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Time of India
21-07-2025
- General
- Time of India
Three losses in five months: After husband and brother, Texas mom loses daughter in floods; final letters capture 8-year-old's joy at Camp Mystic
Debris covers the area of Camp Mystic in Hunt (AP Photo) Texas mom Lindsey McLeod McCrory has endured more tragedy in five months than most people face in a lifetime. In March, she lost her husband, Blake, to cancer. In June, her only brother, Chanse McLeod, died from illness. Then, on July 4, her 8-year-old daughter, Blakely, was among the dozens killed from Camp Mystic when catastrophic floods swept through central Texas- turning what was meant to be a joyful summer camp experience into a scene of heartbreak. Blakely had just begun her stay at Camp Mystic, a storied Christian girls' camp nestled in the Hill Country. She was wearing a green-and-white beaded Camp Mystic necklace that her mother had given her before she left- a symbol of faith, family tradition, and joy. That necklace would later help identify her body. Mom's husband and brother died this year, then her daughter was killed in floods 'She had the best time at camp. She went out on a happy note,' McCrory said. 'She was always a leader, encouraging others.' In the days following the tragedy, Lindsey McCrory received a bundle of handwritten letters that Blakely had penned during her brief but joyful stay at Camp Mystic. The notes, written in colorful pens and embellished with stickers, brimmed with a child's excitement and wonder—offering a lasting glimpse into her final days. 'She described Camp Mystic as 'amazing' in all caps,' McCrory recalled. 'You could feel her joy in every sentence.' In one of her letters, Blakely wrote about being selected for the Tonkawa tribe—something she had hoped for long before arriving at camp. 'I finally got Tonk!!!' she exclaimed, underlining the word several times- 'I'm a Tonk now—I wanted it so bad!' She also listed the many activities she was eager to try: horseback riding, tennis, swimming, and especially crafts. Blakely mentioned building a Barbie house during art class, de scribing it in vivid detail—complete with painted walls and a hand-made miniature bed. 'It's pink and purple and has a real roof!' she wrote. 'She was so proud of that little house,' McCrory said. 'She was going to give it to her cousin when she got back.' The July 4 flooding came suddenly, with torrential rain and a deadly 30-foot river surge that destroyed cabins and swept away lives. Blakely's cabin was among the closest to the Guadalupe River. Twenty-seven Camp Mystic campers and counselors, including Blakely, perished. When McCrory, who was on a long-planned trip to Europe with her sister and nieces, first heard of flooding at Camp Mystic, she thought it might be similar to a 1987 event she remembered as a former camper herself—minor disruptions, but no danger. 'We were on a boat, and when we docked for lunch, we received some text messages,' she recalled. 'I didn't have any idea how bad it was.' Soon after, she lost phone service. Once reconnected, she heard the chilling voicemail: Blakely was missing. 'I just dropped the phone on the table, shaking,' McCrory said. 'I was frozen when I heard that voicemail.' She rushed home to Houston as family members searched local shelters and evacuation centers. On July 7, McCrory received confirmation- her daughter had been found. She was still wearing the Camp Mystic necklace. Despite the magnitude of her loss, McCrory radiated calm. She credits her faith, her family, and the Camp Mystic community. 'My faith is so strong. Actually, I was a camper at Camp Mystic, and I felt so close to my faith attending there,' she said, as quote by CNN. 'We had lovely devotionals on the waterfront… And just the sisterhood, the faith – it just really brought me closer.' Her friends have now adjusted the necklace so that she can wear it herself, keeping Blakely close to her heart. 'She was so excited [about camp], and it came at such a good time since she lost her daddy,' McCrory said. 'It was a way for her to just heal with that sisterhood and her faith and just all of the fun activities.' Even in her final moments, Blakely's spirit shone through. 'As the water started to rise, a counselor made a keen observation: Blakely was encouraging her cabinmates to not be afraid,' McCrory said. 'She was always a leader, encouraging others.'
