The Johnstown, Pennsylvania Flood of 1889
On a seemingly ordinary May afternoon in 1889, the unsuspecting residents of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, were about to face an unprecedented catastrophe. A man-made disaster, born from a combination of negligence, hubris, and torrential rainfall, was poised to unleash its fury upon the unsuspecting town. The Johnstown, Pennsylvania Flood of 1889 would etch itself into the annals of American history as the most devastating flood of the 19th century, a stark reminder of the destructive power of nature and the consequences of human folly.
The story of the flood is intrinsically linked to the town’s very existence and its precarious location. Founded in 1794, Johnstown’s fortunes rose dramatically with the arrival of key transportation and industrial elements. The Pennsylvania Mainline Canal in 1834 and the Pennsylvania Railroad and Cambria Iron Company in the 1850s transformed the once-sleepy settlement into a bustling hub of commerce and industry. However, this prosperity came with a significant geographical drawback: Johnstown was built on a floodplain, nestled at the confluence of the Little Conemaugh River and Stony Creek. This unfortunate positioning rendered the town inherently vulnerable to the whims of the region’s frequently heavy rains.
Adding to this vulnerability, the burgeoning town’s rapid growth exacerbated the natural flood risk. The surrounding hills, once covered in dense forests, were increasingly stripped of their timber to fuel the town’s industries and provide building materials. This deforestation increased the surface runoff, channeling more water into the river system. Furthermore, to maximize building space, the riverbanks were artificially narrowed, constricting the natural flow of water and further amplifying the risk of flooding. In recent years, the annual rains had indeed caused increased flooding. The stage was set for a tragedy of immense proportions.
Fourteen miles east of Johnstown, nestled in the rugged terrain where the South Fork branch of the Little Conemaugh River met with several cascading mountain streams, lay the South Fork Dam. Originally constructed between 1838 and 1853 by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, its purpose was to provide a crucial water source for the Western Division of the Pennsylvania Mainline Canal, connecting Johnstown and Pittsburgh. The dam, built according to the engineering practices of the time, created Lake Conemaugh, a vast artificial lake that spanned over two miles in length and nearly a mile in width at its widest point. Held back by the earthen dam perched on the side of a mountain, Lake Conemaugh sat a daunting 450 feet above the town of Johnstown.
Ironically, even as the dam was being completed in 1853, the canal system it was designed to serve was already becoming obsolete, rendered outdated by the rapidly expanding railroad network. In 1857, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company acquired the Mainline works, including the dam and the reservoir. However, the railroad showed little interest in maintaining the aging structure. In 1862, a breach occurred near the discharge pipes, but the damage was minimal due to the low water level at the time. Following this incident, the railroad effectively abandoned the dam, leaving it to steadily deteriorate under the relentless forces of nature.
The fate of the South Fork Dam took a dramatic turn in 1879 when a group of wealthy Pittsburgh industrialists, among them prominent figures like Andrew Carnegie and Andrew Mellon, established the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. Seeking an exclusive retreat away from the hustle and bustle of city life, the club members purchased the neglected dam and reservoir, envisioning a private summer resort.
In 1881, without the oversight of qualified engineers, the dam underwent repairs. The reservoir was refilled, once again creating the expansive Lake Conemaugh, now stretching nearly three miles in length. A grand clubhouse, boasting 47 rooms, was erected overlooking the pristine lake. From its expansive porch, club members could indulge in leisurely pursuits, watching the club’s two steam yachts embark on scenic excursion trips. Several members further enhanced the allure of the resort by constructing lavish cottages nearby. For the next eight years, the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club offered its exclusive clientele a haven for fishing, hunting, boating, and other recreational activities, seemingly oblivious to the potential danger lurking just above Johnstown.
