Helene

We knew it was brewing in the spawning grounds of the Caribbean. Five days in advance, as it began its move to the Gulf of Mexico, the  storm trackers put us in the probable bullseye of its path. They told us it could become a major storm. Two days out we saw it tracking toward us, a category 4 hurricane. Little girls will not be named Helene for years to come.

Those of us who remembered the devastation of 2004 (Frances and Ivan) started preparing. Every mountain cove and holler is a funnel of disaster. An inch of rain on top becomes  two feet of surge below. Here in Waynesville, we got 11. Mt. Mitchell, northeast of Asheville, got 29. And so it broke the back of Asheville’s water system as the swollen Swannanoa and French Broad rivers collided to wipe out the River Arts District and inundated Biltmore Village.

The avenue before our home 30 miles west became a brown river surging toward our house, stopping a hundred yards short before pouring back into Richland Creek, now overrunning its usually secure banks. Here was the view a few hundred feet from our house. (Video, click at bottom of view.)

The destruction was capricious, sudden, and overwhelming. Most lost power. We did not. Many lost water. Ours held clear. Almost everyone lost “connectivity” to the outer world. Phones, internet, TV—all down. We pulled out forgotten radios and listened to the crackling voices of the two stations we could find, reporting whatever news they had.

We have all watched disasters from afar—tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, fires, volcanic eruptions. We watch and then move on. How different it is to be in the midst of all the destruction, injury, and death. Perhaps worst of all, we found ourselves in a void of information. While millions viewed the devastation from above, we knew only the nearby roads we were able to navigate as the floods subsided.

While the radio announcers asked us to call in our needs, they forgot we had no phone, no internet, no means to tell them of our needs or our welfare. Phones would bleep to tell us friends and relatives were trying to reach us, but to no avail. It was a week before we regained connectivity. Trailers with internet hot spots started showing up, but the signals were feeble, the confusion of services overcame our efforts to log on.

As they cleared the roads we found we had no gas beyond what we had put into our tanks in preparation. Of the four points of interstate access into the mountains, only one was open. And so, in the calm, you find a neighbor to talk to, sharing tiny particles of information. Those of us in town can walk to the library (closed) or to church (blessedly open), but for people in the countryside, trees need to be cleared and, if your bridge is not washed out, maybe you can get the four wheel drive pickup into town. The stores begin to dig out, clean up, and open for cash only transactions. For some, a “pay me later” is enough.

We are shocked to realize how every aspect of our life is connected through the internet. We can now see how devastating cyber wars will be. This is our first taste of a bitter prospect created by our own technology. Someone says this flood surpasses the historic flood of 1916. No none has ever seen anything remotely like it. It is beyond comprehension.

And then reports from search and rescue crews began to trickle in. First 30, then 40, now 70 dead in next door Buncombe County alone. Hundreds missing in the immediate region, unknown numbers elsewhere. But many old timers, independent in their isolated home and tiny communities, survive with wells, woodstoves, old lamps, and canned goods in the cellar. While National Guard troops start showing up, with electric crews, road graders, water trucks and all the paraphernalia of emergency relief, neighbors reach out to neighbors to begin to repair the torn fabrics of community and habitat.

 Nearby towns like Cruso, Clyde, and Canton, torn apart by floods repeatedly in the last 25 years, are overwhelmed and ripped apart again. But this time the loss of life is less, the brand-new bridges hold. We are becoming more resilient even as humans continue to feed the monster of climate change. This time, we are too old to volunteer to help clean up. The shovel passes to another generation.

Equally overwhelming has been the outpouring of assistance as search and rescue crews from all over North America converge on these mountains. A Canadian crew restores my son’s road. A unit from San Diego shows up to rescue stranded homeowners. A helicopter lands in a nearby playing field to bring supplies. Churches, community centers, schools, and fairgrounds receive and distribute thousands of tons of food and supplies.

Nobody asks your identity, nobody sorts by race or tattoo. It is a reclaiming of our humanity, of our most basic bonds as fellow creatures on a fragile earth. In the destruction, death, and chaos, we get a glimpse once again of the creation we are meant to be. We reach out exhausted and touch its hem as it flies by, hoping for a memory we can celebrate and renew every day to come. And give thanks for the gift of life and love.