On a sweltering Tuesday morning, Cynthia Vlasek inched closer to the Guadalupe River in the small Hill Country community of Hunt, Texas, and admired the placid waters with reverence and sadness.

“It feels wrong to get in the river yet,” she whispered. “If you are a local, it’s sacred.”

While millions across the country celebrate the nation’s 250th birthday with parades, fireworks and hot dogs, a dark cloud of grief hovers over this year’s Fourth of July celebrations in the region — from an intimate picnic in Hunt, to the unveiling of a memorial in Kerrville, to events with mental health stations for those still reeling from the unthinkable tragedy.

Ms. Vlasek, 63, a retired nurse who survived the floods, put it simply. “For me it’s hard to celebrate,” she said.

Saturday marks the first year since historic floods ravaged Hunt, where Ms. Vlasek lives, and much of the Hill Country, an idyllic area of rugged open spaces punctuated by summer camps for children; vacation homes for the wealthy; and inns, campsites and R.V. parks for everyday people. When the water receded, the extent of the devastation became clear. In Hunt alone, most of the town was ravaged. Debris was lodged in tree branches and heaps of soggy junk obstructed parts of Highway 39, the main road that runs along the Guadalupe.

Elsewhere, homes and businesses were damaged, washed away or reduced to concrete slabs. In all, the floods claimed 139 lives, 119 of them in Kerr County, home to Hunt and Kerrville. The death toll also included 25 campers from Camp Mystic, two counselors and the camp’s co-owner and executive director.

Progress in rebuilding, while steady, has been slow for many in Hunt the last 12 months. Many homes, R.V. parks and resorts along the major road remain empty and under construction. Ms. Vlasek, who recalled how the rising waters came dangerously close to her property that day, has struggled to find a semblance of normalcy.

She remembered how the water had washed away a road that leads to her house, which kept her, her then pregnant daughter and a young grandchild all but trapped in their three-bedroom home until the water receded.

“We stayed put: no cellphone, no electricity, no water,” she recalled.

Her 12-year-old granddaughter was staying with a family friend up the hill and later learned she had lost a friend. “We all know somebody who died,” Ms. Vlasek said. “If we had tried to leave or evacuate, we would have driven into the water and been washed away.”

The Hunt Store, which for generations had been the figurative center of the close-knit community, has been shuttered since that day, with plans to open in some capacity soon. Locals still rely on a mobile post office to pick up their mail and check in on their neighbors.

“The store was the heart of our community,” Ms. Vlasek said. “We have missed it. It’s not the same.”

Jacque White, a divorced mother of five who returned days after the floods to see her small cabin in Kerr County destroyed, now lives in Fredericksburg, 20 miles away from her old home.

“My youngest is still traumatized and afraid to go near water,” Ms. White said. “We wanted to start fresh somewhere else.”

The rest of the Hill County is still rebuilding and adding new measures to prevent a similar tragedy.

Officials with Kerr County and the Upper Guadalupe River Authority are rolling out a new flood warning system that includes upgraded rain gauges, sirens and mobile alerts. The state has also allocated millions of dollars to help other local governments purchase flood warning systems and pay for infrastructure repairs.

Kerr County officials did not respond to a request for comment.

There are some things a once-in-a-lifetime natural disaster cannot take away. Hill Country maintains a unique western feel, with a rolling, rugged topography that spans 26 counties known for their natural and rich history. It’s a storied region where the Comanche once traded with German settlers and where the state flower, the bluebonnet, blooms in the spring.

Joe Herring Jr., the mayor of Kerrville, a city with a population of 24,000 and the heart of Kerr County, said the city was about “half-done” with recovery efforts. The city suffered major damage to its water plants, sewage lift stations and many parks along the river. It is difficult, Mr. Herring said, to put numbers to how much the city has spent and how much it still needs to make a full recovery. But he still expects funding from FEMA and other grants to continue the rebuilding efforts.

“This river that runs through our town, that we all connected to, it’s a beautiful thing, a source of life, but also the source of tragedy,” Mr. Herring said. “Everyone here knows someone who lost someone or themselves knows someone who lost a house or lost a house themselves.”

When it came to planning events for the Fourth of July, Mr. Herring said that while it was important to join the rest of the nation in celebration, the community also needed spaces to mourn. Area leaders have planned various events that began Friday, including counseling services and an unveiling ceremony for a 20-foot white steel memorial cross, with an inscription that reads “River of Angels,” at the park facing the Guadalupe River.

“We feel the morning of July 4 will be the most appropriate time for us to pause and reflect — exactly one year after the July 4, 2025, Guadalupe River flooding disaster,” said Rich Paces, a Kerr County commissioner who organized the event, in a statement.

On the eve of the event, Charlotte Crider, 63, and Roger Carson, 67, both lifelong locals, visited the cross and thought about all those who died.

“It’s such a large number that it is hard to understand,” Ms. Crider said of the 139 people who died. “I love this cross. It’s a beautiful symbol to honor all of those we lost.”

Mr. Herring, for his part, said he planned to wake up at around 3 a.m. on July 4 and quietly pay his respects by the river.

“The city has a history of resilience and grit,” he said. “In those first hours it was neighbors helping neighbors, it was neighbors pulling people out of cars, it was neighbors pulling people off roofs, it was neighbors pulling people out of trees.”

In the months leading up to the anniversary, much of the national attention on the region has centered on the tragedy at Camp Mystic.

Recent investigations by state legislators revealed a cascade of failures and repercussions for the owners of the camp. As the floodwaters overtook cabins where the youngest campers slept, rescue efforts fell on just three men, the camp’s owner, his son and a security guard. At least 39 adults, in addition to counselors, were unprepared to help in rescue efforts and remained unaware of the danger at the time, according to officials. A parallel criminal investigation by the State Police is pending.

A lengthy report by a state committee also discovered that the camp did not have written emergency plans for a flood. The operator of Camp Mystic also filed for bankruptcy protection late last month.

Members of the Eastland family, which has managed the camp since 1939, have said they were overwhelmed by the scale and speed of the waters that overflowed the Guadalupe River, far surpassing past flooding incidents.

The Eastlands initially planned to reopen Camp Mystic at a different site nearby for what would have been its 100th summer, but faced barriers in obtaining a license and lawsuits from the parents of the victims.

Other parts of the Hill Country are still picking up the pieces of the tragedy.

In the small town of Ingram, located near Hunt, Steve Edelstein, 67, and two workers were putting the final touches at the Ingram Dam Center, a once-bustling shopping center that was devastated a year ago.

On a recent day, the men worked on seven units in the strip — the electricity, plumbing, and carpentry, among other things, were just about done.

“We had to rebuild everything,” he said, looking at the empty lot ahead of him next to the river, near a sign that read, “We Endure, We Rise.” “We still got to redo the parking lot; we’ve got to redo all our fencing. There’s a lot of work that still needs to be done.”

Mr. Edelstein wondered aloud why it had taken him a year. “Getting help has been a chore,” he said, taking a break. He hopes that a hair salon and a nail salon once popular with customers will reopen soon. Maybe one day the pizza, ice cream and video arcade shops will return, too, he said.

“We’ll get back to normal, it just takes a long time,” Mr. Edelstein said.

Come July 4, he said, “I’ll probably be here doing some more work.”

“I won’t be making money until I get renters,” he added. “I have been living on savings. It has not been easy.”

For Ms. Vlasek, the disaster served as an abrupt reminder of the danger that has always lurked in a place referred to as Flash Flood Alley.

“We were due for a 100-year flood, so, we knew one was coming, but we never imagined it was going to reach this far,” she said, pointing at the dry land.

Kirsten Noyes contributed research.