The Storm Hits Ěý

I wake up at dawn on Friday, September 27, because the wind is howling around my house and trees are snapping at their trunks and being pulled out of the ground by their roots. From the window I watch the treetops sway and listen for the crack of wood. I hope I can echo-locate the snap so I know where the giant timber is going to fall. At every sound, I worry something will land on my house.

Two large white oaks, one of which is at least a hundred years old (I count the rings later) are pushed over by a massive gust and careen towards my neighbor’s house, where three little girls under the age of 10 live. As one barely misses the walls and crushes a trampoline outside, I slump in relief.

Rain is coming down in a steady stream. The power goes off a few minutes after I wake up. Water is the next to vanish, an hour later. Cell service disappears in the early afternoon. Asheville has wind gusts of 46 miles per hour.

Nobody expected a storm like this in western North Carolina. Hurricanes usually hit the state’s coastal regions, not the mountains. We knew there would be rain and flooding, but nothing at all as catastrophic as what came. My wife and I lived through Asheville’s last hurricane flood, in 2004, when the French Broad River surged into low-lying parts of town. Meteorologists called that event a one-in-100-year flood. They’re saying this storm is a one-in-1,000 year event. I don’t know a single person who evacuated, nor did I ever hear any calls from officials to do so.

When the worst of the storm abates, around noon, I walk into the street and gather with neighbors to make sure everyone is O.K. Kids are crying. People have huddled in their basements. A neighbor who’s a doctor walks up saying a woman at the bottom of our hill has a gash in her neck that won’t stop bleeding because the roof of her house fell on her in bed. Trees are down all over and there’s no clear path to get the woman to a hospital, so I run around looking for a way that a vehicle could get through the carnage. So many power lines are down, so many cars are smashed, so many trees are leaning on homes, and stunned people are standing in their yards. My neighborhood of 19 years feels foreign.

I find the safest way to walk the woman with the neck wound to a point where I think a car could meet us, and I reach a friend who’s headed into my neighborhood with a chainsaw, already out trying to cut through the madness, and have just enough service to tell him where to go before my phone dies. I walk the woman up a hill, with the doctor who’s telling her not to remove the bandage from her neck because you don’t mess with neck wounds, and the woman is crying. She’s afraid of the wind and the trees—after the roof of her house just fell on her.

My friend with the truck and the chainsaw is there, exactly where I told him to meet us, and the woman enters the vehicle and they head towards the hospital. I don’t hear how she is for another three days because there’s no cell service, and nobody hears from anyone unless in a face-to-face conversation.

I go back to my own house to assess the damage and hug my wife and children.

By the end of the day, a crew of men in a truck I’ve never seen before have chainsawed their way through half of the downed trees in the neighborhood. These aren’t city crews or electric-company employees. These are dudes in trucks doing what they can to help.

This is just day one.

The Aftermath of the Storm

Hurricane Helene hit western North Carolina, turning the city of Asheville, the South’s greatest outdoor-adventure town where I have lived for 20 years, and the surrounding mountain communities into a federal disaster zone. The French Broad River crested at more than 24 feet, wiping out the entire River Arts District, a collection of restaurants, breweries, hotels, and art studios a mile west of downtown. Biltmore Village, a hub of higher-end hotels and restaurants and shops, is similarly trashed, whole buildings gutted by the force of the river. Entire neighborhoods have been washed away, with houses and trailers floating downstream and piles of broken lumber everywhere.

I’m incredibly fortunate. Our basement flooded, but no trees hit our house. Nobody in my family was hurt. We live in higher terrain and not along the river corridor, where the worst flooding occurred. So many people are in far worse shape. As I write, 71 people have been confirmed dead across the county. Search and rescue helicopters and ATVs are still looking for missing people every day.

The first few days after the storm were isolating. Navigating the roads was tough because of the downed trees. Nobody had cell or internet service, so we couldn’t check the news or message anyone. I didn’t know the extent of the destruction beyond my own neighborhood. Eventually, we learned to get in the car and listen to the city’s press conferences at 10 A.M. and 4 P.M. every day to grasp the context of the storm. I worked on cleaning up my neighbors’ yards and some trees in the road.

I was lucky in another way, too. We have an old hot tub in our backyard that became our sole source of gray water, and remains so. I used five-gallon buckets to move water from it to our bathtub so we could flush toilets. I cooked meals on our propane grill, pulling food from the fridge before it went bad.

At some point, I learned that the Chamber of Commerce a mile up the street had power and their WiFi was radiating into the parking lot, so twice a day I walked up there to send messages and check the news. I started a fire in the wood stove in our basement to try to dry the water out. Of all the damage Hurricane Helene caused, this is as minor as it gets.

In talking with neighbors, we heard there was no gas for cars because the stations had no power, and that none of the interstates or highways were letting vehicles in or out. We heard other towns—Chimney Rock, Burnsville, Spruce Pine, more—deeper in the mountains fared even worse than Asheville. We learned that the city had organized points of distribution for water and food.

