A Texas Survival Kit
(Page 2 of 3)
Because of its size, Texas has more tornadoes every year than any other state (as many as 232, a 1967 record). Interstate 35 is known as Tornado Alley because so many of the funnel clouds have cruised southward on the invitingly smooth road, wreaking havoc in assorted towns along the way. The state's weather experts have long feared a severe tornado hitting the DallasFort Worth Metroplex; noted one meteorologist at the National Weather Service's Fort Worth office, "It is not a question of if, but when." Such a storm could directly hit as many as 38,000 structures, 87,000 vehicles, and 178,000 people. Despite the scary statistics and the even scarier weather, Texans have always maintained their sense of humor. After a 1964 tornado hit Wichita Falls, one family put up a sign in front of their ruined home that read "Who Says the Bakers Don't Throw Wild Parties?"
In Texas, a funnel is more likely to touch down on an afternoon in May than at any other time. So if you're busy decorating the maypole and look up to see a twister approaching, just follow these instructions:
1. Get down. Lie in a ditch or a similar low spot and cover your head with your arms. With luck, the tornado will pass right over you.
2. If you're driving, pull over and get out, then follow the above directions. You can't outrun a tornado, and it's powerful enough to pick up your vehicle and toss it into the air.
3. If you're at home, go to the basement, if you have one, or otherwise the smallest room with the fewest windows (usually a bathroom or closet). If possible, drag in a mattress and crawl under it.
4. If you're in a mobile home, get out! Because it has essentially just been plunked down on the ground, it is a plaything for a tornado.
Caught in a Flood
It's been pouring all day. By mid-afternoon your kids are home from school, calling you at work every fifteen minutes with a mini-disaster update ("There are five geckos in the sink . . . The yard furniture got knocked over and washed all the way down to the Wilsons' fence"). The increasingly dire flash-flood warnings start to make you nervous, so you duck out early and dash home, anxious to reassure yourself that all is well. And all is—until you reach the water crossing just a hundred yards from your house. The marker shows only eighteen inches or so of what looks like foamy chocolate milk flowing by. But shoot, you're driving a big ol' SUV, so you boldly edge out into the stream and press the accelerator. In response you feel the car move—sideways. You and your Texas-size vehicle are being swept away.
According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association, Central Texas is the flash-flood capital of the U.S., and the state as a whole reported some six-hundred-plus fatalities between 1960 and 1995, more than twice as many as any other state. According to the Federal Emergency Management Agency, more people drown in their cars during a flood than anywhere else. So don't even think of driving through a flooded low-water crossing, no matter how big your vehicle. Turn around.
But if you misjudge the situation and are swept downstream, here's our reluctant advice:
1. Unbuckle your seat belt. You're not going anywhere with that thing on.
2. Get out of the car as fast as you can. Your best bet is to open your window (even electric windows should continue to work several minutes after submersion); the water pressure may not allow you to open your door. If necessary, you may have to use a tool—even your foot—to break the glass.
3. Let the current carry you downstream, keeping your feet forward as much as you can. Attempt to grab a tree and hold on for dear life. Try not to grab floating debris; it can easily injure you, and it may harbor snakes and other unhappy wildlife.
4. Wait for rescue. But save your energy for calling out until the noise of the rain and the roar of the creek have subsided or until you spot people on dry land.
Stung by a Jellyfish
Hypnotically undulating and even fetchingly fluorescent in public aquariums, jellyfish can inflict an agonizing sting when up close and personal. Their balloonlike tops are harmless, but their trailing tentacles contain stinging cells called nematocysts that can leave painful burning welts on the skin—even after the creature has died. The one most often encountered in Texas waters is the beautiful, purply-blue Portuguese man-of-war (which isn't really a jellyfish, for reasons too long and complicated to explain, but then again, jellyfish aren't really fish; they're invertebrates. Now, back to our program).
If you cross paths with a jellyfish:
1. Wash the stung area with seawater. Use a stiff, straight-edged object, such as a credit card or the back of a knife, to scrape the area and remove any clinging "jelly."
2. Make a paste of meat tenderizer and rubbing alcohol or water and spread it on to ease the pain. Enzymes in the meat tenderizer help break down the poison. Or apply hydrocortisone cream.
