Texas officials are to have weather alert systems, mandated emergency preparedness plans, and various communication methods to help children and their families feel safe when they return this summer. But one thing is still missing from the state plan that some camp leaders say would ensure complete safety at all camps — initiatives to address the mental health of those returning to a place of tragedy.

After the devastating July 4 Hill Country floods that killed at least 137 people, including 27 campers and counselors at Camp Mystic, those who are expected to return to Texas camps this summer could be dealing with the fear of the water, extreme emotions during weather events, consistent nightmares, and more.

“After the flooding, we were hearing from parents and schools that when there was just a simple rainstorm, many of their kids were very, very distressed,” said Julie Kaplow, a licensed clinical psychologist and executive vice president of .

One of the primary challenges in addressing the mental health needs of campers, staff and their families is that they are spread out across the state, only coming together during the summer. been poured into Texas Hill Country for flood victims, but for campers and their families who might live miles away, this does little to help.

Camp owners say this is why camps should be better prepared for their return. ��

“I am in 100% support of engaging in the physical safety, but I think it has distracted a little bit from the importance of focusing on other aspects of wellness,” , chief program officer at Centerpoint-based Camp Camp, said.

State lawmakers over the summer passed and requiring camps to address various safety measures including emergency preparedness plans and communication systems, but they gave no guidance to camps on how to serve the mental health needs of campers and staff.

, a Houston mother whose sons survived the flood at Camp Junta, three weeks after the during a committee hearing in Kerrville, that for her family the storm wasn’t over. She said her son scans every room for higher ground, checks the weather constantly and battles nightmares of water dripping from the ceiling, and she has been struggling to find the mental health resources to help him.

“I have asked the camp. I have asked FEMA. The answer is the same: ‘Sorry, we don’t know what to tell you. You are in Houston,’” Rabon said demanding that mental health care be a central, funded part of the state’s disaster response. “… I shouldn’t have to rely on a Facebook group of volunteers to find trauma care for my children.”

Sens. of Pleasanton and of Lubbock, who were��committee chair and vice chair of the flood investigation committee and authors and co-sponsors of SB 1 and HB 1, did not respond to interview requests about mental health resources. Gov.’s office forwarded questions about mental health resources for camps to Texas Health and Human Services, which did not provide information by the story’s publication.

Even before the flood, the mental wellness of campers and staff had been a growing concern for camp leaders. As youth mental health has declined and the country over the past six years, camp directors have reported multiple campers coming in with signs of anxiety and other mental illnesses, and staff — usually college students and young adults — with signs of depression and other more severe mental health problems.

This has led organizations like the , in collaboration with the and supported by the , to create a six-hour mental wellness training program called to teach staff how to listen and regulate their emotions. This skill can be used for campers and themselves.

, whose six-year term on the state’s Youth Camp Program Advisory Committee ended in August, said he and several others had been advocating for the state’s camp licensing board to consider adding higher-level training requirements for staff to address mental health concerns. He said a work group had been created around the topic and was supposed to convene after the summer camp season ended, but the July 4 flood put those plans on hold — right when it was needed most.

“While the physical safety of our camp community is what’s on everyone’s top of mind right now after the events of July, we have to look at the entire person’s safety, and that includes mental wellness,” Briery said.

Weather-related trauma

When news about the tragedy at Camp Mystic reached in Leakey, it was like the world had been turned upside down. Laity staff members mourned the deaths as if they were their own while they answered the anxiety-riddled questions of their young campers. The portion of the East Frio River that butts up against them — a source of joy for so many of them before it was shuttered for the rest of the summer — became a grim reminder of the tragedy that unfolded just 36 miles away.

“When I think of the summer, it is split into two parts. Pre-flood and post-flood, because everything felt so different. There was this heaviness afterwards,” said Blayze Sykes, the camp supervisor for Laity Lodge.

Over the past decade, Texas has faced numerous natural disasters, including , the , the , and, most recently, the catastrophic .

