Living life to the fullest is not an easy thing to do. You have to work at it. But every morning the choice is yours.

Sailing and making new friends.

Before there was SV Seeker. There was Submarine Seeker.

The Guadalupe Warning
At nine years old, Lupita Reyes already knew more about Earth science than most grown-ups. Her notebooks brimmed with diagrams—cross-sections of ancient seabeds, floodplains, fossil layers, and weather cycles. She read geology books the way others read fairy tales, and her curiosity reached deep into the Earth’s history. At school, she aced every test but sat alone at lunch. She didn’t know the newest songs, didn’t follow soccer, didn’t care about games. What she cared about was the ground beneath her feet—and what it remembered.

So when her parents sent her to Camp Echo on the Guadalupe River that summer, hoping she’d “make friends,” Lupita packed her field journal and a worn copy of Ice Age Texas. She also brought another favorite: an article she’d printed at the library about how the reintroduction of wolves had reshaped the Yellowstone River. Just by returning, the wolves had driven elk from the riverbanks, letting trees grow back, cooling the water, and even changing the way the river flowed.

That story fascinated her. How a single animal—el lobo—could change the land itself.

One evening at camp, watching the river roll past, she whispered to herself:
My name means little wolf…
And this is the Guadalupe.

The connection made her shiver. It felt like a story waiting to happen.

She spent her days wandering the riverbanks alone, tracing flood lines in the mud, sketching roots exposed by old high water, mapping the shape of the land. She saw how the Guadalupe had clawed at the edges of the camp, reshaping it over time, much like the wolves had shaped Yellowstone—only here, the river was the predator.

Then the rain came.

It began as a gentle tapping on the cabin roof. By morning, it was still falling, steady and heavy. The Guadalupe was rising. Brown, thick, fast. The counselors said nothing was wrong, but Lupita had seen the angle of the slope, the soft ground near the cabin footings. She had seen flood scars in the trees.

That afternoon, she approached a counselor and said softly, “We shouldn’t be sleeping so close to the river.”

The counselor chuckled, distracted. “It’s just rain, sweetheart. This camp’s stood for generations. We’re fine.”

But Lupita didn’t sleep that night.

She lay awake, listening. The rain had changed—it was heavier now, more insistent. But it was the river she heard most. Beneath the rain, the Guadalupe had begun to speak. Not in words, but in a sound like breathing—then growling—then howling.

It sounded like a wolf.

The water hissed and barked and roared, the way wolves sound in dreams or nightmares. The same way the Yellowstone had changed when the wolves returned. But this wolf was the river itself—alive, hungry, coming for the camp.

She sat up, heart pounding. Then stood in the middle of the cabin.

One of the girls stirred. “Lupita, what are you doing?”

She whispered, “The river’s coming. Like a wolf.”

Someone groaned. Another rolled over. “Go back to bed.”

Then the wall exploded.

The Guadalupe had risen. It came in fast and furious, ripping the cabin from its footings. Screams filled the dark. In the final moment before the flood swept them all away, the others saw Lupita standing in the middle of the room, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a cry:

“El lobo viene! The wolf is coming!”

And then she was gone.

The next morning, after the floodwaters receded, they found one girl alive—clinging to the top of a tree. Cold and shaking, she whispered, “She warned us. She stood up. She knew.”

When asked who, the girl said, “Lupita. The little wolf. The one the river took.”

Camp Echo still stands, and kids return every summer. But when the sky turns dark and the river begins to rise—when the Guadalupe grows throatier, and the hiss becomes a howl—some stop to listen.

Because the river doesn’t just flood.

It hunts.

And some say that when the rain is hardest and the river turns wild, you can see her—a small girl standing in the water, hair soaked to her cheeks, eyes full of warning.

Lupita.

The little wolf of the Guadalupe.

The Guadalupe Warning
At nine years old, Lupita Reyes already knew more about Earth science than most grown-ups. Her notebooks brimmed with diagrams—cross-sections of ancient seabeds, floodplains, fossil layers, and weather cycles. She read geology books the way others read fairy tales, and her curiosity reached deep into the Earth’s history. At school, she aced every test but sat alone at lunch. She didn’t know the newest songs, didn’t follow soccer, didn’t care about games. What she cared about was the ground beneath her feet—and what it remembered.

So when her parents sent her to Camp Echo on the Guadalupe River that summer, hoping she’d “make friends,” Lupita packed her field journal and a worn copy of Ice Age Texas. She also brought another favorite: an article she’d printed at the library about how the reintroduction of wolves had reshaped the Yellowstone River. Just by returning, the wolves had driven elk from the riverbanks, letting trees grow back, cooling the water, and even changing the way the river flowed.

That story fascinated her. How a single animal—el lobo—could change the land itself.

One evening at camp, watching the river roll past, she whispered to herself:
My name means little wolf…
And this is the Guadalupe.

The connection made her shiver. It felt like a story waiting to happen.

She spent her days wandering the riverbanks alone, tracing flood lines in the mud, sketching roots exposed by old high water, mapping the shape of the land. She saw how the Guadalupe had clawed at the edges of the camp, reshaping it over time, much like the wolves had shaped Yellowstone—only here, the river was the predator.

Then the rain came.

It began as a gentle tapping on the cabin roof. By morning, it was still falling, steady and heavy. The Guadalupe was rising. Brown, thick, fast. The counselors said nothing was wrong, but Lupita had seen the angle of the slope, the soft ground near the cabin footings. She had seen flood scars in the trees.

That afternoon, she approached a counselor and said softly, “We shouldn’t be sleeping so close to the river.”

The counselor chuckled, distracted. “It’s just rain, sweetheart. This camp’s stood for generations. We’re fine.”

But Lupita didn’t sleep that night.

She lay awake, listening. The rain had changed—it was heavier now, more insistent. But it was the river she heard most. Beneath the rain, the Guadalupe had begun to speak. Not in words, but in a sound like breathing—then growling—then howling.

It sounded like a wolf.

The water hissed and barked and roared, the way wolves sound in dreams or nightmares. The same way the Yellowstone had changed when the wolves returned. But this wolf was the river itself—alive, hungry, coming for the camp.

She sat up, heart pounding. Then stood in the middle of the cabin.

One of the girls stirred. “Lupita, what are you doing?”

She whispered, “The river’s coming. Like a wolf.”

Someone groaned. Another rolled over. “Go back to bed.”

Then the wall exploded.

The Guadalupe had risen. It came in fast and furious, ripping the cabin from its footings. Screams filled the dark. In the final moment before the flood swept them all away, the others saw Lupita standing in the middle of the room, her eyes wide, her mouth open in a cry:

“El lobo viene! The wolf is coming!”

And then she was gone.

The next morning, after the floodwaters receded, they found one girl alive—clinging to the top of a tree. Cold and shaking, she whispered, “She warned us. She stood up. She knew.”

When asked who, the girl said, “Lupita. The little wolf. The one the river took.”

Camp Echo still stands, and kids return every summer. But when the sky turns dark and the river begins to rise—when the Guadalupe grows throatier, and the hiss becomes a howl—some stop to listen.

Because the river doesn’t just flood.

It hunts.

And some say that when the rain is hardest and the river turns wild, you can see her—a small girl standing in the water, hair soaked to her cheeks, eyes full of warning.

Lupita.

The little wolf of the Guadalupe.