KERR COUNTY, Texas — Sarah Marsh, a young student from Mountain Brook attending Cherokee Bend Elementary, has been confirmed dead following the catastrophic flash flooding that devastated Camp Mystic in Hunt, Texas. Her body was recovered amid the ongoing search and rescue efforts sweeping the flood-battered Guadalupe River basin. The confirmation of Sarah’s death deepens a tragedy already compounded by the confirmed loss of fellow campers Janie Hunt and Renee Smajstrla, and beloved Camp Director Dick Eastland.
These deaths are part of a growing toll from what officials have now called one of the most deadly natural disasters in recent Texas history. Caused by an historic 15 inches of rain that fell in a matter of hours, the flash flooding transformed the scenic and serene Guadalupe River into a destructive force of water, debris, and sorrow. As of Friday night, officials have confirmed at least 24 deaths across the region, with more than 20 others still unaccounted for—many feared to have been swept away in the early morning hours while they slept.
For the community of Camp Mystic, the confirmation of Sarah Marsh’s death represents another shattering blow in a string of cascading losses. Sarah had been among the dozens of campers reported missing when the all-girls Christian summer camp was hit by a violent surge from the river that overwhelmed cabins, roads, and escape routes. Her grandmother’s confirmation comes after hours of anguish and waiting, as families clung to hope that survivors might yet be found clinging to life or stranded in the wooded terrain that surrounds the riverbanks.
Sarah’s story has touched families across the South. A young girl far from home, caught in the middle of a ferocious act of nature, now joins the heartbreaking roll call of children lost to the flood. Her classmates at Cherokee Bend Elementary, a tight-knit school community in Alabama, are now preparing to grieve a classmate they had expected to see again in the fall. The school, like many others, had long partnered with Camp Mystic for summer programs, with parents entrusting their daughters to a camp known not only for tradition but for its deeply spiritual mission of personal growth and sisterhood.
In the hours after the flooding, authorities and volunteers fought against impassable roads and washed-out bridges to reach Camp Mystic. Situated in a relatively isolated section of Kerr County, the camp—like many properties along the Guadalupe—was cut off by the sheer volume of water that rose overnight. Entire cabins were swept away, including one that authorities believe housed both Janie Hunt and Renee Smajstrla, whose deaths were confirmed earlier in the day.
Janie and Renee were part of a generation of young girls who had come to Camp Mystic to grow in faith and friendship. Their parents—many of them alumni of the camp themselves—had trusted the generations-old institution as a safe and transformative space. That space has now become a disaster zone, with mud-covered buildings, twisted beds and bunks, and overturned vehicles littering the once pristine grounds.
The flood also claimed the life of Camp Director Dick Eastland, a revered figure whose leadership had spanned decades and generations. Eastland was not merely an administrator; he was the emotional and spiritual cornerstone of Camp Mystic. Friends and colleagues recall how he shepherded the camp through years of both joy and hardship. In a cruel twist, Eastland had endured deep personal losses prior to the flood—having lost both a son and grandson—and had survived a battle with brain cancer. His death, confirmed as he attempted to help rescue campers during the flooding, leaves a gaping void in a community that had long viewed him as indestructible.
Witnesses and family members reported that Eastland had driven out before dawn on the morning of the flood to assess and evacuate cabins he feared were in danger, including the now-infamous “Bubble Inn” cabin. That heroic decision likely saved lives—but cost him his own. His legacy will now be measured not only by the summers he led, but by the selflessness with which he gave his final hours.
Search and rescue efforts remain active. Governor Greg Abbott, addressing the press on Friday evening, called the event a “mass casualty disaster” and confirmed that state and local agencies were operating under a 24-hour “search and rescue posture.” Abbott said helicopters equipped with infrared and thermal imaging technology are scanning the riverbanks and wooded hills for signs of life. More than 100 Texas game wardens and aviation units have been deployed.
Over 200 people have been evacuated or rescued from the broader disaster zone, including 167 airlifts carried out by state aircraft, according to Major General Thomas M. Suelzer of the Texas Military Department. Still, the situation remains grim. Camp Mystic is the only known summer camp in the region where individuals are still unaccounted for, despite active communication with 18 other nearby camps. Officials are unsure whether some of the missing may have been swept downstream into inaccessible terrain or buried beneath debris.
Camp Mystic’s remote location—typically a strength for those seeking retreat and reflection—has become a liability for rescue efforts. With roads washed out, power lines down, and internet infrastructure destroyed, the area has become a logistical nightmare for emergency response. Helicopters have served as the only reliable method of access. In some places, rescuers have resorted to crossing on foot or by boat through perilous currents, carrying thermal imaging gear and makeshift stretchers.
Governor Abbott has issued a disaster declaration for the hardest-hit counties, including Kerr, Bandera, Kendall, and Gillespie. These declarations open the door for federal aid and mobilize the full force of state resources to assist in rescue and, soon, recovery. “We are focused on the ones that cannot help themselves right now,” said Nim Kidd, Chief of the Texas Division of Emergency Management. “That is our primary area of concern.”
The declaration also provides temporary shelter, water, and medical assistance to evacuees who, for now, have nothing to return to. In the towns of Ingram and Hunt, churches and schools have been converted into shelter sites. Parents, desperate for updates, gather in fellowship halls and on school bleachers, where official briefings are held every few hours.
As the hours pass, the emotional toll deepens. The number of missing continues to fluctuate—not because of administrative error, but because of the chaos inherent to mass evacuations and family reunifications. Cell towers remain down across wide swaths of the affected zone. Some families have been reunited by pure chance—spotting loved ones on rescue helicopters or in social media videos. Others continue to wait in suspended anguish.
The Hill Country region is no stranger to floods, but the scale of this event has shocked even longtime residents. The combination of high terrain, limestone soil that resists absorption, and sudden torrential downpours creates a perfect storm for flash flooding. Yet even by those standards, this storm was extreme. The Guadalupe River, normally a haven for tubing and summer campfire stories, rose with a ferocity not seen in decades. At the height of the flood, it exceeded major flood stage by over 15 feet in some locations. Entire portions of the river basin became unrecognizable.
What has emerged from this tragedy is not only a set of grim statistics, but a portrait of community under siege—clinging to prayer, to volunteerism, to the fragile hope that more names won’t be added to the death toll.
For Sarah Marsh’s family, that hope has turned into mourning. Her grandmother’s confirmation, delivered quietly to a local news station, is now a headline across the state. Her name joins Janie Hunt’s and Renee Smajstrla’s on a list no family ever wants to read—but one that Texas must reckon with as it moves from rescue to remembrance.
In time, there will be questions. About infrastructure, about early warning systems, about emergency response timelines. There will be investigations into how cabins were constructed and whether evacuation protocols were followed. But those questions must wait. For now, all energy remains directed at finding the missing—and ensuring no more families endure what the Marsh, Hunt, Smajstrla, and Eastland families now face.
Camp Mystic, though devastated, remains sacred ground to thousands of women across generations. Its future is uncertain. But what is clear is that its legacy has been forever altered—not by the joy it once offered, but by the tragedy it now holds.