Kaplow said each year, more Texas children are becoming survivors of natural disasters, creating a generation of .

A found that as many as 50% of children report post-traumatic stress symptoms after experiencing a disaster, such as recurring thoughts about the disaster, hypervigilance, or difficulty sleeping or concentrating. also often experience symptoms of .

of the Greater Houston area from 2019 to 2023 found that successive weather disasters and events had an effect on emergency department visits for depression and anxiety. It found distinct seasonal patterns, with specific periods, consistently showing higher demand for mental health services.

Weather-related mental illness can be complex to diagnose in children at first glance because their actions mirror ADHD symptoms, Kaplow said. Children affected with weather-related trauma may be hypervigilant, which might appear as though they are easily distracted.

Other signs can range from a student exhausted at their desk in the classroom to obvious signs of crying or becoming aggressive toward other peers.

“It’s not enough to intervene in the immediate aftermath. We want to make sure people recognize that this will be a long-term effort to help kids heal,” said Kaplow.

Gov. Greg Abbott launched a free statewide counseling service for those affected by the floods, the , but camp directors say more can be done.

Experts say one of the best ways policymakers can support children affected by disasters is to increase access to mental health services, including .

While camp can’t be the replacement for professional mental health treatment, have found that well-structured mental health programs at camps can counter struggles regarding depression, anxiety, feelings of hopelessness, and difficulty forming positive peer relationships in young people.

“The time is now. Suppose there were ever a time to give attention to mental well-being at camp, to create an environment where it thrives. In that case, it’s now,” said Cary Hendricks, executive director of Laity Lodge Camping Programs.

One approach to integrating mental health into camps

Families seeking to disconnect their children from technology have long turned to summer camps to help them immerse in nature. Mental health experts the benefits of nature-focused camps for children’s emotional well-being.

But, what happens when the outdoors becomes the reason for grief?

“We know, and frankly, take it for granted that so many camps are in the outdoors and therefore have that kind of restorative benefit for campers and staff. The events of July 4 reminded us that those elements are also hazardous and destructive,” said , the senior director of innovation and learning for the American Camp Association.

Camps across Texas are wrestling with trying to maintain the summer-camp feel of the past for campers and staff who are now very aware of the dangers that surround them.

“I know we have already had campers signed up who have experienced very traumatic things, so that is where we are focused on. What can we do?” said Meg Clark, owner of Camp Waldemar.

Pearson said the CampWell program, a six hour skills-based training course on building resilience, teaches staffers and campers how to regulate their emotions, like fear and anxiety, using methods such as breathing exercises, activities, conversation, and other non-medical means.��

Camps who go through CampWell training try to create a safe, supported and connected environment among staff who can then model and teach relevant skills to campers. This in-person program evaluates a camp’s culture, including its training and screening processes and programs, to ensure it promotes mental and physical well-being.

Fifteen camps in Texas began implementing the CampWell program earlier this year. Little did these camp directors know how necessary this training would be for staff later that summer, when the flood required them not only to deal with their own emotions but also to address the emotions of hundreds of young campers who had a slew of questions about what happened. Those who went through the training said it helped them by teaching them emotional regulation techniques like breathing exercises and confidence building.

Sykes said in the months after the flood, the CampWell program has helped Laity’s staff build their own community of support.

“Looking back at it, the greatest resource we had was each other,” Sykes, staff manager at Laity Bird Lodge campgrounds, said.

Hendricks said lawmakers have the opportunity to lay the foundation for a better future for youth mental health, and it should start with youth summer camps.

“The same way that the state requires us to do proper lifeguard training and food services, what if mental health were equally as important, and what if camps were required to do some mental well-being training? We would love to see that future,” he said.

For 24/7 mental health support in English or Spanish, call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration’s����at��800-662-4357. You can also reach a trained crisis counselor through the����by calling or texting 988.

This first appeared on .