Besides the destruction, mostly what I saw is people taking care of each other. The guy who owns the trendy cafe on the corner a few blocks from my house cranked up his giant pizza oven and served free burgers and chicken sandwiches, feeding 1,500 people. Other neighbors chipped in, setting up stands with free stew and hot dogs.

We were all walking all over the neighborhood and town, asking people we didn’t know if they needed anything.

Almost two weeks after the storm, we still have no power, internet, or running water. I’m still moving water to flush toilets, getting drinking water from distribution points, trying to keep a fire in the basement stove. Cell service came back about six days after the storm.

Every state and federal agency is on the ground. Cops, firefighters, and search-and-rescue teams have come from Indiana, New York, Ohio. There are well-organized official disaster-relief stations and smaller stations set up by civilians. There’s a hard 7:30 P.M. curfew. I’ve heard isolated events of attempted muggings, but mostly it’s peaceful.

Unable to work as a writer without internet or power, I spend my days volunteering. One day I’m cooking burgers at a community center, the next, knocking on doors around Buncombe County doing wellness checks. If you can’t reach a cousin or aunt or spouse in Asheville, you call and ask for someone to check on the person. Volunteers go out to people’s last known addresses and see if they’re OK.

Most of the people I check on are OK. I work on developing the friendliest of door knocks,Ěý something that says, “I’m here to help.” Only one person answered the door with a gun in a holster.

I’m having a hard time putting this into words, but in the midst of all of the destruction and despair that I’ve seen, I’ve also been overwhelmed by a sense of hope and gratitude. Is it cheesy to say this disaster has renewed my faith in humankind? Probably. But that’s fine.

Without water and power, schools are closed, so my kids spend their days volunteering or helping friends clean up their yards. They have sleepovers and walk a mile into town together, just for some semblance of normalcy.

Grocery stores opened on a limited basis a day or so after the storm. One person in, one person out, long lines. Cash only because there was no internet. Now the stores are taking cards again, and you can get much of what you need or want. Most gas stations are open again. The two coolers on my back porch are full of food, and I am still cooking all meals on the propane grill. I’ll need to find more propane soon.

Downtown is a ghost town. Asheville is a tourist draw and obviously there are no tourists right now. A lot of people have left town temporarily as well. Some businesses have boarded up, and only a few shops are open.

My hot tub is almost empty, which means I’ll have to figure out another source soon for non-potable water. I saw the destruction to the reservoir system. It’s extensive; the transmission lines, which carry the water out of the reservoir, were washed out after more than 30 inches of rain fell. The bypass line, which was built as a redundancy measure, also washed out. That particular line was buried 25 feet deep, but the land eroded so much that the pipe was carried away. Crews are working on rebuilding that pipe right now.

The Outdoor Community Steps Up

The day before the storm, I went to to drop off a couple of things for resale. Second Gear is a consignment outdoor-gear shop that gives gently loved items like camp stoves and fleece and tents a second life, an effort in sustainability and in making things affordable to people who want to go outdoors and may lack good gear and equipment. It has a great location in the River Arts District, about 100 yards from the French Broad River.

The next time I saw Second Gear, it was in a video on social media, being swept away by the river. The entire building.

A number of guide services, like paddle-board rental shops and shuttle operators like French Broad Outfitters and Zen Tubing, that were located on the river suffered similar fates. Wrong Way Campground saw massive damage, the river breaching several of their cabins.

The local climbing gym, Cultivate Climbing, closed their flood doors, which would typically keep water out of the building. The river level was so high the waters crested the flood doors, poured in, and turned the building into a swimming pool.

Pisgah and Nantahala National Forests are closed. There’s no telling what sort of damage those mountains have suffered, because all resources right now are still dedicated to helping people in need. I’ve heard of groups of mountain bikers from the local bike club, called SORBA (for the Southern Off-Road Bicycle Association), hiking into small, isolated communities and chainsawing a path for those residents to get out to the nearest fire station.

I’ve heard of fly-fishing guides leading search-and-rescue efforts in the steep mountain hollers where they typically head up fishing adventures.

Several small towns, such as Barnardsville and Spruce Pine, in western North Carolina are isolated, the roads covered in mud and a tangle of pines and hardwoods. Nonprofits and small-town fire departments have been organizing groups of hikers to take supplies into people deep in the mountains who are cut off from the outside world. Volunteers with ATVs are incredibly sought after because they can get into remote places that normal vehicles can’t access.

The French Broad River Keeper, Hartwell Carson, who spearheads stewardship when he’s not assessing storm damage and reports of toxic sludge, mobilizes a crew of volunteers to cook burgers and hot dogs for various communities throughout the region. He’s lobbying for millions of dollars to be allocated to the area specifically to put out-of-work river guides on the job of cleaning up the French Broad.