Yahoo
19-07-2025
- General
- Yahoo
A girl's death in Texas floods is her family's third loss this year. 3 mementos she left help her mom cope
The last time Lindsey McLeod McCrory saw her daughter Blakely alive, the young girl was heading to camp wearing a simple yet profound necklace – one that would later reconnect Blakely to her mother after she died. It was a green-and-white beaded Camp Mystic necklace – a tribute to the legendary Christian girls' camp in the foothills of Texas' Hill Country where Blakely was going. It's the same camp her mother and other women in the family had attended and forged lifelong memories. 'I gave this necklace to my daughter right before camp, and I advised her that if she didn't want to lose it – because she's 8 years old, and of course, they lose jewelry – I told her to wear it … during the whole time at camp,' McCrory told CNN on Friday. Blakely's new necklace served as a reminder of her mother's support at a time of immense loss. Blakely's father died from cancer in March. And just last month, she lost her uncle to illness. But Camp Mystic was a haven where Blakely's grief gave way to joy. 'She was so excited, and it came at such a good time since she lost her daddy,' McCrory said. 'It was a way for her to just heal with that sisterhood and her faith and just all of the fun activities.' Everything changed in the pre-dawn hours of July 4, when torrential rainfall and catastrophic flooding ripped through central Texas – claiming at least 135 lives, many near the Guadalupe River. At Camp Mystic, the cabins with the youngest campers were closest to the river. Blakely, along with 26 other Camp Mystic girls and counselors, perished in the deluge – forcing her family to endure yet another unfathomable tragedy. Despite the anguish, McCrory has found solace – thanks in part to letters that she received from Blakely after she died. Finding her tribe Even though Blakely was a new camper in a cabin full of strangers, she didn't seem nervous about going to camp. 'She loves the outdoors. She loves to fish, horseback ride,' her mother said. In a letter to her mother, Blakely said camp was 'amazing.' She was looking forward to playing tennis, going horseback riding and trying other sports, she wrote. The letter also said Blakely became a 'tonk' – something she had dreamed of. Every new girl at Camp Mystic draws a slip that tells them which 'tribe' they belong to – the Tonkawa or the Kiowa tribe. 'The tribe traditions, which have been handed down since Mystic's beginning' in 1926, 'help to emphasize team spirit, fun competition and good sportsmanship' during games, Camp Mystic's website says. 'After each game, the losing tribe commends the winning tribe who, in turn, compliments the losing tribe. Campers from opposite tribes pair up after each game and go up to Chapel Hill to pray.' Drawing a red slip meant the Tonkawa tribe. A blue slip signified the Kiowa tribe. Blakely 'wanted to be a Tonk really badly,' her mom said. 'Her two cousins are both Tonks. … So she wanted to be a Tonk so she could compete with her cousins' tribe.' The rituals instill 'sportsmanship and competition amongst the girls, which is so great for later on in life,' McCrory said. After Blakely drew a red slip, 'she was just ecstatic,' her mother said. In another letter, Blakely made an urgent request to her mother, who was getting ready to donate items because the family was preparing to move: 'PS. Please don't give my Barbie Dream house,' the 8-year-old scrawled on a colorful piece of paper. McCrory didn't receive those letters until after Blakely died. But the scribbled request forced a smile onto the grieving mother's face. 'It's just funny how a little girl's mind works. And that's why I laughed when I got the letter, because I could just hear her writing her thoughts down,' McCrory said. 'And it was just funny. … It was so Blakely.' 'I dropped the phone on the table, shaking' After sending Blakely off to camp, McCrory joined her sister and two nieces on a trip to Europe. It was the first such outing since the deaths of McCrory's husband, Blake, and her brother, Chanse McLeod – both within the last five months. When news trickled in overseas about some flooding at Camp Mystic, McCrory had no idea how bad it was. 'We were on a boat, and when we docked for lunch, we received some text messages' – including one reporting flooding at Camp Mystic. 'And so what popped in my mind – because we didn't have all of the full reports of the 30-foot surge – (was) that it was like the flood in 1987, when I was a camper.' Back then, 'you had to stay in your cabin for safety,' she said. 'They didn't want people walking in the mud and sliding around since there are so many hills. And they would bring food to us. And so that was what I first imagined it was.' McCrory then lost cell service and didn't receive a call from Camp Mystic. Eventually, she gained access to her voicemails and heard a horrid message: Blakely was missing. 'I just dropped the phone on the table, shaking,' she said. 