Matthew Childress arrived at Matt’s El Rancho, an Austin restaurant, on Sept. 4 with mixed feelings of anticipation and grief. He greeted the other parents with hugs.

This group had largely been strangers two months earlier, before they learned that their children at Camp Mystic were missing after a massive flash flood, before many waited all night for answers about whether search crews had found any kids alive, before parents had to do the unimaginable and identify their child’s body.

Now, in their torturous sadness, they shared a bond. Over the past several weeks, these parents had pushed their ideas for summer camp reforms through the state Legislature with remarkable speed.

The moms and dads were gathering in Austin from Beaumont, Dallas, Bellville and other Texas cities. One family came from Alabama. The next day, they expected the Texas governor to sign the bills that they championed.

The changes would require kids’ camps to move overnight cabins out of floodplains, to follow weather warnings with radios and install alert systems, and to train staff on emergency plans including where to move children to higher ground if needed.

The parents believe any one of these steps would have kept their own children alive during the July 4 flood, which claimed along the Guadalupe River, including 25 Camp Mystic campers, two counselors and the camp’s director. One camper remains missing.

Childress, a consulting executive, had driven from Houston to Austin with his wife, Wendie, an attorney. He was one of a pair of dads who helped organize the group for political action. He wanted to see something positive come from the tragedy.

Chloe Childress was one of the two counselors who died. Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick hailed her and counselor Katherine Ferruzzo as heroes for trying to save the 8- and 9-year-old girls in their cabin instead of saving themselves.

Matthew Childress, 50, had always seen his daughter as his hero — a smart, funny girl who put her whole being into pursuing what she wanted, like when she launched her own online slime-selling business in elementary school. She was her parents’ energetic child, always running around and always sweaty. She was their music-loving Taylor Swift fan who wrote her own songs.

She grew up surrounded by adoring friends as they moved toward adulthood. She ordered Amazon decorations for their parties. She rapped Nicki Minaj lines. She made her friends wear “Can’t wait to gamble today” t-shirts at a Bahamas casino.

Now, as he ate fajitas and chatted with the other parents in the restaurant, Matthew Childress felt like he was nearing the end of a sprint of activity. The overflowing funeral for Chloe. Getting involved in the camp legislation and coordinating with the other parents and lobbyists to meet with officials and testify in support of the new laws at the Capitol.

Keeping so busy had helped Childress avoid the dark places in his mind. He didn’t know what he would do when the camp reform bills finally became law and he had to face his grief head-on.

“If I can solve this problem, it’s almost like I can bring her back,” he said. “If I can solve it, I’ll save her.”

To Wendie Childress, every day had felt like her worst nightmare, something to survive hour-by-hour. Her daughter had been her best friend, and Chloe’s absence felt like an insurmountable void. Chloe had been moving into a new phase of life, graduating from high school, taking a trip to Europe, getting ready for college.

“And then,” her mom said, “it was just like, fade to black.”

When he’d gone to identify Chloe’s body, Matthew Childress hoped that she had died quickly. When he saw her in a makeshift morgue on July 5, he saw wounds on her face.

He found he couldn’t leave her without doing what he had done compulsively since she was a baby. He kissed her 17 times. It was an arbitrary number, a code between them.

Goodnight. I love you.

* * *

Matthew and Wendie Childress had planned to celebrate July 4 by sharing a meal and drinks with friends at their home in Houston, then going to see fireworks at a country club. Their 15-year-old son was away at a friend’s family ranch. Chloe was at Camp Mystic, where she’d spent every July for 10 years.

The all-female camp represented tradition for women in the Childress family. Matthew Childress’ mother and sister had been campers there. When they dropped 8-year-old Chloe off at camp for the first time, one of his nieces, also a camper, was there to hold her hand.

Chloe made friends as she returned year after year. Five would speak at her funeral, dressed all in white, like they had for camp prayer services. They would tell stories about Chloe’s penchant for dropping into the splits, her stubborn conviction that she was right even when she was wrong and her dorky way of bringing up random facts.