Despite the outward appearance of tranquility, concerns about the structural integrity of the 72-foot-high earthen dam, one of the largest of its kind in the world, began to surface. Some residents of Johnstown openly expressed their anxieties, with one individual remarking on the "tremendous power of the water behind it." Others questioned why the dam had not been strengthened, recognizing its growing weakness and the vulnerability it posed to Johnstown. Daniel J. Morrell, the president of Cambria Iron Company, was among those who voiced serious concerns, repeatedly urging the South Fork Club to reinforce the dam. However, his pleas were met with dismissive assurances from Benjamin Ruff, the first president of the South Fork Club, who confidently stated, "You and your people are in no danger from our enterprise."
Sadly, Morrell’s warnings went unheeded. The Johnstown, Pennsylvania Flood of 1889 was waiting to happen. Complacency and a disregard for the potential consequences of the dam’s neglect prevailed. The residents of Johnstown, increasingly aware of their precarious situation, began to refer to the dam as "the sword of Damocles hanging over Johnstown," a constant reminder of the impending doom that loomed above them.
By 1889, Johnstown had evolved into a thriving town of 30,000 residents, largely comprised of German and Welsh immigrants who had flocked to the area to work in the steel mills. The town had earned a reputation for the exceptional quality of its steel production, contributing significantly to the nation’s industrial growth.
On May 30, 1889, the region was struck by unusually heavy rains, an ominous prelude to the impending disaster. The citizens of Johnstown received three separate warnings of a possible flood if the dam were to fail. However, years of similar warnings, which had often proven false, had bred a sense of complacency. The supposed threat had become a standing joke around town. Furthermore, many residents found reassurance in the fact that the dam was purportedly being maintained by some of America’s wealthiest and most powerful men.
While some Johnstown residents took the usual precautions in preparation for potential flooding, John Parke, the club engineer at the South Fork Dam, recognized the gravity of the situation. He witnessed the lake’s water level rising at an alarming rate, increasing by an inch every 10 minutes. Parke understood that once the water began to overflow the top of the earthen dam, it would erode through the structure with devastating speed, ultimately leading to its complete collapse. His workers frantically attempted to dig an additional spillway and reinforce the dam’s height, but the water was rising too rapidly.
Parke found himself caught in a painful moral dilemma. He contemplated deliberately breaching the end of the dam, where the pressure was less intense, hoping to release the water gradually and mitigate its destructive force. However, he feared that he would be held solely responsible for the resulting flood, regardless of the fact that the dam was inevitably doomed to fail. Ultimately, he chose not to take action, opting to let fate run its course.
On the chilly, rain-soaked afternoon of May 31, 1889, at 3:10 p.m., the South Fork Dam began to fail.
John Parke, the South Fork engineer, described the event with chilling accuracy: "The fearful rushing waters opened the gap with such increasing rapidity that soon after, the entire lake leaped out… It took but forty minutes to drain that three miles of water."
At 4:07 p.m., the inhabitants of Johnstown heard a low rumble that quickly escalated into a deafening "roar like thunder." Those who understood the implications of the sound knew instantly what had transpired: the South Fork Dam had finally succumbed to the relentless pressure of the overflowing lake. Twenty million tons of water were now surging down the narrow valley, hurtling towards Johnstown with unimaginable force.
The floodwaters cascaded down the valley, dropping 450 feet in elevation over a distance of 14 miles, reaching staggering heights of 70 to 75 feet in some areas. The velocity of the water reached speeds of up to 40 miles per hour. In a mere 57 minutes, the catastrophic wave would engulf the town of Johnstown, leaving a trail of destruction and devastation in its wake.
Most of the residents of Johnstown never saw the approaching deluge until it was too late. A 36-foot wall of water, churning with massive debris, slammed into the town at 40 miles per hour, obliterating everything in its path. Eyewitnesses described the scene with horrifying clarity, stating that the floodwaters "snapped off trees like pipe stems," "crushed houses like eggshells," and "threw around locomotives like so much chaff." A violent wind preceded the wave, flattening smaller buildings in its path. Adding to the terror, a black pall of smoke and steam, dubbed the "death mist" by survivors, hung over the advancing wall of water.
