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Volunteers Clash With Officials in Texas Flood Search

Volunteers Clash With Officials in Texas Flood Search

Volunteers Clash With Officials in Texas Flood Search \ Newslooks \ Washington DC \ Mary Sidiqi \ Evening Edition \ After flash floods killed over 100 in Texas Hill Country, civilians flocked to help in one of the state’s largest rescue operations. Volunteers, driven by urgency and solidarity, sometimes conflicted with officials focused on safety and coordination. Authorities are now directing untrained helpers toward structured efforts through the Salvation Army.

Volunteers Clash With Officials in Texas Flood Search
Courtney Calhoun, a resident in Kerr County, left, and Renee DeRese, top right, confront Texas Gov. Greg Abbott on Tuesday, July 8, 2025, in Hunt, Texas. (AP Photo/Eli Hartman)

Quick Looks

  • After dark, civilian volunteers rushed into flood zones to help rescue efforts.
  • Flash flood swelled the Guadalupe River by a two-story building in under an hour.
  • Officials closed areas to volunteers, steering them to Salvation Army support.
  • Gov. Abbott praised volunteers but urged coordination with rescue teams.
  • Volunteers grid-search sections of riverbank up to two kilometers long.
  • Misinformation from a Facebook post frustrated authorities and elected officials.
  • Families urged patience as crews organize searches with drones, dogs, boats.
  • Texas solidarity drives volunteer efforts amid extreme conditions and risk.

Deep Look

In the early hours of Monday morning, as thunder boomed and sirens wailed across the Texas Hill Country, Justin Rubio awoke to alerts on his phone and the unmistakable thrum of helicopter blades. Recognizing an emergency, he joined dozens of others at MacArthur Park in Kerr County—ready to help on what has become one of the state’s largest post-flood rescue efforts.

Despite repeated requests from officials discouraging untrained civilians from joining the operation, many, including Rubio, crossed riverbanks and combed through debris after flash flooding swelled the Guadalupe River by the height of a two-story building in less than an hour. Rubio and other legal residents remained, searching while undocumented individuals fled earlier warnings.

“It eats at your soul,” Rubio said, describing the devastation—uprooted trees, destroyed homes, overturned trucks—and why staying home wasn’t an option: “I can’t just sit at home thinking about what’s going on out here.”

But the heroism clashed with the practical needs of an effective search. Authorities grid-mapped sections of shoreline—each one mile or more, taking Japanese-trained search teams of dogs, drones, boats, and rescue personnel up to three hours to sweep thoroughly. Uncoordinated volunteer presence risked obstructing official teams and possibly requiring rescue themselves.

At a Tuesday news briefing, a frustrated volunteer, Courtney Kate Calhoun, shared that upwards of 200 volunteers had been turned away, yet asked officials: “We’re capable. We’ll do it for free. That’s our blood.” Governor Greg Abbott replied, “I’ll connect you with a coordinator… this strength is Texas,” crediting the volunteer spirit even as he sought to steer it into safer, more effective channels.

These tensions mirror the call for civilian volunteers toward remote unincorporated communities like Center Point, where leaders like Cord Shiflet organized turnout via social platforms such as Facebook. Authorities criticized unverified reports—including a viral claim that two children had been found alive in a tree—describing them as “distractions” that hampered rescue planning. Even Congressman Chip Roy urged caution, emphasizing that false information jeopardizes efforts.

Local officials now recommend volunteers redirect their energy to organized hubs like the local Salvation Army, where they help distribute food, water, and supplies. “We need focused and coordinated volunteers, not random people,” Kerrville Mayor Joe Herring Jr. emphasized. He implored civilians to stay out of the way, not become victims themselves.

Nevertheless, the emotional pull—and the essence of “Texas tough” solidarity—remains powerful. Those like Bryan Dutton, a veteran who brought food to rescue teams after work, say they’re compelled to show up. “We do what we can,” Dutton said. “That’s how Texas is.”

The scale of the operation is immense—spanning over 60 miles (100 km) of riverbanks, with at least 100 fatalities, dozens of missing people, and hundreds of families waiting for answers. Officials warn that unpredictable weather, including a flash flood warning, could hamper or endanger volunteer-driven searches.

In the end, organizers remain hopeful. Every mile of shoreline swept, every bend of the river glassed over, brings people closer to missing loved ones. But they maintain that rescue must be purposeful, not spiritual, carried out within a structure powerful enough to protect both survivors and would-be rescuers.

For Rubio, and scores of fellow volunteers, the mission extends beyond rescue: it’s a personal act of community, courage, and remembrance—amid the debris, despair, and hope woven through the ruined Texas flood zone.

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