They would talk about how she always laughed, even when she chipped her tooth at her own party to celebrate her high school graduation from the private Kinkaid School. They would remember how she would rush over in her Jeep to shop for makeup. They would recount how she kept riding Lime scooters and falling off of them.

Their friend lived fully.

This year was Chloe’s first summer as a Mystic counselor. She’d been accepted to her dream school, the University of Texas at Austin, the campus where her parents had met during their freshman years. She’d packed her turquoise trunk. She grabbed her lovey blankets with teddy bear heads she’d had her whole life. She’d covered a small bulletin board with photos using gold pushpins, then forgot to take it — so her mom had hurriedly brought it to her before she and other Houston-based counselors drove to camp.

Her mom had followed Chloe’s June 27 trip to Kerr County through the GPS locator on her phone until she arrived, safe.

On July 4, Wendie Childress started getting texts from other parents. The Guadalupe River had flooded early that morning. As they realized the severity of the storm, the Childresses threw together overnight bags and started the five-hour drive to Kerr County. Chloe might need a ride home, they figured.

They didn’t yet know the extent of the devastation along the Guadalupe: Ten inches of rain had fallen on the south fork of the river in three hours. The river’s main channel rose more than 20 feet, sweeping away trees, houses and vehicles. Camp Mystic was among the first places in the path of destruction.

The Kerr County judge who is supposed to be in charge of emergency response was . The county emergency management coordinator was home sick and asleep. The county sheriff got involved only after dire calls for help began coming in. The local river authority had last year with pursuing state funding to build a flood warning system.

Before the Childresses reached San Antonio, a camp representative called to say they couldn’t find Chloe.

Matthew Childress reminded himself that his daughter was strong. She was a fighter. The machine, he called her.

“She was a force …. beyond belief,” he would later say. “Everything she faced, she figured out how to conquer.”

Surely, she was in a tree, waiting for rescue. Surely, a camp that operated next to a for 99 years had staff who knew how to deal with floods.

* * *

They arrived at Ingram Elementary School, the designated reunification center, joining other distressed Camp Mystic parents. Strangers brought snacks and drinks.

Someone started to call out the names of girls who were ready to go home. The first list was short, Childress recalled, and didn’t include Chloe’s name.

Childress gripped his sister-in-law’s arm. Tears fell. It hit him: “This is real,” he said. “I might not see my daughter again.”

Amid the wails and cries of parents, Blake Bonner, 39, waited to learn what happened to his 9-year-old daughter Lila.

Bonner, who lives in Dallas and works in finance, was in Austin with family for the July 4 weekend when he heard about the flood. Lila was at Camp Mystic for the first time, following in her mom’s footsteps. They wanted her to have the same experience of being outside, making friends and developing her faith.

Lila had never spent that long away from home before they dropped her off to a smiling, excited Chloe Childress and Katherine Ferruzzo, who were in charge of the cabin called Bubble Inn.

Now, Bonner kept cautiously showing people Lila’s photo, asking if anyone knew what happened to his empathetic, animal-loving older child who had dreamed of starting her own animal rescue one day.

“She was a perfect, just-turned-9-year-old girl that had a lot of life in front of her,” he said.

The parents heard so many rumors as they waited. They got reports that their kids were going to a hospital. That they were being rescued from trees. That they were stranded on an island in the river.

Bonner called it a pingpong of hope and defeat. He couldn’t help but get his hopes up as girls’ names continued to be read aloud.

Bonner’s wife, still in Austin, got the call about identifying Lila’s body. She called her husband, hysterical. “I knew immediately,” he said.

Later, it would occur to him that they were lucky in some terrible way because they didn’t have to keep waiting for someone to tell them she had died in the flood.

Childress kept his vigil for hours that afternoon and well into the night, not knowing what to do, awkwardly hugging people who left with their kids. He and other parents of the missing — parents he would come to know well — eventually moved to wait in a new location, Trinity Baptist Church in Kerrville.

