding for its construction. The disaster stopped him in his tracks. JoAnn and I and our two young sons were on a western swing vacation and drove up there just a few years later. It was desolate. As we drove up to the gorge, a high woven wire fence with a padlocked gate encompassed the abandoned official buildings. The huge marquis sign out front was completely “whitewashed” over all identification or information. On the remaining fill, they spent another million dollars to cut through it to determine the failure. The end reports were that the soils were inadequate of containing seepage. It was said the breach started out in the center of the fill. As I stood there in disbelief, staring out over a quarter mile across to the sheer, porous lava rock canyon wall on the opposite side, it haunted me then and still does today of how earthfill was used to bond and seal into rock. It’s not “moonshot” science that steel and concrete work best in rock. With that said, there was a learning curve that took place back in 1908 just below Helena, Mont., on the big Missouri River. The newly constructed concrete and steel Hauser Dam gave way. It was found that its steel piling was only driven into a gravel zone, rather than on down to bedrock. The Holter Dam was later built nearby as a replacement that exists today.

Then there’s a massive collapse of a portion of the Fort Peck, Mont., dam in 1938 that killed 22 workers while under construction. On this one a large portion of the main fill dirt slid off the steep upper facing of the dam, down into the river pool of the big Missouri. Slick bentonite soils were to blame.

On Aug. 25, 2024, the Arbaat Dam broke in eastern Sudan, Africa, wiping out at least 20 villages and killing 30 people.

Following the horrendously disastrous Gaudilope River flood in the hill country of central Texas, it’s an alarming wake-up call to all of us millions that live along streams, creeks, and river bottoms that are believed to be “above the flood zone.” Freak storms and flash floods have no limits. Mother Nature rules.