I spent years photographing disasters. Then one hit my hometown

The town hasn’t changed much over the years, but that’s a good thing. It remains a strong constant for me, a comforting old friend that I’ve always counted on to be there just the way it’s always been.

For decades, Sunol has been a secret valley of natural beauty seemingly untouched and unknown by the rest of the Bay Area. Its unincorporated, secluded status is what attracts those who have built lives there, but it also means it gets overlooked. Though it is part of Alameda County, it doesn’t have its own police department, fire department or local government organization to provide resources to those who need it in times of emergency. Sunolians know that if they need things to get done, they’re going to have to count on their neighbors for help.

On New Year’s Eve, Sunol was blindsided by the devastating effects of the atmospheric river that drenched the entire Bay Area. Both Sinbad and Arroyo de la Laguna rose well beyond the flood level for the first time in decades. Sinbad Creek rose to about 2 feet above Kilkare Road, flooding homes, toppling trees and sweeping away vehicles. The heavy rains caused numerous impassable landslides, trapping residents who stayed behind and preventing evacuees from checking on their homes. As storms continue to slam the Bay Area, these conditions have become more and more precarious.

When the storms hit, many town residents turned to the Facebook group “Love Sunol, CA,” a neighborhood forum-type space where people post events and things for sale, ask for things they may need, and share emergency news. On New Year’s Eve, the page lit up with posts from neighbors asking others for help. There were harrowing accounts of severe flooding and residents looking for tips on how to safely evacuate or secure their properties.

Photos showed residents taking action. In one, longtime Sunolians Irv Tiessen and Calvin Kuntze held the ankles of their neighbor Klay Kunkel as he dangled over a small bridge, using a chain saw to cut loose a tree that was wedged there. Other images showed neighbors gathered at the bottom of Kilkare Road with their kids to fill sandbags for elderly residents who were unable to do it themselves.

To me, this kind of community effort and resilience in difficult times is what has always set Sunol apart from other Bay Area towns where many people don’t even know their neighbors.

I started to worry about my own family after seeing the urgent posts in the Facebook group. Then a text from my mom showed up on my phone. “We’re evacuating,” it said. A video showed her front yard under a foot of water. My heart sank. With more rain in the forecast, I began to expect the worst.

My mom has always prided herself in being prepared for a disaster, and this time was no different. She and my stepdad worked quickly to evacuate my grandfather and save family memorabilia. My mom walked into her bedroom, where the water was up to her ankles, fishing for the electrical cords to her computer still plugged into the wall, thankful the power had been shut off earlier in the day. But it was too late to save everything.

When the storm subsided, I made a trip to Sunol to cover the aftermath of the storm for The Chronicle. Fortunately, no one had been killed or injured, but my hometown, it turned out, had made news as the most affected spot in the East Bay and the only town with a flood and evacuation warning.

Just as I had a thousand times before, I took the exit off of Interstate 680 into town and drove down the winding road that follows the Arroyo de la Laguna. For the first time in years, I could actually see the water in the creek. I made my way past the four corners area that leads visitors into town and drove through floodwaters puddled on the old bridge.

To my right, I could see the damage to Sunol Glen School, the elementary school that I, my mother and my grandmother all attended. Floodwaters had buried the campus in a thick layer of mud, their current so strong they had lifted five storage containers and slammed them into the school’s play structure.

Reaching my mom’s house, I looked around to assess the damage. In the front yard, a few logs that had lined the walkway had floated to the other side of the lawn. A layer of mud with the dank smell of a riverbed covered almost every surface. My stepdad showed me a tiny porcelain statue of Jesus that he’d found floating outside the front door.

My mom walked me into the room she’s dreaded entering since the water receded: a garage storage space that holds treasured holiday decorations, yearbooks from high school, artwork I made as a child and precious items that had belonged to my late grandma Joyce.

I’m still in denial that these things have been destroyed, Mom said. Maybe this is an exercise in letting go of material things, I told her, looking for a way to bring her some hope.

I’ve spent my career documenting small towns with big hearts. I’ve seen many times how those places come together in times of tragedy. But this time it was personal.

My decision to turn my lens toward my own family and their recovery from the storms was not just about recording it for historic purposes. It’s about the realization that no one, not my family nor yours, is safe from the effects of climate change.

Normally when I’m covering a flood or fire in a rural town, I meet residents who share their harrowing stories while I photograph their efforts to recover or rebuild. The pictures are taken, they get filed to my editors, and we move on to the next story. This time is different. When the water recedes and the rain finally stops, I’m going to be part of the story, tasked with cleaning up and providing my family with moral support necessary to move forward.

We’re taught as journalists to be objective, to be unbiased observers of the events we cover. But what can we do when our families are directly at risk? How are we supposed to feel when we are experiencing the same level of loss as those who we are documenting?

It’s clear to me that as the climate continues to change and cause environmental disasters, journalists are going to have a harder time separating themselves from the story. For me, that’s happening in real time.

Another series of storms is supposed to slam Sunol in the days ahead, and my family and their neighbors are bracing for another possible flood. I’m bracing for what I might find when I go home again.

Jessica Christian is a San Francisco Chronicle staff photographer. Email: jessica.christian@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @jachristian

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