Another Christian organization with dorm-like rooms took Childress and his wife in for the night. He lay down and stared at the ceiling, knowing that search teams with infrared cameras planned to keep scanning the river in the dark.

The next day, the waiting parents watched news conferences and had limited chances to ask officials questions. They chit-chatted nervously, Childress recalled, until someone would just break down.

“It was just absolute torture,” he said.

On the evening of July 5, the parents learned search crews that day hadn’t found anyone alive.

Childress dreaded his phone ringing because he knew it might mean bad news.

When he got the call from a Kerr County number, he fell to his knees.

* * *

Back in Houston, Childress spent 20 minutes in the car, unwilling to face his house without his firstborn child. Once inside, he made himself do what he dreaded most: He went into his daughter’s room. He curled up on her bed.

Chloe’s bulletin board showed a kaleidoscope of her life. Photos and memorabilia from camp made up one part of it. He vowed to leave her door open. Later, someone would find Chloe’s camp bulletin board and return it to the Childress family.

On her bedroom vanity was a post-it note on which was scrawled “Isaiah 43:2”. They would include the verse in her funeral pamphlet: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.”

Gov. Greg Abbott called legislators back to Austin on for a special legislative session following the 5-month regular session, and Childress knew they were holding hearings on the floods. But the process , with Republicans trying to pass new congressional district maps to favor the GOP and Democratic lawmakers fleeing the state to stall that legislation.

A friend sent the name of a lobbyist to Childress, who saw an opportunity to take action.

Childress connected with Bonner, who’d been also stuck in a cycle of grief and shock.

Bonner couldn’t stop asking why Lila had died. He leaned into his faith; he wanted to see his daughter in heaven again. He concluded that her death didn’t come from some unavoidable act of God. It followed a series of very human errors. (Camp Mystic declined a request for an interview for this story.)

Bonner had been in touch with lobbyists too. A small, pro-bono lobbying team with people from various firms started to form.

“You can’t really legislate what God does,” Bonner figured. “But you can absolutely put in the safeguards to ensure that that [human] free will piece is appropriately balanced.”

Childress emailed the families of the 26 other girls who died — Heaven’s 27, they called them. With the lobbyists’ guidance, the families narrowed their goals. They aimed to present a positive, united front. They considered their recommendations to be in support of saving youth camps. After all, who would send their kids to a camp now if they didn’t know if their kids would be okay?

The lobbyists realized this was different than any work they had done, said Kelly Barnes, who works with HillCo Partners and who attended the same college as Bonner. This was a matter of life and death, and it could have been them in the parents’ shoes.

The group would have a limited window to strike, with no room for error, if the governor called a second 30-day special session. They had to focus.

“It grabbed us in a way we’d never felt before,” Barnes said.

On Aug. 14, a majority of the families met with “the big three”: Abbott, House Speaker Dustin Burrows and Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick. The parents took turns talking about their daughters. Barnes said it was the most incredible, raw, emotional advocacy he had seen in his career. The politicians recognized the gravity of the moment, listened with compassion and vowed to act.

The governor told the parents he would be calling a second special session, and that this time he would make camp safety the top priority. Childress said when he heard that, he lost his composure.

“I wasn’t quite expecting that,” he said. That was the same day that he’d been planning to move Chloe into her college dorm.

Legislators introduced new bills — House Bill 1 and Senate Bill 1 — with a focus on camps. More meetings followed. When a Senate committee held a hearing on its bill , the Camp Mystic parents again showed up to Austin to share their stories.

The Bonners talked about Lila’s gentleness, and how she’d been voted best manners at her camp dining table. Rescuers found Lila’s body 5.6 miles away from the camp, her mother told the lawmakers.

Childress, who spoke for his family while his wife stayed home with their son, who was starting his sophomore year of high school, told legislators he tried not to think about the fear that the girls felt as they scrambled for their lives, after waiting in their cabins .

