This must be the place: The long road home
Jack Snyder photo
Putting the truck into park, my girlfriend, Sarah, and I finally returned to our quaint apartment in downtown Waynesville Monday evening. After a long journey from the North Carolina coast back to Haywood County this weekend, it’s been a whirlwind of emotions.
The streets were silent. No construction on the new Russ Avenue bridges around the corner. Most of the work in progress had been washed away on the lower bridge amid the floodwaters of Tropical Storm Helene. No noise of cars or the usual late afternoon traffic. Nobody walking the sidewalks. No barking dogs in the distance, either.
Unpacking the back of the pickup truck, we hauled numerous items into our humble abode. Two 24-packs of distilled water. Several cans of chili and various soups. Big tube of toothpaste. Large pack of toilet paper. Peanut butter. Box of crackers. Beef jerky. Bars of soap. Two bottles of wine. Case of Coors Light.
Enough to survive for the next few days, at least until this coming weekend when we can get a better picture of what may or may not come to pass with the laundry list of unknowns still facing Western North Carolina — all while the chaos continues to unfold in Asheville and surrounding communities in the wake of the worst natural disaster to ever happen in this region.
Earlier that day, we’d been lucky enough to fill up at a Charlotte gas station before jumping onto U.S. 74 and the uncertain trek to Interstate 26 West onward to I-40 West and the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway. While the gas station was quiet, it was surreal to see folks fueling up casually, knowing damn well that wasn’t the case just a few counties over.
The fuel shortage was (and remains) real. By the time we hit Shelby, we began seeing signs of the madness in the foothills leading up to the full scale of things in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Stations with plastic bags on the gas pumps signaling no fuel. If there was any, then a line of cars around the block. Some of the tapped out stations still housed folks in the parking lot stuck on empty.
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Constantly refreshing news updates and text messages on my cell phone before the tower service disappeared up U.S. 74 somewhere around Tryon. Pulling over in Columbus to see if more fuel could be acquired. Top off the tank. Nope. The sign on the door said, “Closed: No Power.” A lone vehicle and bystander in the parking lot trying to make phone calls in vain to figure out his next move.
Merge onto I-26 West. Slow moving traffic. Fallen trees all up and down the highway. Nervous faces in the other cars we passed or who overtook us. The same expression on my face when I’d look into the rearview mirror. Myself constantly figuring out how much fuel I need to get home. How much fuel is left if we have to turn around and escape back to Charlotte?
Crossing the Asheville city limits. Another rainstorm hanging high over the demolished community. One wonders just what carnage and sorrow lies just beyond the interstate tree line. What sadness and compassion converged in those beloved establishments — either physically resilient to the massive floodwaters or now just an empty property to gather and remember, together.
Slide onto the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway. The raindrops and cloud cover has now transitioned to an eerily-beautiful sunset. Blue, yellow and orange hues spill across the empty canvas of sky high atop the darkened silhouettes of ancient mountains who’ve witness innumerable natural disasters since their creation. Only time heals all, as they say: these peaks and valleys know this well.
With the truck unpacked, Sarah jumped into her car to check on her best friend in Clyde. We said goodbye, parting ways for the first time in days since this nightmare crept up upon all of us here in Southern Appalachia. Now alone, I decided to do what I always do when I’m anxious and restless: lace up my shoes and go for a run.
Trot across Russ Avenue and duck down toward Frog Level. By the time I was at the bottom of the hill, my shoes were traversing mud, dirt and rocks: leftover traces from the flooding just a few days ago. At the intersection of Depot and Commerce streets, I noticed piles of debris in front of every single business that got walloped by Helene. Locations owned by friends of mine. Spaces once curated with love and detail, now simply brick buildings washed out by Richland Creek.
Take a right onto Smathers and Sulphur Springs streets. Mosey on by Earl’s Automotive, a longtime blue-collar business. Vehicles on the racks. Floors covered with mud. Cars in the yard shuffled around due to floodwaters. A single Cadillac Deville wrapped around a tree and hanging into the creek. More dried mud along the normally-busy road. Nobody else around. Silence.
Piles of wet fabric, broken furniture, waterlogged rugs and garbage placed neatly on the sidewalk. Most notably, the house not far from Earl’s, where the homeowner works constantly on only Ford vehicles. His beautiful, early 1970s Ford Mustang safely parked away from the river. I couldn’t say the same for the house itself, the property a seemingly total loss. The water won.
Circle back home through Frog Level again. Workers at Premier Magnesia converse on cigarette breaks outside while sweeping up more mud from the facility, brightly-lit and working its way through orders of Epsom salt to be send to every single corner of the planet. Slide by the destroyed businesses. Return to the apartment.
It’s now 7:47 p.m. and I just have one hour left to commiserate with others at the Water’n Hole Bar & Grill down the street: either stranded by circumstance merely awaiting word from officials as to a return to our regularly-scheduled program of daily life itself. Grab a barstool, order a Philly cheesesteak and sip on a cold Coors Light before the town-wide curfew kicks in at 9 p.m.
Swapping harrowing stories with others at the bar counter, word traveling into the bar from folks washed out again in Cruso, Bethel and Canton. Whole towns swept away in nearby counties. Despair and confusion in the heart of Asheville. Utilities still several days away from being repaired.
Hugs and handshakes with others wandering into the neighborhood establishment throughout the evening. Gratitude remains for time and place, friends and loved ones, now safe in this uncertain moment.