'I was frozen when I heard that voicemail.' McCrory soon jumped on a plane back to Houston. At the same time, Blakely's half-brother and his mother scoured an evacuation center in Ingram, hoping to find Blakely. For two days, the family waited in anguish as crews trudged through thick mud and debris searching for victims and survivors. Then, on July 7, McCrory received the dreaded news: Blakely's body had been found. She was still wearing the Camp Mystic necklace her mom had given her – a piece of jewelry that helped identify her. Immense gratitude amid the grief For a widow who lost her husband, her only brother and her only daughter in just five months, McCrory is remarkably composed. She exudes an aura of calmness and even optimism. McCrory chalks it up to her faith, her family and her support network – all of which have ties to Camp Mystic. 'My faith is so strong. Actually, I was a camper at Camp Mystic, and I felt so close to my faith attending there as a camper,' she said. 'We had lovely devotionals on the waterfront where the Guadalupe River is, in the mornings, and then in the evenings, on Sundays, we went to Chapel Hill. And just the sisterhood, the faith – it just really brought me closer.' McCrory said she has learned how to cope after each tragedy and takes comfort in knowing her lost loved ones are together again. 'We lost my husband in March, and then my brother in June. So I think that prepared me for Blakely's loss,' she said. 'I'm coping very well. I have amazing love and support from people I know (and) from people I don't know. The mothers of the campers that were lost were on a group text, and were able to share stories and thoughts – and even funny moments.' As she prepared for Blakely's funeral Friday, McCrory wore the beaded necklace that she had given her daughter. 'My good friends from high school had it extended so that I could wear it, so I would have a touchstone close to my heart,' she said. She's also thankful for Blakely – and the fact that her final days were spent doing what she loved. 'She had the best time at camp. She went out on a happy note,' her mother said. And as the water started to rise, a counselor made a keen observation: 'Blakely was encouraging her cabinmates to not be afraid,' McCrory said. 'She was always a leader, encouraging others. So in my heart, I know it happened fast. And I'm just so grateful the life that she lived was so happy.'
Yahoo
24-02-2025
- General
- Yahoo
'Time seemed to stand still': View from sacred Red Mountain, slated for Tonkawa park
GAUSE, Texas — "We're home," Tonkawa President Russ Martin said at a small Dec. 12, 2023 ceremony honoring the recovery of 60 acres of the tribe's ancestral lands in Central Texas around Red Mountain in Milam County. "The first time I got to the top of the mountain, I was overwhelmed. "I'm not that spiritual a person, but that experience was spiritual. We're glad to be home in Texas." During my 36-year tenure as a reporter who writes the people, places, culture and history of Austin and Texas for the American-Statesman, I have not been more moved by a public remark. A close second place might go to Rachael Starr, secretary-treasurer of the Tonkawa Tribe, who talked to an Austin crowd on Sept. 12, 2024, which was proclaimed Tonkawa Friendship Day by the city and Travis County. This ceremony came four months after the American-Statesman urged Austin to thank the Tonkawa for saving the city from extinction during the 19th century. "Every time I've come here over the last couple of years, you guys welcome us with so much warmth and love," Starr said. "And it's amazing to me to know that you guys have thought of us over all of these years. And to know that you want us here, and you want to be a part of us, and that just brings warmth and gratitude. I can't even tell you how that makes us feel, that you want us to be a part of your city." Almost five months later on Feb. 8, 2025, I made my fifth trip to the base of Red Mountain, really a tall, conical sandstone hill embedded in the oak savannah ridges above the broad floodplains of the Little and Brazos rivers. This time, accompanied by an authorized troop from El Camino Real de los Tejas National Trail Association, I climbed to the top. The current informal trail, riven by erosion, is steep and rough. A younger, slimmer person could skip from rock to rock. My relatively short climb, however, eventually led to a cardiologist's intervention just three days later. It was worth it. As if borrowed from the movie, "Out of Africa," the valley spread out like some ancient, fertile homeland. The nearby jagged ridges that hang above the historical crossing of the Little River once housed members of numerous Native Texan tribes in an agglomeration known to the Spanish as "Ranchería Grande," one of the most populated parts of Texas during the 18th century. "Spiritual" is the right word. It will be a few years before the Tonkawa Tribe and the Camino Real folks open a history park here at Red Mountain, also known as Sugarloaf Mountain. Archaeological surveys are slated to begin