His daughter was fun, spontaneous and a troublemaker, he told them. She was also smart, studious and driven.

“She did what I told her,” Childress testified. He wore his daughter’s Fitbit on his wrist. “She followed directions, the authorities, and that is what killed her.”

The rules had to change.

On Aug. 21, the House passed its bill while the parents watched. They wanted to see this all the way through. Bonner, among the team and the parents in the gallery upstairs, studied the lobbyists’ body language for any sign of how he should feel.

Later that night, the Senate passed its bill. The members couldn’t unhear the parent’s stories, Republican Sen. Lois Kolkhorst from Brenham said.

“In your grief, you have achieved remarkable advocacy,” said Sen. Sarah Eckhardt, an Austin Democrat.

The bills had just a few more steps to go.

* * *

On Sept. 5, Matthew and Wendie Childress filed onto rows of steps in front of the governor’s mansion, sweating in the heat. They stared ahead stoically as Abbott recounted how the parents pleaded for camp safety.

Childress nodded as Abbott ticked off what the bills would do. Installing alert systems. Training staff on evacuation routes. Requiring emergency plans. Requiring cabins to be out of floodplains.

“Every child who goes to camp should come home to their families,” Abbott said to the television cameras and assembled journalists.

Abbott wrote his name slowly, using dozens of Sharpies to sign small pieces of his name, so the parents could receive Sharpies used to sign the bills. He snapped the lids on and off. Camera shutters clicked. Hands gripped each other. Tears fell.

Wendie Childress stood behind her husband and held his shoulder as the lieutenant governor again praised Chloe and the other counselor, as he had done on the Senate floor. Matthew Childress reached across his chest to grab his wife’s hand.

Patrick suggested hanging a portrait of Chloe and Katherine, her fellow counselor, in the House and Senate chambers. Childress cocked his head, unsure how to process that information.

After 21 minutes, it was over. Childress exhaled.

He and Bonner had accomplished what they sought to do. They had honored their daughters. They had done what they felt was right and they had done their best.

But they still couldn’t change the horrible truth that their daughters weren’t coming back.

“It’s not some overwhelming joyous thing,” Bonner said, “because our girls are still dead.”

Chloe wouldn’t start her college classes. She wouldn’t go to medical school. She wouldn’t get married or have kids. Matthew Childress felt crushed by the weight of all the memories with his daughter that he would not get to have, and that “the world doesn’t get to be exposed to how amazing she was.”

They would have to keep moving without Chloe. They would have to find their ways to keep living and crying and remembering and advocating and loving.

“It has to be for something,” Childress said.

This article originally appeared in at . The Texas Tribune is a member-supported, nonpartisan newsroom informing and engaging Texans on state politics and policy. Learn more at texastribune.org.

Located along the Guadalupe River in Kerr County, Texas, the all-girls Christian camp hosting presidents’ daughters and for its .

Now, a year shy of their centennial, the institution is at the center of tragedy.

On , flooding across Texas Hill Country more than half  of the campgrounds that span over 700 acres, claiming the of at least 27 campers and counselors. Across six counties, the death toll reached 120, with at least another 160 as of publication.

While the camp had all recent safety inspections, questions remain about whether more could have been done to protect campers and staff ahead of the tragedy.

The collection of images below offers a glimpse into the devastation at Camp Mystic, the heroic rescue efforts of the community and the legacy of the camp.

Camp Mystic Legacy in Archives

KERRVILLE — A crowd gathered at Antler Stadium on Wednesday night, but they were not there to see the Tivy Antler football team run drills or host rival teams.

Instead, the parents, teachers, students and others who filled the bleachers solemnly looked ahead at the Kerrville Independent School District’s football field. They grappled with a grief caused by a devastating flood that swept away people young and old in the early hours of July Fourth.

