Five years ago, I had the opportunity to chase Katrina up the Gulf coast. As it's path veered up the coast, I feared this Cat5 storm would be the big one. Some compadres in the news biz headed to New Orleans before it hit. I doubt many were prepared for the madness to come. When the levees broke, it became Louisiana 1927, just like the Randy Newman song. When the news reports grew bleaker and the roads were closed, I would have had no luck getting in.

I viewed tornado devastation in east Texas and happened to spend the night in the Orange City jail, guest of the captain on duty. The city was in the dark with little contact to the outside world. The station had emergency power and frozen dinners. The Press (me) was welcomed to share.

After transmitting some photos via a dial-up modem connection (using their land fax line), the Captain checked in with his buddies on AOL, relieving some fears. One tiny prayer in a world turned upside down.

Two days later I had made it back to the safety of home and family. Then the Astrodome was declared home to 25 thousand-plus evacuees from the Superdome (I tend to call them refugees - survivors of a war zone). Hurricane Katrina had hit home.

Another call comes in from a London newspaper. Some British college kids had arrived in the French Quarter the night before the storm. After a night of partying the group found themselves out of their hotel and in a not-so-quiet corner of the Superdome, fearing for their lives. One kid texted his dad, a metropolitan police officer who caught the first plane to Houston, the evacuees' assumed destination. A reporter and I met Pete Henry as he got off the jet. His son had texted again and we headed towards Dallas' Reunion Arena. In the wee hours we finally caught up with the bus at a staging area 30 miles east. My camera witnessed a truly great father-son reunion. The stories of lawlessness in New Orleans were heard first-hand as I drove them home, stopping only for Tex-Mex and a different slice of America.

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