This must be the place: 'See the lines in the levee, muddy water pushing through'
The River Arts District in Asheville post-Helene.
Garret K. Woodward photo
I’ll never get that smell out of my memory. The stench of mud and rotting debris. Most of you reading this will immediately know what I’m referring to — the aftermath of Hurricane Helene in the fall of 2024. And yet, that stench was already in my stored subconscious, seeing as I first encountered it with the aftermath of Tropical Storm Fred in 2021.
Regardless, we’re quickly approach the one-year mark since Helene forever scarred the physical landscape of Western North Carolina and the emotional hearts of those who call this majestic place home. For me, both personally and professionally, my processing of what happened, who it happened to and what now remains continues.
And I think that processing of Helene will always be close to the surface of my thoughts and emotions, truth be told. Especially when I’m cruising around our backyard, whether it’s up near the Big Creek and Cataloochee Valley entrances to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Or when I’m going for a jog through what’s left of our beloved River Arts District in Asheville. Or noticing how much the grass has grown over the massive mudslide on I-40 outside of Black Mountain.
I especially thought of Helene when I found myself meandering up to Big Creek for a trail run this past weekend. Although still heavily damaged, the Waterville Road (which connects I-40 to Big Creek) has recently reopened to the public. It’s only one-lane as of now, with the other lane long gone down the bordering Pigeon River due to Helene.
Rolling into Chattanooga, Tennessee, for the annual International Bluegrass Music Association award show this past Wednesday, it dawned on me that I was attending last year’s gathering Raleigh when Helene tore through our region. I remember how hard it even rained in the capital city, how the tornado-like winds shook the windows of my hotel room. I remember the fear in the eyes and voices of others like myself who call Western North Carolina home.
Many of us in Raleigh still didn’t know the extent of the damage to our communities, let alone get hold of anyone in the dead-zone due to the cell towers going silent because of the storm. News reports on the TV used words like “apocalypse” and “cataclysmic” in stories slowly trickling out of WNC. Most outside journalists couldn’t even get into the dead-zone due to mudslides and flooding overtaking the interstates and backroads up and down the Blue Ridge Mountains.
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My then-girlfriend, who was with me in Raleigh, started to get extremely worried about the safety and whereabouts of our friends and co-workers. At that exact time, my publisher, Scott McLeod, and his wife, were flying back from the West and ended up detouring to Charlotte. I picked them up on my way back home, seeing as I-26 south of Asheville was the only way to access the mountains. We stocked up on supplies, ultimately packing up my truck. Cases of water. Cans of nonperishable items. Cans of gasoline. Toilet paper. And cold beer.
Feelings of trepidation as we drove past Shelby, the last of the open gas stations now in the rearview mirror. Soon, the evidence of the storm appeared. Countless fallen trees and power lines. Damaged homes. Flooded roads. Mud everywhere. And no cell service. The sense of the unknown once we entered the dead-zone. Just enough gas in the tank to return to our homes in Waynesville.
Immediately back to the newsroom to figure out our course of action in providing real time information to our readers about what’s going on and where to go for supplies. No cell service or Internet? Well, that’s why we have physical newspapers on seemingly every street corner in this time of crisis and chaos. From there? Days, weeks and months of running around the mountains and interviewing folks about what happened to them and their perspective moving forward.
Wild, truthful tales of being trapped in their homes as the floodwaters rose. Trees crashing down upon their streets. Hundreds of small businesses being wiped off the face of the earth. The pure insanity and the eternal wrath of Mother Nature. Reports of dead bodies found along the riverbeds. Reports of whole towns getting destroyed. Reports of how long it might take to return to some sense of normalcy (a sentiment that still lingers even today).
Each evening, I would return home to post-it notes on the front door of my apartment from my girlfriend, telling me where she was headed and when she’d be back. I’d leave her the same upon leaving the house each morning. Kiss each other goodbye, a shared look of concern about what each of us may encounter that day in our respective endeavors of reporting the news (me) and delivering resources while conducting wellness checks (her).
Skip ahead to the here and now. One year. Everything mentioned in the previous paragraphs is seared into my memory. Everything remains as surreal and heavy in hindsight, more so when, in real time, I find myself wandering and observing this post-Helene landscape. I’ll get lost in thought while jogging through the RAD and noticing the downed trees, the empty lots that used to be prominent businesses.
And I often think about everything I witnessed and came across in all those field reports. The faces of those deeply affected. The piles of debris. The absurd routes taken to access certain areas where the damage was the worst. And all of those benefit concerts and events since then to help those who lost everything. Music will always heal.
In closing, I’ll never forget the devastation left behind from Helene. But, most importantly, I’ll always remember the kindness and compassion shown by strangers, where two questions were asked to any and all, and by folks that normally would never have interacted with one another, “Are you OK?” and “Do you need anything?”
I remain optimistic — post-Helene, and for we as a people, together.