As hundreds trickled in for a vigil for the flood’s victims that night, people hugged. Some smiled when they spotted a friend, striking up a conversation. Many cried for the Texas Hill Country, which was struck last Friday by the state’s second-deadliest flood. Among the victims lost to the deadly currents of the Guadalupe River was Reese Zunker, who had coached soccer for 12 years at Tivy High School, home to about 4,700 students.

“Our community was struck with tragedy literally in the darkness,” one speaker said. “But as the sun rose, the light came.”

In the aftermath of the tragedy, the deeply religious Kerr County community turned to gospel Wednesday night. Residents channeled their grief through prayer for the more than 100 lives lost and 161 victims from the region who remain missing.

Questions remain about whether residents were given enough time to evacuate the areas that flooded, including Camp Mystic, the all-girls summer camp and a beloved tradition at the epicenter of the catastrophe. Twenty-seven girls, the camp confirmed, died, as did its director, Richard “Dick” Eastland.

This act of remembrance, residents said, was their way of coming to terms with the senseless destruction the flood left behind.

“I think it’s a way of moving on,” said Leah Westra, a coalition coordinator for the Hill Country Council of Alcohol and Drug Abuse and mother of three, two of whom attend Tivy. “We move on, not because we forget our grief or forget the tragedy, but because we have to. We get to move on and rebuild.”

Pete Calderón, who sits on the school district’s board of trustees, said he tells his students about what God promises — and what he doesn’t — to quell their grief.

“(God) doesn’t promise that we’re not going to have injury or death or sickness,” he said. “What he does promise is that he’s going to be there for us … and you’ve got to lean on that.”

Scenes of the community’s faith presented themselves repeatedly Wednesday evening. Turning bleachers into pews, mourners sang in worship, with one verse saying: “It’s your breath in our lungs.”

A high schooler had his arm outstretched, his palms up.

Two friends embraced each other, their arms interlocked across different rows of the stadium. Another woman held her toddler tighter. Her son is so young that he can’t quite grasp the magnitude of the death.

“Peace, peace,” one man whispered to himself.

One girl adjusted her red glasses to wipe away her tears. Every time she did, her cheeks just got damp again.

Many wore blue, the high school’s colors, while others pinned green ribbons to their shirts, the color for Camp Mystic.

For over an hour, through song and Bible verses, Dan Beazley, who stands at about 5’7” tall, held up a wooden cross nearly twice his size. Abigail Smithson, a student at the high school, joined him.

Beazley had driven 24 hours from Michigan with the cross in the bed of his truck. Earlier in the week, he had held the cross up at the site of Camp Mystic while first responders dug through debris looking for survivors.

He brought the cross “to make a little bit of difference, to help them grieve, to bring a little bit of hope,” said Beazley, who added he can’t stop thinking about what victims went through before they passed away.

The night ended with footballs and frisbees tossed around, an effort for the community to find some joy. Lively music, laughter and conversation filled the stadium.

“We set an hour to play. There is healing in play and laughter,” said Josh Smithson, the father of Abigail Smithson and a minister with YoungLife. “They were able to let go of some of the heaviness.”

This article originally appeared in is a member-supported, nonpartisan newsroom informing and engaging Texans on state politics and policy. Learn more at texastribune.org.

Right along one of the Guadalupe River’s bends, the Christian camp Camp Mystic has been a summertime haven for generations of Texas girls.

But after a through in the early hours of July Fourth, it’s become the site of a tragedy pulling on the hearts of Texans across the state.

Green-roofed cabins housing hundreds of campers and staff dotted the area, which is lush with cypress and live oak trees. This summer, Camp Mystic hosted 750 girls between 7 and 17 years old — that’s more than half of Hunt’s population of around 1,300.

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Campgrounds span over 700 acres in the heart of Texas’ Hill Country, making it a peaceful place for girls to spend weeks singing campfire songs and making ceramics. Since they’re right by the river, in between church services, they also learn how to kayak and fish for bass.