this summer. Then the National Park Service will design access, amenities and interpretive elements. Backers will raise several hundred thousand dollars to pay for the construction material and labor. Meanwhile, you could secure a possible preview of Red Mountain by volunteering for a dig, and can do so by becoming a member of El Camino Real de Los Tejas National Trail Association or the Texas Archaeological Society. One thing to remember: Don't trespass. The 60 acres around Red Mountain are now clearly posted with multiple signs that bear the seals of the Tonkawa Tribe and El Camino Association. For years, visitors ignored the previous landowners' warnings about what is still called Sugarloaf Mountain. As valuable research begins, a random, unauthorized trip to Red Mountain could — and indeed already has — come with a citation and a fine. 2000: "What is that thing?" asked two road trippers on the first of 52 mostly weekend outings dubbed "Texas River Tracings." My buddy Joe Starr and I traced Texas rivers from their sources to their mouths, or vice versa, by car, on foot and sometimes in the water. Why we chose the Little River for our first trip is lost to the mists of time, but a good guess was its relatively short length and its utter novelty. "The Little River is formed by the confluence of the Leon and Lampasas rivers near the town of Little River in central Bell County, and runs southeast for 75 miles to its mouth on the Brazos River, just south of Port Sullivan in Milam County," reads the Handbook of Texas Online entry. "Its third major tributary, the San Gabriel River, joins the Little River eight miles north of Rockdale." After driving gingerly on unpaved County Road 264, we crossed the Little from the north near its mouth by way of the Old Sugarloaf Bridge, a historic metal and wood structure, now intended for pedestrian use only. We spied Red Mountain, but did not know its name or its meaning at that time. 2016: ''Nobody will be out there,' Steven Gonzales predicted during a day trip to the earliest improvements to the Camino Real. 'Still, because we don't have specific permission from the property owner today, we won't trespass on Sugarloaf Mountain. We'll just drive by and then view it from the river.' So promised the director of El Camino Real de los Tejas National Trail Association during a day trip to Milam County, 80 miles northeast of Austin. Yet as we headed down narrow County Road 264 toward the rain-swollen Little River, we found cars, pickup trucks and SUVs lining the gravel base of this improbable mountain, capped with red sandstone rock, that was once part of a large Native American community known to the Spanish as Ranchería Grande de los Ervipiame. 'Someone has found the place,' Gonzales whispers as we near the spot. 'A lot of people.' We pull over to quiz some college-age kids preparing to ascend the small mountain, part of which has been razed because previous owners believed (Spanish) treasure was buried there." 2023: Attending the double land purchase ceremonies at the home of the Werzogs, who sold Red Mountain to the Tonkawa, and at the Old Sugarloaf Bridge, it was a good time to remember: "To the Tonkawa, Sugarloaf was known as Red Mountain, or 'Naton Samox' in the Tonkawa language. According to one historian, the Spanish called it Turtle Mountain, or 'La Tortuga.' It was a sentinel marker for the Spanish traveling along the braided Camino Real de los Tejas, which followed trails blazed by Native Americans from the Rio Grande to northwestern Louisiana. In 1884, the Tonkawa, once called 'the best friends of the Texans,' were removed from Fort Griffin in northwestern Texas to first one and then another reservation in Oklahoma as part of their own 'Trail of Tears.' They had been moved previously in 1855 and 1859. By the late 20th century, it was rumored that the Tonkawa had disappeared altogether." They had not. 2024: Heading toward Nacogdoches on smooth U.S. 79 for a long weekend, another road trip buddy, Lawrence Morgan, and I detoured to Red Mountain. We drove out into the cotton fields on the flatlands below to catch its silhouette above the encroaching trees. Later, we explored the Camino Real in East Texas. "The reason El Camino passed through Nacogdoches and this stretch of East Texas is the presence of sandstone. To ford the region's many rivers, creeks and bayous, travelers needed riverbeds with hard surfaces. This need remains true for the rest of the trail's course, but was especially essential in wet, sandy East Texas. Researchers can locate potential large ruts, or 'swales,' of the trail through aerial or drone detection that 'lines them up' with known routes of the Camino. This extraordinary — if obvious — strategy, in addition to historic and archaeological inquiries, excludes the possibility that these formations are simply the result of natural erosion, the first thing that a skeptic like myself might think. The pathway essentially knitted the most populated parts of Texas together for hundreds of years. Routed between the swampy coasts and the rugged Hill Country, it was not just a resource for trade and exploration, but it also made a larger community out of smaller communities. Fortuitous, then, that it was named 'Tejas' after the Caddo word for 'friend,' which evolved into the name of our state." We visited the small El Camino park with giant ruts called Lobonillo Swales outside San Augustine. 