I hadn’t taken a shower or put on clean clothes for several days, but I was alive. Fifteen inches of rain had fallen on the Black Hills of South Dakota in less than six hours. Four inches fell in 30 minutes. Imagine.

The first week of June 1972: I had just taken a job as a handyman, a laughable oxymoron for someone who not only didn’t know how to fix anything but had just turned 23. My first job out of college—on a dude ranch, the Ox Yoke outside of Nemo, operated by the former sheriff of Custer, his wife, their two sons, a ranch foreman with a cast, ankle-to-thigh, and his long-in-the-tooth pregnant wife. There were no guests at the “ranch.” There were, however, 10-plus WWII rehabilitated veterans, likely supported by a considerable government subsidy. Most sported lobotomy marks and outsized personalities. They worked cleaning out cesspools, digging drainage ditches, and running up to the garbage dump every day. I hung with them and the owner’s sons—let’s call them Spin and Marty, whose signature look consisted of toothpicks jammed into their cowboy hat bands. The youngest, usually shirtless, had a hankering for beer, tough talk, and mirrors. For all I know, he could have ended up in some western Dakota bar swinging from a pole in mesh stockings and falsies.

Therehere was a big red barn up near the gravel entrance, trailing down to the valley this little ranch snuggled into. A meandering creek ran right past my motel room at the bottom of the canyon. The barn was where the crazies gathered to listen to the family C&W combo, a band I joined once they heard I could play a little keyboard. The big house below was where they lined up the vets every morning to distribute pills before breakfast, pills specifically designed to keep shell-shock victims focused on the prize: acquiescence. It was a scene out of Cuckoo’s Nest.The rain started the afternoon of June 9. Before long the little trout pond by the big house had overflowed and the little creek behind my room had turned into white water. The owners were gone on a trip, so the A-team included me, the toothpick twins, the disabled foreman, and his PG wife, trailed by our merry band of nutbags. Once we knew we were in deep shit, the WWIIs wisely migrated to the barn. By nightfall we lost electricity and water. The flood went raging batshit. We made a decision to get all hands on deck, requiring transporting the guys back from the barn. Spin and Marty fired up the truck and four-wheeled it up the hill. We couldn’t get the truck near the big house so we rigged a rope, strung from the truck to the house, stretching across waist-deep, fast-moving water.

The vets were hysterical. I recall one poor fellow squeezing his wiener like a four-year-old who can’t hold back the pee any longer. He was just so scared. Me, too. We got them inside and did a head count, only to discover one missing, an Italian pianist who previously had shared his musical charts with me, wondering: Who might play his music? I recommended Frank Zappa. He wandered off that night into the rain. One of the guys told me he had gone fishing. After the heavy rain stopped, armed with flashlights we went out looking in the mud. The fast-moving water had turned a flat meadow into mounds of uneven sod. Every bump sent a shiver of fear that we’d found our missing pianist.

Two days later the National Guard made it in with fresh water and typhoid and malaria vaccines. The sheriff sent me to a motel in Rapid to help a crony clean out mud-soaked carpets. I left in a Guard truck, pockets empty, jeans and a T-shirt, a gnarly little dog, and a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. An American Indian family with whom I slung mud each day shared the second floor of the motel. Talk about living a Woody Guthrie song. After a few days, I pay-phoned the parents of a college friend who invited me over to shower, eat fried chicken, and get a good night’s sleep. I picked some Army fatigues out of a free bin at the local Armory and was soon rescued by three friends who made it down from Bald Mountain. They whisked me away to their house above the water, and 238 dead.

After a scream-dream night, I revisited the ranch, lobbied for the $66 they owed me, and left for a pre-nuptial dinner and my wedding in Sioux Falls. Eight hundred people—Greeks, the in-laws’ patrician pals, observers from my side, and a couple handfuls of friends, mostly freaks from college. Thankfully, even my lovely bride showed up, an explosion of splendiferous white satin and flight response.

The contrasts were mind-numbing. Forty years ago this June.

Editor’s Note: Gary Johnson is President of MSP Communications in Minneapolis, MN and authors the blog Loose Change for TCBmag.com.