Helene’s Wrath in One Mountain Community, A First Person Account

I’m resting my clean body and clean hair on a clean pillow. My fingernails no longer have dirt in them. I have on clean clothes. Though the lights are off in our room, there is light from clocks, streetlights and charging devices. These will help me to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I will be able to use toilet paper and flush it without panic if I don’t place the toilet paper in the trashcan. I will wash my hands with warm water and soap and easily find my way back to bed. A cold glass of water sits beside should I need a swallow during the night. In the morning, I will think nothing of tossing the remaining water in the sink. I’ll wash my hands and face in warm water and go downstairs for hot coffee with about a 60 second wait. I will scroll my phone for news and updates, play Wordle and begin my day.

These are luxuries. This is not the real life for my western N.C. friends. My neighborhood is 30 homes, 90% retired, many of whom are disabled. They will pull out the flattop grill we left for them and light it up. They will fill my grandmother’s tea kettle with potable water, hopefully and corral a French press, hopefully. At this point there will be no eggs or meat to grill. All food had to be cooked or eaten today. They will perhaps grill toast with butter we now find fit to eat even sitting on the counter. They will arrive each with their own plate, cup and utensil. Someone will make coffee nonstop for hours and they will Oooo and ahhhhh about the joy of simple things.

Then the work begins. They will go door to door checking on the homebound. Who needs water? Who needs buckets brought from the creek to flush your toilet? Who needs water from our hot tub (that we refilled on Wednesday and forgot to treat with chemicals) that is now the water we use to wash dishes and our faces? Someone will try to walk to town to get an update at town hall. They will come home and make lists, place them in Ziplock bags and staple them to the 3 mailbox stations for each neighborhood. They will begin to prepare for the forecasted rain. This all happens before 11.

Life has stopped. We don’t know dates or times. Sirens are 24 hours a day. It’s relentless. Helicopters invade our sky. Chainsaws sound nonstop and we run outside in hopes it’s in our neighborhood. Our neighborhood is all private roads. We will not be subject to any help from the town. Good Samaritans have stopped in with chainsaws to allow passage out. Downed power lines and sketchy bridges keep us trapped. Johnny and I have e-bikes we could recharge on his truck and with a full tank of gas we made it through town to get information and make phone calls to loved ones for our neighbors. The closest signal we could get was 2 miles from home.

Let me back up. We awoke around 6 Friday morning without power. The storm was loud and pounding but we didn’t know where we were in the storm. We could not get updates. Around 8:30 we lost internet across cell lines. I called a friend and got her to look at radar and let me know an ETA on rain ending. That was the last call I was able to make. By 9:30 ALL cell signal was completely lost. The rain was increasing. We could see the creek rising. Johnny stepped outside under the porch and was soaked from head to toe after 30 seconds.

Around 11 we felt like we could go out and survey the neighborhood. We began to feel the weight of the destruction yet we had NO clue. The creek had turned into a river greater than 50 yards wide. The noise of water heaters, propane tanks, bikes, grills, construction supplies and yard equipment banging on the rails of our bridge to Black Mountain was defeaning. We saw two neighbors with trees on their homes and knew they were taking on water.

I walked around screaming “oh, my gosh”! Johnny told me to stop doing that because it sounded desperate. Then we realized we were desperate. He quit telling me to stop. NO ONE had prepared for this. NO ONE.

I desperately needed to know the bridge in Robert Lake Park that’s dedicated to my mom was safe. The Army Corps of Engineers had built it so I was confident, but I knew this was catastrophic. Our neighborhood entry was blocked by two massive trees. We had been able to crawl in, over and under them to walk out but there was no getting a bike out. I remembered there was a back exit off our road, too small for a vehicle but big enough to walk. We grabbed our bikes and headed to Montreat. We got to the gate and were stopped by the police. They advised us not to enter. My rule follower self wanted to respect it but my heart said no. We stopped people coming out on bikes. We asked about the bridges at the park and he told us they were gone. Those words hit me, and I crumbled into Johnny’s arms. I screamed that I had to go see. The police turned away and left us and we went on.

While this looks like a creek or river, this is actually a road.

Destruction was 360 degrees. Bridges to entire side of the mountain had sustained incredible damage. We crossed rocks, not gravel, rocks that had been washed into the road. We passed students carrying backpacks walking to town and constantly checking their phones to see if they had signal, no doubt to call parents.

We crested the hill before the park, and I spotted mom’s bridge. It was there! Standing! With both railings and her plaque unharmed. The other bridges were gone, missing one or both railings. But there was Wookie. Standing tall, as if she was barking orders and obscenities and saying, “Helene will not take me.”

After some time of relishing her beauty, I realized we had phone service on Johnny’s carrier but not mine. We first called Johnny’s mom and our kids. Next call was to one of my best friends. She was with me last week and took the photography track. She made time to take some incredible pictures of mom’s bridge. Tears fell across her cheeks. Her kids who also love this place ran to see the pics. They were speechless. We virtually hugged and kissed and promised to communicate more as possible. Texts were not possible, but we established that when able we could call and receive calls.

This is all I have the energy to share tonight. I used to have a blog. Maybe I’ll reactivate and use it to share. This has been therapeutic, and I hope adds to your ability to understand some of what we are experiencing. We are traumatized. We don’t want to hear people say you will rebuild.  Our neighbors and our towns have nothing left to start from. The land is gone. We need you to listen. Don’t say we understand. You don’t. You can’t. Just love us. Ask where to take things that actually get to us! I’m working on getting an enclosed trailer and when we do Johnny and I will return Sunday and hope to have it full of supplies for my immediate neighborhood and those along our road. Access to help is so hard when power lines are down, and bridges are out.