The High Meadows beaver dam had stood for seven seasons.
It was a massive structure of interlocked aspen logs, mud, and river-willow branches, holding back a pond that covered nearly four acres. At three-fifteen in the afternoon, the flash flood surge from Cedar Creek slammed into the upper pond.
The water level behind the dam rose three feet in ten minutes. The immense hydrostatic pressure pressed against the center of the wooden barrier, causing the anchor logs to groan and flex. With a sound like a cannon shot, the central section of the dam gave way.
A ten-foot wall of impounded water and debris broke free, surging down the narrow channel of Cedar Canyon at twenty miles an hour. The flood wave swept up everything in its path — fallen trees, heavy boulders, and mats of river vegetation.
At Rushwater Rapids, Pippin heard the dam failure as a sudden, terrifying roar that filled the canyon. He scrambled higher up the bank to a high cedar perch as the first crest of the flood wave rounded the upper bend.
The river rose three feet in less than sixty seconds. The gentle gravel bars were swallowed by a churning mass of brown water topped with white foam. Heavy oak logs tumbled through the current like matchsticks, crashing against the granite cliffs with heavy thudding sounds, sending splintered wood fragments flying into the air.
Pippin watched from his high perch, his claws digging into the rough bark, his instincts telling him to stay clear of the violent torrent. The natural sandstone bridge of Rushwater Arch held firm against the assault, but the water level was rising rapidly toward its keystone.
Then, through the deafening roar of the rushing water, his sharp ears caught a sound that did not belong to the river.
It was a high, panicked bark from the middle of the torrent.
Pippin stood tall on his hind legs, his dark eyes scanning the churning floodwaters. He spotted a stranded oak tree pinned against a boulder, and a mother fox trapped on its trunk with her kits.
He knew what he had to do.