Since the tragic Guadalupe River flood, the nation has been collectively learning about what it means to be Texan. We’re learning about Camp Mystic, the youth camp in the flood zone where so many lives were lost, and about the state’s summer camp culture in general. We’re learning about Kerr County and why summers in Central Texas are so special. Mostly we’re learning about community.
Reda Hicks is a born and raised Texan. Her 15-year-old son and husband were about 20 miles from Camp Mystic on July 4, at a similar facility called Camp Bandina, when the floodwaters rose. “Our church gets together with seven other churches every summer for a week of camp,” says Reda, a lawyer, who remained at home with her daughter, too young to attend.
The family was aware of the forecasts before leaving for camp. “My husband was a military pilot. He always checks the weather. He knew there was going to be rain, but I don’t think anyone appreciated the severity of the rain that was going to be coming,” she recalls.
Tell Congress: Protect Our Ability to Prepare for and Recover From Severe Weather Threats
July 4, 2025
The bulk of the global-warming-fueled extreme rain and resulting flooding happened, we all now know, in the wee hours of the morning July 4 while people slept. Time that could have been spent moving from cabins and homes dangerously close to the water was lost to slumber. People woke up to catastrophe. “The timing of it couldn’t have been worse,” says Reda.
At Camp Bandina, campers don’t have access to cell phones, but cabin leaders—all volunteers and parents in the church community—do. So Reda was able to get real-time updates from her husband, a therapist, who was there looking after a cabin of high school boys. “He’s really good in a crisis. He spent 22 years in the Army. We live in Houston, so it’s not his first flooding. A calm head is very important,” she says. All this helped her worry less.
Critically, everyone was safe and dry as the various buildings at Camp Bandina are set several hundred yards away from water on a hill. The main concern was flooded roads in and out of the camp. “At first, it looked like they were going to be stuck there a few extra days,” she says. Then, as volunteer parents took inventory of provisions in case they had to hunker down for days and discussed how to talk to the children, the county was somehow able to move a tree blocking a road. “Our campers, about 140 total, were able to get out Saturday,” recalls Reda.
Community helping community
Safe and dry in Houston, seeing news reports about other camps with facilities closer to the water, the conversation shifted to, “Is there anything we can do?”
Then they started hearing about families who had loved ones unaccounted for. A personal connection, the camp director for Heart O’ the Hills, lost her life trying to get her campers out. A friend of Reda’s daughter’s elementary school friend, also a church family, died at Camp Mystic. “It’s heartbreaking,” says Reda.
To live in Texas is to live through extreme weather. Reda is familiar with and proud of how Texas responds to a crisis. “I have experienced all of that. I have been here from Katrina to Harvey and Beryl and everywhere in between.” This time, to her, Texas feels small. “I didn’t appreciate the interconnectedness until I heard from so many people with loved ones missing,” she says.
Talking to children
Parents all over Texas right now are figuring out how to talk to their children about the missing and especially that some friends aren’t coming home from camp. “This is hard stuff,” says Reda, noting her conversations with her two children are very different. “My 15-year-old is very relational. He’s asking, ‘Do we know anyone who is hurting we can call? How can we help?’ My little one, well, it’s hard to explain mortality to an 8-year-old.”
Reda is relying on the hurricanes her daughter has lived through to frame her understanding. “We have talked about how this happened in the middle of the night, and it was really hard to try to get people out. People tried their best, but the water was powerful. Some were found safe and some weren’t.” Her daughter has asked to give a “big hug” to her friend who lost a classmate. The family has been saying a lot of prayers.
Looking ahead to the next climate disaster
As the focus in Texas switches from rescue to trying to “account for all of those babies” and bring closure to families to longer term recovery, Reda is hoping Texas won’t fade too quickly from the national spotlight. She’s part of a statewide leadership organization, the Texas Lyceum, with members on the ground in Kerr County. She knows “we have a short attention span” and that recovery will take longer than the spotlight. Central Texas is not just a place where kids attend summer camp; it’s also home to vacation cabins, RV parks, AirBNBs, and now decimated year-round communities with businesses and a lot of road damage. “There are parts of Houston not recovered from Harvey eight years later. The onus is on us to keep our eye on Central Texas to make sure they have what they need to get back on their feet,” she says.
Reda is pensive about future flooding. “It’s impossible to go through something like this and not have it change something,” she notes. Facilities will have to be rebuilt and possibly relocated. “Every single one of those camps loves our kids and wants them to have a great experience. What does it look like to build in more safety while continuing this important tradition? Is there a different way we need to think about early warning? Do our systems need improving or changing?”
While the future is uncertain, there’s one thing Reda knows for sure: her kids will go back to camp. “Texas parents are not going to not send their kids. My oldest is going to another in two weeks, not in the same part of the state.”
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