By Saturday afternoon, the scene was grim. While buildings were still standing, cars overlapped each other. Inside the cabins, campers’ belongings that had been left behind were smashed against the windows or strewn on the ground.

That river reached in less than an hour overnight with little warning, rising 26 feet in just 45 minutes. Fast-moving flood waters swept homes and cars away, and for Camp Mystic, made it difficult for staff to move hundreds of girls to safer ground in the dark.

Camp Mystic confirmed Monday 27 campers and counselors died in the floods. The search continues for girls that are missing. As of Monday evening, the flood’s death toll in Kerr County had risen to 84, including at least 27 children, officials said. Another 15 deaths were confirmed in surrounding counties.

Among those who have been confirmed dead is Camp Mystic’s director Richard “Dick” Eastland, according to . Operations of the 99-year-old camp have been passed down through four generations of the Eastland family. It’s currently owned by the sons and daughter-in-laws of Dick and his wife, Tweety Eastland.

U.S. Rep. August Pfluger, a San Angelo Republican, said two of his daughters were among those that needed to be evacuated from the camp.

“Camille, Vivian and I are now reunited with Caroline and Juliana who were evacuated from Camp Mystic,” Pfluger . “The last day has brought unimaginable grief to many families and we mourn with them as well as holding out hope for survivors.”

Social media sites have been full of posts with photos of the missing girls, asking people to keep eyes out for survivors. Former campers are also sharing beloved memories and expressing heartache for mourning families. Just last week, Camp Mystic posted a recapping group dance performances from the girls.

“We will do anything humanly possible to find your daughter,” Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick said to parents on Friday, adding that search and rescue teams are looking for survivors. A total of 14 state helicopters, 12 drones and 400 to 500 people on the ground helping with the search.

On Friday, the camp office sent a desperate message to families saying they sustained “catastrophic floods” and were working with rescuers. All power, wi-fi and water had been shut off at the facilities. The message stressed that parents of all children who were missing had been contacted.

“The highway was washed away so we are struggling to get more help,” the message said. “Please continue to pray and send help if you have contacts to do so.”

A little after 7 p.m. on Friday, the Texas Game Wardens announced they had reached the camp and were beginning to bring campers out. But the fate of many those unaccounted for remains unknown.

Camp Mystic, which offers two 4-week terms and one 2-week term over the summer, has been the go-to summer camp for daughters of Texans for nearly a century — especially the state’s political elite.

“Mystic girls,” as campers are called, include the daughters of former Texas governors Price Daniel, Dan Moody and John Connally, . Former President Lyndon B. Johnson’s daughters, granddaughters and great-granddaughters also attended.

First Lady Laura Bush was a camp counselor. Counselors typically are college-aged, some work there right after graduating high school.

Because the river cuts through Hunt, it’s a popular place for summer camps. , an all-boys summer camp, is just a 7 minute drive north of Camp Mystic. Camp La Junta has that all campers are safe.

Young Camp La Junta camper Ruffin Boyett “the cabins were flooding” and walls “broke down” in the middle of the night. He said campers waited on rafters before swimming to safety. Ruffin’s younger brother had to swim out of his cabin since floodwaters reached the top level of the bunkbeds.

“We had one choice and we had to swim out of our cabins,” he said.

Hunt is home to just over 1,300 people, but when summer comes around, the small city’s population multiplies because of young campers. Summer camps are one of the most lucrative businesses for Hunt, with close to a dozen clustered along the Guadalupe River.

Girls summer camp Heart O’ the Hills is just a mile north of Camp Mystic. “Thankfully, camp was not in session,” according to , and everyone who was on campgrounds over the weekend have been accounted for.

But Heart O’ the Hills confirmed that its camp director, Jane Ragsdale, is one of the flood’s victims .

“We are mourning the loss of a woman who influenced countless lives and was the definition of strong and powerful,” the post reads.

Brenda Bazán and Berenice Garcia contributed to this report.

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