PINEWOOD SPRINGS — The late-summer trickle of the Little Thompson River turned torrential two weeks ago, transforming this community into an island.

U.S. 36 disappeared under the deluge. The 1,200 residents of the wooded hamlet were marooned. With relentless rains pounding, rescuers came knocking.

Pack two bags. Gather your pets. Hurry. Helicopters are coming.

Letia Grossman, hobbling with a broken leg on crutches and taking care of her 15-year-old son while her husband was working out of the country, answered the urgent raps on her door with the same answer.

“I kept telling them no. They came for me several times. Then they really started pressuring me,” she said. “It was kind of scary. Could they make me leave?”

As helicopters evacuated hundreds of marooned residents, a hardy army of Pine-wood Springs locals mobilized a mountain-bred mission to take care of their homes and their neighbors.

By midmorning Sept. 12, only hours after apocalyptic floods had dissolved the highway and scraped away bridges, about 150 residents forged a survival plan. They elected a mayor and appointed a head of security. Others took over directing supply chains, labor and building roads. They held daily meetings to wade through the rampant rumors, going door to door, surveying residents.

“Some of us just can’t leave. We are not willing to pack up and come back who knows when,” said John Koch as he joined the town’s new security patrol Sunday evening, cruising the deserted dirt roads for troublemakers. “They used scare tactics, and they scared a good amount of people away. But not all of us. This is where we built our lives, put our money.”

Two days after the Little Thompson stormed a debris-choked chasm through the middle of town, Pinewood Springs’ castaways started digging.

They mucked out the submerged water treatment plant. With little more than picks and shovels, a handful of men converted an old stagecoach track into a road. It crossed private property. The landowner — with support of emergency managers — agreed to temporary, one-way access so residents could get their vehicles out. On Saturday and Sunday, more than 120 evacuees driving minivans, sedans and trucks with trailers navigated the fresh route to pavement outside Lyons.

“This is pretty awesome,” Lt. Col. Chung Tran, a National Guard transportation engineer, said as he inspected the smooth, if short-lived, road Sunday after it closed. “Look at what people can do when they come together.”

Another crew hewed a path along the granite wall that once anchored U.S. 36. Last weekend, hundreds of evacuees on foot, bikes and ATVs followed the narrow trail back home to gather what possessions they could.

“These are some amazing people up here,” said Derek Hatcher, as he and his friend Jessica Bohannon lugged a duffel of essentials along the unlikely trail. “This was a chance to be challenged, and these folks up here rose to the occasion.”

Judd Payne enlisted more than 20 volunteers from Christian Church of Estes Park to help construct the pathway. On Saturday, Payne spent three hours shuttling his neighbor’s winter food supply — 130 rabbits and several chickens — out of Pinewood Springs on a four-wheeler.

Payne and his wife, Sherami, had their 10- and 7-year-old kids helping in the days after the surge.

“They think it’s an adventure,” Sherami said Sunday. “We’ll see if that lasts when they start school tomorrow.” The kids will commute along the path to a car waiting to take them to school in Estes Park.

Payne, a competitive trials dirt bike rider, was the first to navigate the debris along U.S. 36 to reach Estes Park. He returned carrying gas cans dangling from a pole across his shoulders as he rode his seatless motorbike back home.

In the past week, he has directed the construction of trails connecting isolated homes to his community. He also taped a sign to his front door: “Still here. Still armed.”

“If you are a rule follower, you left. Those who remained aren’t necessarily big on doing what they are told,” Payne said. “It’s important for some people to stay in these communities. Otherwise nothing would get done.”

Still, Sherami said, there have been scary moments. She described the sound of boulders, propane tanks and vehicles bouncing through the narrow granite gorge in their yard during the Sept. 11 surge as “horrific and terrifying.”

“But it was adventurous at times, and it was even a blessing at times,” she said. “I think we will look back at this time and think this might be one of the greatest things we ever did.”

The residents who are hunkering in Pinewood Springs are thriving in their isolation. They also are relishing a new bond with neighbors. Mountain folk can be aloof. Some longtime neighbors share little more than an occasional wave. The last two weeks have united kindred spirits as they share food, water, Internet access, phones and gas — a sort of crisis spin on the community potluck.

Payne is reluctant to return to normal life. Work is piling up for the owner of a software company and his speech therapist wife. Appointments, meetings, responsibilities — the busyness of daily life looms as professional road builders prepare to reconnect Pine-wood Springs.

“Sometime this past week, I realized some of that stuff doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, describing a trip to Boulder for groceries and supplies, where he saw people lined up for the new iPhone.

“We got back here and you can see progress. Achievements. That’s what life is meant to be,” he said. “This has boiled life down to the basics. Working together. Sharing meals. Taking care of everyone.”

jblevins@denverpost.com