Astral, an Asheville-based shoe brand that makes popular water shoes and hiking boots, is focusing on supporting remote mountain communities that saw severe hurricane damage. This week, Astral will take a van load of six generators to the tiny town of Buladean, which sits below Roan Mountain in North Carolina’s High Country.

The director of North Carolina Outdoor Economy, Amy Allison, is trying to coordinate coat donations from gear companies outside of the region. It’s warm today, but the temperatures are dropping next week. Many families here don’t have adequate winter gear, and will need coats, hats, and gloves as they navigate the new reality of going to distribution points for drinking water and moving flush water into their homes.

What’s Next for Western North CarolinaĚý

Almost two weeks later, I still try to turn the light on when I walk into a room. According to local press conferences, we’ll probably get power back some time this week, which is great. I’ve heard that the city is sending trucks to take out household trash. There’s no timetable as to when water will be restored. It could be weeks.

Living without running water for a couple of months is hard to fathom, largely because our kids can’t go back to school without it. Schools must have working sprinkler systems in case of fire.

Several families we know have already moved temporarily to other cities and enrolled their kids in schools. My wife is looking into home-school scenarios.

For a couple of days right after the storm there was a constant stream of sirens and chainsaws, but that stopped. Now it’s silent at night. It’s the kind of quiet you get camping in the middle of the woods, but I live on the edge of downtown Asheville. With no lights in my neighborhood, I can see the stars at night. I don’t think any of us will begin to understand the impact of what’s happened for months, when it’s safer and the destruction and loss of lives isn’t so palpable.

In the meantime, we carry on. I have a wood stove. I’ve hooked up a solar shower. I’m trying to work again. Tomorrow I’m cooking burgers for the small town of Barnardsville, 45 minutes north of Asheville. After that I’ll help a friend salvage the fence on his farm, then later in the week help another friend repair his campground. I think I’ve come up with a solution for water to flush my toilets, too. There’s a creek at the bottom of my neighborhood. I’ll put my cold plunge tub in the back of the truck and fill it from the creek with five-gallon buckets, then drive back up to my house and put the water in the hot tub.

It feels good to have a plan.

Graham Averill is şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine’s national-parks columnist. He’s lived in Asheville for more than 20 years. If you want to help locals, lost its warehouse in the flood, and is still distributing food to those in need.

For more by this author, see:

9 Beautiful Mountain Towns in the Southeast

9 Most Underrated National Parks for Incredible Fall Foliage

The post This Is What It’s Like to Live in Asheville After Hurricane Helene appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

“More than a third” of the Appalachian Trail is currently inaccessible to hikers as the southeastern United States recovers from the devastation of Hurricane Helene, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC) said in a statement on Saturday evening.

In a , ATC Executive Director Sandi Marra said that the organization believed some sections of the trail could be closed for an extended period of time “because of bridges that have washed away and downed trees and mudslides obstructing the treadway”

“A.T. Communities such as Damascus, VA; Erwin, TN; and Hot Springs, N.C. have been devastated,” Marra wrote. “All national forests in Georgia and North Carolina are closed as is Great Smoky Mountains National Park. And access to and from Asheville, home to ATC’s Southern Regional Office, is extremely limited due to the destruction. Needless to say, it will be weeks, months, and even years to see recovery from this event.

In an update on Saturday morning, Great Smoky Mountains National Park said that while a handful of roads had reopened, Newfound Gap Road remained closed from Gatlinburg and Cherokee, as did Balsam Mountain, Cataloochee, Roaring Fork, Greenbrier, Foothills Parkway East, and Rich Mountain Road. The park received heavy rain, measuring 9 inches at Newfound Gap, while Cataloochee flooded to 9.5 feet, breaking a record set in 1963.

The also remains closed as the National Park Service (NPS) assesses storm damage and conducts cleanup.

Some state-managed lands along the trail have announced their own closures. In a post on Friday, in Virginia said that there was no access to the park “due to road closures from downed trees, mudslides, and significant flooding,” and that campgrounds in the park would remain closed until at least Monday, September 30.

Helene’s impact on trail communities and their residents has been equally devastating. The Virginia Department of Emergency Management told , that Damascus, the home of Appalachian Trail Days, was the most-damaged town in the state. So far, officials have confirmed 60 deaths across the hurricanes path.

How Hikers Can Help

Towns along the Appalachian Trail host thousands of hikers a year; the worst-affected trail towns will need our support for months or even years to come as cleanup and rebuilding efforts progress. Here are a few ways to give back to the region’s recovery post-Hurricane Helene.

provides direct cash grants to individuals and groups affected by U.S. domestic hurricanes.

Donations to the fund its relief efforts across the area impacted by Helene and beyond.

feeds survivors of disaster and conflict around the world. The organization was on the ground distributing food and water in affected communities within 12 hours post-Helene.

is a grassroots initiative that leverages its network of volunteers to give directly to survivors of climate-change-driven and -worsened disasters.

The post “More Than a Third” of Appalachian Trail Closed Due to Hurricane Damage appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.