Struck by a Rattlesnake
Although Texas has fourteen species of venomous snakes, the most common and widespread is the Western diamondback, an aggressive rattlesnake found all over the state. Since they are large—often as much as seven feet long—they can easily inject life-threatening amounts of venom. But they rarely do: Less than one percent of Texas' snakebite victims die, including those bitten by our eight other kinds of rattlers, three varieties of copperheads, and the equally unfriendly Western cottonmouth (a.k.a. water moccasin). That leaves only the colorful coral snake, with its bands of black, red, and yellow. You can distinguish this cousin of the cobra from similarly vivid but harmless species, such as the king snake, because it is the only Texas snake whose red and yellow rings touch. All Texas schoolkids memorize the couplet "Red and yellow kill a fellow" or, in some areas, "Red and yellow, tell Saint Peter hello." Although bites from coral snakes are rare, their neurotoxin is particularly potent; besides hurting like hell, it can induce respiratory failure.
According to nineteenth-century Texas folklore, the victim of a rattler bite could cure himself simply by biting off the head of the offending snake. Modern medical experts frown on this method, so . . .
If you are bitten by a venomous snake:
1. Call 911. If you're in a remote area, dispatch a fellow hiker for help or give three short blasts on a whistle as an emergency signal. Says Big Bend's Laura Van Inwagen: "Remember, you could go into shock or develop heat-related problems on top of the snakebite, so your judgment will most likely be impaired. Just stay where you are."
2. Remain calm. Panic heightens cardiovascular activity and accelerates the spread of venom throughout the body.
3. Remove rings, watches, and other jewelry worn in the vicinity of a bite before swelling makes it impossible to do so.
4. Sit or lie down and keep the injured limb below the level of the heart. If possible, use a smooth tree branch, walking stick, or similar object as a splint to immobilize the limb.
5. Don't play doctor! Don't cut into the skin, don't try to squeeze or suck out the venom, don't use a tourniquet or an elastic bandage, and don't apply ice or cold packs. All these methods of treatment are more likely to worsen the damage than to reduce it.
Swept away by a Riptide
Also called undertows, riptides can mean RIP time. Here's how they form: Relatively minor currents resulting from the agitation of breaking waves flow through the tunnel caused by the curving walls of water and build up force, only to crash into one another. That forms a whirlpool of sorts that heads outward from the beach toward the sea. Because the currents churn up silt and sand as they swirl together, they sometimes have a brown hue and a choppy surface that make them stand out. Matagorda Beach, where the Colorado River empties into the Gulf of Mexico, has long been famous for severe riptides, which, according to the U.S. Lifesaving Association, are responsible for some 80 percent of ocean rescues nationwide.
If you're swimming alone on an isolated stretch of beach and feel yourself gripped and pulled out to sea by a riptide:
1. Go with the flow. This will conserve your strength. Don't swim against the current; the water will win.
2. When you feel the current's pull lessening—which could be as much as one hundred yards from shore—change direction and swim parallel to the shore or diagonally toward it until you've outstripped the rip. The waves will help wash you back in.
Pricked by a Cactus
Say you've spent the night in a darling little bed-and-breakfast in the country, and during a morning walk you discover a bumper crop of tunas—those pretty pink fruits of the prickly pear—ripening all over a massive stand of cacti. Carried away by the retro idea of making prickly-pear jelly, you start madly picking the tunas and storing them in your pockets . . . and then your fingers start to twinge. After close examination you realize that their tips are covered with cilia-like spines called glochidia. Forget the big thorns—these tiny barbs are far worse. Shaped like a fishhook, they lodge securely in your skin and are extremely hard to remove. And unless you try to get them out, they can create sore, swollen pustules that may last for as long as nine months.
If little pricks get under your skin:
1. Go pluck yourself. Attempts to remove the glochidia with fingers or teeth will only spread them to other parts of the body and prolong the pain. For best results, follow this two-step approach: First, use tweezers and a magnifying glass to remove as many as possible. Then apply a regular household glue, such as Elmer's, to the affected area, cover it with gauze, and, when the glue is dry, pull off the bandage.
2. The nasty big needles can usually be removed with fingers or tweezers if a large enough portion is sticking out. If one breaks off, the easiest solution is to apply a cold pack for several minutes, then squeeze the skin on either side of the needle (it should shoot out like a bullet).
Stricken with Heatstroke
