Texas A&M bonfire collapse 25 years later: Aggie community remembers

A panicked Richard and Janiece West were glued to the radio as they drove to College Station on Nov. 18, 1999. The Bellaire couple hadn't heard from their 19-year-old son since they woke up that morning to learn that the 59-foot bonfire he and his friends were building had crumpled beneath them overnight.

The father assumed that Nathan Scott West was trapped in the pile, but he wouldn't learn the worst possible news until he got to Texas A&M . In those hours spent in limbo on the highway, the car stereo blared the sound of helicopters chopping above the wreckage.

"For some reason, that has always stuck in my mind," said Richard West, who now lives northeast of Dallas. "They asked (the helicopters) to move away, because they were trying to put a listening device in the stack to see if they heard any cries for help."

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Twelve people died and 27 others were injured in the event, which spurred a period of national mourning and introspection for a university well-known for its devotion to tradition. Twenty-five years later, the 1999 bonfire collapse remains a painful memory for so many people who lost loved ones, helped in the rescue efforts or survived the disaster. For others, the grief has softened to awe-inducing history, recalled on anniversaries and sometimes in the news.

The Wests, along with several other families of the 12, will gather with past and present students at 2:42 a.m. Monday at the memorial site on campus. Bonfire was a visible example of A&M's identity, and the collapse left a scar – one that carried on the Aggie spirit of service and that changed the university forever.

"I view bonfire as one of those pivotal moments to the overall changes in what Texas A&M would become," said Ann Goodman, a former A&M University administrator. "That memorial that stands out there is something Aggies are proud of, too ... how we embraced that really, really bad situation."

The collapse

Freshmen weren't usually allowed on the stack, but Derek Woodley and Tim Kerlee, Jr. climbed close to the top the night of the collapse.

Special circumstances allowed it, with the students facing a time crunch and a serious push necessary to finish before Thanksgiving. Devoted Aggies since 1909 had constructed bonfire and torched it ahead of the annual football matchup against the Longhorns , famously symbolizing "a burning desire to beat the team from the University of Texas, and the undying flame of love that every loyal Aggie carries in his heart for the school." Nov. 18, 1999, was supposed to be a lighter night shift, but students not on the schedule, like Woodley, chipped in last minute to help.

The '99 stack was expected to hold 7,000 logs at its completion, continuing in a long line of structures that increased in spectacle from bonfire's beginnings as a pile of wood and trash. What remained through the years was an emphasis on a student-led process built around hard labor: The schedule required long days and some night shifts, but many people considered the work just as important as the result.

Bonfire's proponents argued that they demonstrated a concern for safety, and that the leadership skills gained were invaluable. Critics would later question how students could have been trusted to design and construct a massive engineering project with no professional consultation or supervision.

"I still think bonfire's a really neat tradition," Woodley said. "The thing I didn't realize or appreciate as a teen, 19 years old, was just how little oversight there was from the university. I mean, I was climbing up 50 feet in the air on this giant pile of logs, and there's no safety harness."

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A 2000 report commissioned by Texas A&M found that the lack of oversight – with an underlying campus culture that instilled "tunnel vision" in the tradition – led students to build a stack that wasn't structurally sound. Bonfire took shape as a wedding cake, each layer a circle of tree trunks tied together with wire. A center pole provided some support in the middle, and students used a system of pulleys and ropes to hang suspended by swings and steady the logs while they were secured.

Woodley and Kerlee formed a two-person team on the fourth tier, and they started the night with Woodley wiring logs at the bottom and Kerlee sitting on a swing to tie them at the top. At some point, they swapped so Woodley could get the experience of working on the ropes, he said.

Observers at the time said they could not believe how fast and suddenly the logs fell. Around 2:42 a.m., Woodley felt his seat lurch, and the stack began creaking and breaking around him. The momentum from his rope pulled him up and away from the debris forming below. Kerlee, his feet planted on the tier, was sucked down into the logs.

"You can't really comprehend that this thing's actually falling, because you have no concept in your mind that this thing could collapse," Woodley said.

On the third tier, freshman John Comstock grabbed the logs in front of him and rode them down to the place he would become submerged, his hand only visible to the sky.

"It shifted a little bit, and then it was going down at that point," he said.

Rescue efforts began almost immediately at the site, which was not well-lit, said Goodman, who was called to the scene to identify the missing students.

The logs were like several-hundred pound pick-up sticks, making the rescue operation tricky. Witnesses also recalled students scratching and moaning below the stack, trying to make their locations known. From the place he was trapped on top, Kerlee directed emergency officials to help his friends first, guiding them to their locations.

By sun rise, the entire campus knew what happened, and many tearful Aggies came to help. Some of them were tasked with keeping Comstock awake as he lay there for seven-and-a-half hours, the last person to be extricated from the pile. He had a log on his waist and his head, but his position was precarious – moving him sooner could have caused secondary collapses and worsened the positions of the people below him.

"Everything kind of goes through your mind," Comstock said. "One of the big things for me was that I couldn't feel my legs, and I thought maybe my back was broken. So you kind of just go through like, 'Oh, my God, am I ever gonna walk again?'"

Parents also started arriving, including the Wests. They were sent to wait in the student center and later brought to the scene to identify their son. The couple confirmed that Nathan Scott West was one of the 10 students to die under the stack. An 11th person was an alumnus.

Woodley, Comstock, Kerlee, Jr. and dozens of other students were transported to the hospital as soon as they were lifted from the pile. Students visited in droves, and Comstock received letters from Aggies in countries like Egypt and Australia. He was released from care after almost three months, though doctors amputated his left leg and he retains nerve damage that prevents him from using his right hand and full use of his right foot.

