Grand Teton

On the morning of June 5, 1976, residents in eastern Idaho were getting ready for the weekend. It was branding season for cattle. Kids were riding bikes. Farmers were checking irrigation ditches.

At the edge of the Teton River Canyon stood something new and massive: the Teton Dam, a 305-foot-tall earthfill dam that had just begun holding back water weeks earlier. Engineers at the Bureau of Reclamation had been proud of it—one of the largest earthen dams ever built. Behind it, the reservoir stretched for miles, pressing against the dam’s clay core with growing force.

Then the ground started to leak.

First it was a trickle. Engineers on site spotted wet spots on the downstream face, oozing out cloudy water—a telltale sign of sediment in motion. Piping, they called it. Erosion inside the structure.

They tried to plug the holes. Bulldozers pushed rocks and boulders into the softening walls. Helicopters dropped loads from above. But it was too late. The dam had already been compromised—from within.

By 11:55 AM, the entire right side of the dam gave way. The breach widened almost instantly to the size of a football field. 250 billion gallons of water exploded from the canyon, roaring downstream at over 30 miles per hour.

Towns like Wilford, Sugar City, and Rexburg were in the path. People had minutes—at most—to flee. Homes, livestock, farmland, vehicles, and memories were erased in the flood. By the end, 11 people were dead, thousands were displaced, and over $2 billion in damage (in today’s dollars) had been done.

You’d be forgiven for assuming this was a story about poor construction. But the real failure wasn’t structural—it was behavioral.

From the beginning, warnings were raised. Local geologists questioned the decision to build in an area riddled with porous volcanic rock and underground fissures. Water, after all, doesn’t obey paperwork. It flows where it wants.

But confidence won out. After all, it was a government project. Funded. Approved. Moving fast. There was political pressure to get it done. So they grouted over the cracks and forged ahead. It would be fine.

Until it wasn’t.

I often think about the Teton Dam in moments where things seem stable. Because like the dam, financial failure doesn’t usually start with a bang. It starts with a small, ignorable leak.

A strange fee here. An unexamined insurance policy there. A financial plan built around optimism, not stress testing.

Eventually, the pressure builds. The market turns. A job ends. A health crisis strikes. And suddenly, that well-meaning, mostly-solid plan faces a stress it wasn’t designed for.

We like to think financial collapse is a result of recklessness. But more often, it’s a result of unquestioned confidence—and a refusal to revisit the foundation. The Teton Dam was massive, engineered, reviewed, and funded. But it was built on bad ground.

What’s your financial ground?

For some people, it’s a house that costs too much. Or a portfolio without downside protection. Or a retirement plan that works—but only if everything goes right. Others are missing a will, or disability insurance, or a plan for when they’re no longer around to make decisions.

It’s easy to ignore those stress points because, well, they’re not obvious until they are. Most of the time, the dam holds.

Until it doesn’t.

There’s a second lesson here, too—maybe even more important than the first. After the collapse, some towns downstream suffered enormous losses. Others were spared.

The difference? Emergency planning.

Some communities had detailed flood protocols. Others didn’t. Some neighbors checked on each other. Others waited for orders. There’s no way to control the size of the breach. But there is a way to prepare for the consequences.

In finance, that’s what contingency planning is for. We don’t know when the breach will come. But we can plan as if it might.

Cash reserves. Powers of attorney. Clear account titling. Backup plans. Insurance. A written plan that doesn’t just work in a spreadsheet, but in real life, under pressure.

Because pressure always comes. Eventually.

The Teton Dam was never rebuilt. Its dry scar still cuts across the canyon today—a visible reminder of what happens when speed outpaces caution, and confidence drowns out humility.

The river returned to its natural course. But for many who lived through it, life was permanently altered.

The strange truth is, the dam didn’t fail because it was weak. It failed because it looked strong—strong enough that no one wanted to question it, even when the signs were there.

That’s the danger in our financial lives, too. Things look fine. Until they aren’t.

So maybe it’s worth checking for leaks—before the water rises.