The anger at us not being able to keep them safe feels completely reasonable.
In the shadow of last summer's Fourth of July floods, which claimed 27 young lives at Camp Mystic and more than 100 across the Texas Hill Country, the camp's operators have chosen not to return. Their withdrawal of the 2026 license application — made under pressure from grieving families, state lawmakers, and a public unwilling to move on — is a rare moment of institutional reckoning, though it answers none of the deeper questions about how such a tragedy was allowed to unfold. Some summers, it seems, cannot simply be resumed.
- Twenty-seven girls drowned at Camp Mystic last Fourth of July when floodwaters overwhelmed a facility whose emergency plan called for sheltering in place rather than evacuating.
- Operators initially announced plans to reopen with nearly 900 campers in non-flooded sections of the grounds, a decision that enraged bereaved families and drew swift condemnation from state officials.
- Legislative hearings this spring became a crucible of grief and accountability, with a Republican state senator telling the Eastland family directly that they would not be permitted to operate again if he had any say in the matter.
- On Thursday, Camp Mystic withdrew its 2026 license application, framing the decision as an act of respect for those still mourning — though critics and families are left without answers about the regulatory failures that made the disaster possible.
Camp Mystic will not open this summer. The Hill Country facility's operators announced Thursday that they are withdrawing their application for a 2026 camp license, closing the door on a planned return that had already become a source of profound pain for the families who lost children there.
Last Fourth of July, catastrophic floods swept through the Texas Hill Country, killing more than 100 people across the region. At Camp Mystic, 27 girls drowned. The camp's emergency plan — established by co-founder Dick Eastland, who also died in the flooding — had called for sheltering in place rather than evacuating, a decision that would define the tragedy and haunt its aftermath.
When the remaining operators announced plans to reopen in late May, expecting nearly 900 campers in sections of the camp that had not flooded, the response was swift and furious. Families who had lost children spoke out, and state lawmakers joined them. During legislative hearings this spring, Republican State Senator Charles Perry told the Eastland family plainly that they would not be permitted to operate again if he could prevent it. Co-director Edward Eastland offered no defense. "The anger at us not being able to keep them safe feels completely reasonable," he said. "I have no excuses."
In their withdrawal statement, the operators acknowledged that reopening would only deepen wounds still raw with grief, noting that twenty-eight lives had been lost — a figure that differed slightly from the official toll of 27. They also recognized that over 800 girls had hoped to return, a reminder that for many, the camp had been a place of genuine belonging.
The decision represents a meaningful moment of accountability, but it resolves little. How an emergency plan built on sheltering in place was ever approved for a flood-prone facility, and what oversight failed to catch the gap, remain open questions — ones that Camp Mystic's withdrawal does nothing to answer.
Camp Mystic will not open its gates this summer. On Thursday, the operators of the Hill Country facility announced they were withdrawing their application for a 2026 camp license—a decision that closes the door on what would have been a return to normalcy after last July's catastrophic floods.
Last Fourth of July, heavy rains swept through the Texas Hill Country with devastating force. The floods killed more than 100 people across the region. At Camp Mystic, the toll was particularly severe: 27 girls drowned. The camp's evacuation plan, established by co-founder Dick Eastland, had called for sheltering in place rather than evacuating—a decision that would haunt the facility's leadership in the months that followed. Eastland himself died in the flooding.
In the weeks after the disaster, Camp Mystic's remaining operators announced plans to reopen in late May. They said they would operate only in the sections of the camp that had not flooded and expected to welcome nearly 900 campers. The announcement ignited fury among the families who had lost children. State lawmakers and officials joined the outcry, calling on regulators to block or delay the camp's license renewal, which was under review by the Texas Department of State Health Services.
During legislative hearings this spring, the anger became impossible to ignore. Republican State Senator Charles Perry of Lubbock was direct with the Eastland family: they should not be permitted to operate a camp. "Y'all will not be an operator next session, next season if I can have anything to say of that because you just missed it, and it was tragic," he said. Edward Eastland, one of the camp's co-directors, acknowledged the weight of the criticism. "The anger at us not being able to keep them safe feels completely reasonable," he said. "I have no excuses."
On Thursday, Camp Mystic released a statement announcing the withdrawal. The operators said the decision reflected respect for the grieving families and a recognition that their reopening would only deepen wounds that remained raw. "Twenty-eight precious lives were lost," the statement read, though the official death toll at the camp was 27. "We recognize that no statement and no decision can undo that loss or ease the burden carried each day by parents, siblings, loved ones, survivors, first responders and our beautiful Kerr County community."
The statement also noted that over 800 girls had wanted to return to camp this summer—a reminder that for many families, Camp Mystic remained a place of belonging despite the tragedy. The operators emphasized that their bond with campers and their families had not ended, only been interrupted.
The withdrawal marks a significant moment of accountability, though it leaves larger questions unresolved. How did a camp's emergency plan come to rely on sheltering in place during a flood? What regulatory oversight failed to catch this gap? And what safeguards will be put in place at other youth facilities to prevent similar disasters? Camp Mystic's decision to step back provides no answers to these questions—only the acknowledgment that some losses cannot be recovered, and some summers will not come.
Notable Quotes
Y'all will not be an operator next session, next season if I can have anything to say of that because you just missed it, and it was tragic.— Republican State Senator Charles Perry of Lubbock, addressing the Eastland family
The anger at us not being able to keep them safe feels completely reasonable. I have no excuses.— Edward Eastland, Camp Mystic co-director
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did the camp initially try to reopen? Didn't they understand how the community would react?
They believed they could compartmentalize the tragedy—operate in the dry parts, welcome back the girls who wanted to return. They may have genuinely thought they were honoring the camp's legacy. But they misread the moment entirely.
What changed their minds?
The public hearings. When lawmakers and families testified, when a state senator told them directly they shouldn't operate, the operators heard something they couldn't argue with: the anger was legitimate, and it was universal.
The statement mentions 28 lives lost, but the reporting says 27. Is that a mistake?
It appears so. The camp's own statement may have included someone else—a staff member, perhaps—in their count. Or it was simply an error in a document written under tremendous emotional strain.
Do you think they made the right call by withdrawing?
It's the only call they could make at that point. But it's also a way of stepping back rather than facing what went wrong. The real question is whether anyone will be held accountable for the evacuation plan that failed.
What happens to those 800 girls who wanted to come back?
They'll find other camps, or they won't. But the community that Camp Mystic was part of is fractured now. Some families will never trust it again, even if it reopens someday. That's the true cost.