Kerlee, Jr. died at the hospital, becoming the 12th and last victim of the bonfire.

"No parent expects a child to pass before they do," Tim Kerlee, Sr. said. "That's just not the natural way of life."

The aftermath

The following year was one where students, parents and administrators came together in mourning, finding solace in the Aggie family. They also sought answers: How could one of A&M's most engrained, powerful traditions end in such tragedy?

The commission's report provided some insight, finding that the weight from above was too much for the stack to contain. At 1,000 tons, it was heavier than two fully loaded 747 jets, consultants said. Possibly unbeknownst to the students, they were overbuilding logs on the southeast side of bonfire, and the ground sloped down in the same direction. The lumber was too vertical when an angle would have been better, and gaps between the logs caused wedging between the first and second tiers, further disrupting the stability of the stack. Meanwhile, the wires weren't strong enough to keep the logs in place.

The consultants also had sharp words about the organizational norms at bonfire. Students passed down the design by oral tradition, leading to a lack of engineering standards and slight changes over time without a process to vet them. The university had shown itself to be reactive, not proactive, to past incidents, the report found. And A&M didn't heed warning signs in 1994, when the structure tilted in heavy rains.

The report highlighted prior hazing, accidental injuries and alcohol use, though those wasn't deemed contributing factors to the collapse. Some of the parents summarily engaged in lawsuits, which ended in a $2.1 million settlement in 2008. University officials said afterward that if the tradition continued on campus, they would follow strict engineering guidelines.

"Several of us spoke on the fact that we could not believe that a university that was one of the premier engineering universities in the country had absolutely no engineering oversight over the bonfire," Kerlee, Sr. said. "So that was a shock to all of us. But I think sadness was the most prevalent attitude, and our attitude on the suit was we couldn't bring ourselves to sue the school that our son loves so much."

The university president barred future campus bonfires in the immediate aftermath, and in the years afterward, students and alumni became split between those who wanted to resume the event and those who didn't. A&M often faces the push and pull of how to maintain its identity when changes occur, and students found other leadership projects to get behind as the university increased its safety oversight of student organizations, Goodman said.

Eventually, a group of students in 2002 restarted the tradition in an unsanctioned event off campus, changing the design of the structure but maintaining the student-led aspect of the project. A&M officials have remained uninvolved with the bonfire.

"It's one of those things that we all recognize was a great tradition, but it had gotten to the point where it was time for it to end, being done the way it had been and out of respect for those that were killed," Goodman said. "There's a significant rift as to people's embracing of the current student, non-sanctioned bonfire and those that love it. But I think that's the change. It was 'OK, what are we going to be?'"

Over the years, some of the pain has faded. Comstock and Woodley each have families, and they said they go months at a time without thinking about the collapse. For parents like Richard West and Tim Kerlee, Sr., the support of other Aggies has also made a difference. When the Wests returned home from the life-changing trip to A&M, they pulled in to a driveway lined with candles – placed by Houston-area Aggie alumni.

Visitors and residents of College Station remember the victims daily. When the memorial went up at the collapse site in 2004, each of the 12 had a dedicated portal etched with memories or quotes chosen by their families.

Kerlee's describes his faith and his willingness to help others. Miranda Denise Adams' shows her smile and her pride at attending A&M. Michael Ebanks' family and friends wrote about his zeal for life, the sparkle in his eyes and his tendency to wear blue Wal-mart flip flops to class. Nathan Scott West was confident with an inquisitive nature. His family loved him.

"It's kind of always there, but it's not the sharp tragedy it was when it happened," Richard West said. "It's more of a sorrowful ache."

New generation

Aside from the 25th anniversary, bonfire made headlines more than usual this year. After a decade, the Texas A&M-UT rivalry is back . While a group of students continued the event off-campus for other games taking place around Thanksgiving, A&M officials considered and opted against restarting the event as an on-campus tradition.

At issue was the students' ability to continue leading bonfire themselves, without it being taken over by a construction company. Some past participants support the off-campus effort.

"I don't want anybody have to go through what I went through," Comstock said. "I was glad that they continued the tradition ... as long as they were able to continue it and do it safely."

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At the new site in Bryan, the students have adopted many of the engineering designs mentioned in the 2000 report. They changed the structure of the stack so every log touches the ground, keeping the appearance of a wedding cake but actually forming it like a teepee.

Most of the participants were born after the collapse, and they call their efforts a "living memorial." The crews go out to the former on-campus location each year and learn about those who died. On Nov. 18, 1999, they don't build.

"It's humbling," said Paige Patschke, 19. "It puts a drive in you to make sure you're doing everything right ... God forbid anything like that happens again."

Aggies maintain a sense of reverence about the collapse, and the memorial is hushed. A circle of grass marks where the stack once stood, and around it, the portals are dedicated to each student and pointed in the direction of their hometown.

A week before the anniversary, Zack Nigliazzo, class of '96, kept an eye on his children running through the area, chasing a ball down a hill, playing with their dog and flying a kite inside the ring. It was peaceful.

The kids know a bit about the collapse, and they sometimes ask questions. One of his daughters ran to the middle of the circle and shouted to her brother, "This is center pole!"

As a college student before the tragedy, Nigliazzo would visit the space with his dog two to three times a week, and he would pray. Now and back then, the A&M community has made the grounds special.

"There's something about the way you come in and you feel like you're joining a family," he said. "The bonfire in another setting would have been a very different experience if not for what the Aggie spirit is."