Thousands of people desperately attempted to escape the onslaught, but their efforts were hampered by the existing two to seven feet of water that already covered parts of the town. A horrified observer from a hilltop overlooking Johnstown recounted how the streets "grew black with people running for their lives." Some managed to reach higher ground, narrowly escaping the flood’s path. Those who were caught in the wave were swept away in a torrent of oily, yellow-brown water, surrounded by tons of grinding debris. Some were crushed by the force of the water and the impact of the debris, while others found temporary refuge on makeshift rafts. Many became entangled in miles of barbed wire from destroyed wireworks, further complicating their struggle for survival.
As the water levels rose rapidly, people trapped indoors raced upstairs, reaching the third stories of buildings just seconds ahead of the encroaching flood. Tragically, some had no chance of escape, as their homes were instantly crushed or ripped from their foundations, becoming part of the churning debris field that swept through the town. Everywhere, desperate individuals clung to rafters or rooftops, watching helplessly as railcars were swept downstream, frantically trying to maintain their balance as their precarious rafts pitched and rolled in the raging floodwaters.
The initial surge of the flood lasted for approximately 10 minutes, but for many, the worst was yet to come. Thousands of people who had sought refuge in attics or on the roofs of buildings still faced the threat of the relentless 20-foot current, which continued to batter the structures and jam tons of debris against them. As darkness descended, they watched in horror as other buildings collapsed, unsure if their own shelters would withstand the night.
The most harrowing experience for hundreds of survivors occurred at the old stone railroad bridge located below the junction of the rivers. Thousands of tons of debris, including entire buildings, machinery, hundreds of freight cars, 50 miles of railroad track, bridge sections, boilers, telephone poles, trees, animal carcasses, and an estimated 500 to 600 human beings, piled up against the bridge’s arches. The 45-acre mass of debris was held fast against the bridge by the powerful current, further secured by the miles of tangled barbed wire.
Those who were able to move began desperately scrambling over the wreckage towards the shore. However, many remained trapped in the debris, some hopelessly entangled in the barbed wire, unable to free themselves. Then, tragically, the oil-soaked debris caught fire. As rescuers worked tirelessly in the darkness to free those who were trapped, the flames quickly spread throughout the entire mass, burning with what a Johnstown newspaper account described as "all the fury of hell." Eighty people perished at the bridge, some still trapped inside their own homes.
The following day, survivors were greeted by an eerie silence that hung heavily over the devastated city. During the night, the floodwaters had receded, revealing a landscape of mud and rubble-filled streets, many of which were buried up to the third story of buildings. Entire blocks of buildings had been completely razed. Hundreds of people, both alive and dead, were buried beneath the ravaged city. Many bodies were never identified, and hundreds of the missing were never found. The Johnstown, Pennsylvania Flood of 1889 had left an indelible scar on the town and its people.
As feared, disease followed in the wake of the flood. Typhoid fever claimed an additional 40 lives, adding to the staggering death toll of 2,209. Emergency morgues and hospitals were quickly established, and commissaries were set up to distribute food and clothing to the survivors.
The nation responded to the disaster with an outpouring of time, money, food, and clothing. Contributions from both the United States and abroad totaled over $3,700,000, a testament to the widespread compassion and empathy for the victims of the flood. The disaster also provided the newly formed American Red Cross, under the leadership of Clara Barton, with its first major test. Barton and her team of 50 doctors and nurses arrived in Johnstown five days after the flood. After assessing the devastation, she established hospital tents and constructed six Red Cross "hotels" to provide shelter for the homeless. Barton and her crew remained in Johnstown until October, assisting in the arduous process of rebuilding the city.
Today, the Johnstown Flood National Memorial in South Fork, Pennsylvania, stands as a poignant reminder of the most devastating flood of the 19th century in the United States and the greatest national catastrophe in the post-Civil War era. The memorial serves as a somber reminder of the devastating consequences that can arise when people disregard the principles of engineering and hydrology. The Johnstown, Pennsylvania Flood of 1889 provided vast literature with important lessons for environmental management today. At present, all that remains of the historic earthen dam (originally about 900 feet long and 75 feet high) are the north and south abutments; the spillway cut around the north abutment to carry off excess water, and a few remnants of wood and culvert foundation stones representing the location of the control mechanism.