2025: Gonzales invited a mix of El Camino backers from Austin to meet at a historic Travis Heights house for a merry day trip. Brian Beattie, Amy Annelle, Valerie Fowler and Will Andrews made up the rest of the crew. We visited Apache Pass — a historically significant crossing of the San Gabriel River — then rolled through Rockdale, Milano and Gause. After climbing Red Mountain, we lunched with Mike and Joyce Conner, the latter an El Camino board member, both formerly of Austin, who own land nearby. They have cleared and improved a trail that illustrates evidence of the Camino Real and Ranchería Grande on their land for public use, and Mike filled us in on the long term efforts to keep yaupon from dominating the land (who knew yaupon could be so insidious?). Apparently, the underbrush becomes so thick — without the natural or human clearing by fire — virtually nothing else can thrive. Just to emphasize the impact of a first visit to the summit of Red Mountain, allow me to include remarks made by my road trip companions from Feb. 8. Steven Gonzales: "The first time I was able to visit Red Mountain was very special. Along with probably 20 others on an authorized tour in 2019, we reached the climax of the peak, and I was astounded to see the vast views from its summit. I had not expected the beauty that one can experience from that vantage point. Turkey and black vultures soared in the air currents above us and seemed to signal the majesty of the place. Below, the floodplain of the Little River sat at the foot of the mountain, and the river itself flowed by silently and slowly. Time seemed to stand still, and I could envision that this was the way things have always been with that special place, and I felt that is the way it always should be, and I felt lucky to be one of many who have been able to experience it's moving power!" Valerie Fowler: I felt privileged to be there, having access to that vista, that light, the expanse of land viewable for such a distance. The thought that perhaps thousands of people, over thousands of years, had stood where we stood to view the valley below put my existence into humbling perspective. And, for me, the local flora was as exciting as the mountain itself. I was wondering how much it had changed over the centuries or if it had changed much at all. Brian Beattie: The company was amazing, and the general spontaneous timing and routing of the trip was totally stimulating, but Red Mountain is a unique experience. The view from the top is far more expansive than I could have imagined. It makes you feel like you're in the very middle of everything. I know, as a view, as a "mountain", it's humble, compared to the "Big West," but my imagination was struck by the idea of village after village on the ridges and hilltops, for miles and miles. Tens of thousands of people living near this known landmark for thousands of years, speaking an isolate language, and passing down the story that this mountain is their place of origin. And now those same people own it, and we get to come visit? The whole experience had a "gently mind-blowing" quality. I'm still absorbing it. Amy Annelle: As we climb Red Mountain, the landscape below opens up, from the Little River to the Brazos and on to the horizon, with little evidence of modern day life. The line between the past and present melts away. And in the surrounding hills, I can almost see the smoke from campfires of countless generations of Indigenous peoples who gathered and passed this way before. This beautiful environment full of fresh water and materials and wild game and people, Indigenous people who have called this land home for 20,000 years. Eons before anyone called this land Texas, they were here. They are still here. I think of the triumph and perseverance of the Tonkawa Tribe, who have in a few generations come back ... to rebuild their numbers and reclaim this Red Mountain, the place of their origin story, as their own. How lucky our group is to experience this sacred place. The steady breeze as we ascend, the sandstone boulders warmed by the sun, the birds of prey soaring high above, the rivers and the hills and the trees, and all around, the artifacts from indigenous campsites, the old missions and remnants of El Camino Real; they are all telling the story of Red Mountain. Michael Barnes writes about the people, places, culture and history of Austin and Texas. He can be reached at mbarnes@ Sign up for the free weekly digital newsletter, Think, Texas, at or at the newsletter page of your local USA Today Network paper. This article originally appeared on Austin American-Statesman: 'Spiritual' is a word often used for Red Mountain, sacred to Tonkawa
