Helecane
Helecane
Asheville
Asheville
Embedded Files
September 2024
It had rained all week. The French Broad river, usually calm and serene, was now a raging torrent, swallowing the riverside district.
By Wednesday, water rose up to street signs, already flooding cars and parts of property. The grounds were saturated.
Then came Hurricane Helene.
Being from Florida, hurricanes were on my radar. But living in Western North Carolina, we didn't expect this level of destruction.
Our electricity, water, and cell service were out by the time we awoke on Friday morning. Stepping outside, neighbor's roads and driveways were impassable, power lines dangled precariously, and mudslides turned familiar streets into treacherous paths. Without cell reception, we were uncertain about the extent of the damage.
D stepped outside, armed with a cooler to collect rainwater for flushing. Within minutes, a towering pine tree, its roots uprooted, crashed down, narrowly missing our makeshift water-gathering station. We heard the impact and saw branches break through. The ceiling above us swelled, saturated with water, and started to leak.
Rained dripped from all sockets: ceiling fans, wall lamps, outlets
Rained dripped from all sockets: ceiling fans, wall lamps, outlets
The ceiling sagged, threatening to collapse. We packed what we could before the ceiling burst, littering the floor with insulation and exposing the elements.
But on Friday night we made the most of it.
It was my birthday, after all, and we just survived a hurricane in the mountains.
The next day we set out on a mission. Miraculously, we had a full tank of gas (while others waited 4 hours to fuel up) and a few precious bottles of water, we ventured out into the chaotic aftermath of Hurricane Helene. We navigated the debris-strewn streets and saw historic buildings flooded and streets covered in mud. The river, swollen and angry, had overflowed its banks, flooding the River Arts District.
We reached friends in West Asheville, a glimmer of hope amidst the devastation. We shared stories of survival, our voices filled with a mix of relief and disbelief.
“We’re planning on driving to Nashville, I’ve got a cousin there” - I said
“We’re planning on driving to Nashville, I’ve got a cousin there” - I said
“No you are not!” - replied a friend
“No you are not!” - replied a friend
Hurricane Helene wiped out I-40 going west. Helene washed away Chimney Rock Village and the river paved itself new path. We learned all roads out of Asheville were closed, but there would be one exit point on Sunday.
We went to an vantage point in West Asheville, where crowds normally gather to watch holiday fireworks, now gather hoping for cell service. Instead, as we peered down the hill, we saw roads washed out, bridges collapsed, and debris littered the landscape.
The best method for communication was written notes. We left a note on our landlord's door to tell him about the roof. As we walked through West Asheville, businesses or central points had travel tips written on windows.
Four days after the storm we finally managed to drive to Atlanta to have access to running water. Asheville was a mess: water treatment facilities were crippled, dams had burst, and businesses were shuttered.
As we regained cell service, the floodgates of concern opened. Friends and family, worried by our silence, bombarded us with messages. It seemed the world outside knew more about the storm than we did.
We applied for FEMA assistance and received $750 and participated in their hotel lodging program. The hotel, once a place of relaxation, had become a refuge for storm victims. As the Southeast reeled from the impact of Hurricane Helene, another storm, Hurricane Milton, was brewing on the horizon. We hunkered down in the hotel, a surreal scene playing out before our eyes.
We knew the road ahead would be a long, uphill climb, but under this borrowed roof, we found the grit to take the next step.
It wasn't until weeks later my dad told me how a memory had reassured him in the moment. My dad remembered how resourceful we'd been and how we'd managed to escape four years prior, when my spouse and I were trapped in what amounted to an open-air prison in Argentina:
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