Helene, Part Two: The Scope
In the early morning hours of September 27, as Helene began to sweep across our region, I hunkered down in the stairwell of the two-story brick home we rent. It was the place I felt safest, surrounded by sturdy walls that had stood up against nearly one hundred years of moody mountain tempests. Our region is prone to winds and rains, and receiving fallout from violent coastal systems is not uncommon. Typically, though, they come in the form of tropical storms. I knew what was heading our way was cause for concern, but I had not fully grasped that we were getting an actual hurricane. I reassured a friend, who grew up in coastal terrain, that living in WNC for the better part of two decades meant I was deeply familiar with the flood zones of the area, and that I was in no danger. And yet, as the storm set upon us, my confidence began to falter. Could the creek half a mile downhill from us actually rise to our yard? Could the foundation of this house fail and wash away? Had I, perhaps, underprepared entirely for what was in store?
Around 8am as things started to kick into full swing, I woke my partner and asked that he move to a lower level. Growing up in coastal lands, he knew there was nothing to do now but wait it out. I texted anxiously with friends, filled up more vessels with fresh water, and occasionally left the respite of the stairwell to survey the trees in our yard. Fortunately, there are no large trees overhanging our rooftop, but there are many sizable specimens amongst us— oaks, black walnuts, cedars, a massive poplar and hickory. Gusts of wind hammered the house, which stood remarkably sturdy against the onslaught, but were unnerving nonetheless. Some amount of peace came once the sun started to rise. At least now the chaos and movement around us was visible— including my neighbors’ cat, who made a mad dash from under our porch towards his home. Around 9am my texts stopped going through, just after a friend 15 minutes south had said that big trees were falling around her. We watched the winds whip around the tall pines across the street. A pair of mid-sized cedars fell in the neighbor’s yard, taking out a portion of fence. Our water went out.
As the meteorologists predicted, around 10am Helene’s effects lessened. We were without water, power, and cell, but we were safe. Very few trees had fallen in our immediate area. Our basement had taken on several inches of water, but nothing near the catastrophic levels we had feared. We wandered into our alleyway, where we met with neighbors who were also surveying the aftermath. We checked in on each other— everyone was safe. The streets around us erupted with folks doing the same. I remarked on the irony of finally getting to touch base with our immediate community in ways we hadn’t had time for in nearly a year. Without any way of communicating via phone, our world shrank to word of mouth. We decided to hop in the car and get a sense of the destruction.
We tried to go west towards the city center, but were met with downed trees and tangles of power lines. The tunnel that connects us to downtown Asheville was precarious. I felt wary of any downed line, expecting it to jump and crackle as soon as we neared it. We went east, toward Swannanoa, but only made it a few miles before the safety of the roadways became questionable. Power seemed to be out everywhere, the traffic lights blank at each intersection we crossed. People sometimes talk about an oddly serene sense in the air after a storm has ripped through an area. I hoped for that, but found instead a decidedly apocalyptic sense. Our understanding of the scope of devastation in western North Carolina had barely begun.