09/30/2024
What you must know first, is that I live on a river.
A river in the high mountains of Western North Carolina.
My small home sits on a tall bank right next to the Tuckaseegee River. The Tuck is a slow-moving, lazy river. The Cherokee call it “The Place of the Turtle.”
To give you a sense of where I am,
the Great Smoky Mountains and the Qualla Boundary of the Cherokee Nation are my next-door neighbors.
I moved here a year ago after 23 years in a beautiful small town,
just east of Asheville NC, called Black Mountain. My son and I have many dear friends there.
As I begin this story, it is Wednesday, September 24.
After six weeks of no rain, four inches have fallen overnight, and the river is slowly rising.
To prepare for a visit from an out-of-town friend, I go to the grocery store. As the rain pours down outside, I buy things to stock up my refrigerator. But when I see it's flooded the parking lot, I give into my instinct to purchase non-perishable food and a gallon of water, just in case.
On the way back home, I realize I’m almost out of gas.
I stop and fill my tank.
I spend the afternoon cleaning house and listening to the rain.
A report about a tropical storm named Helene that threatens to become a hurricane, and hit the big bend of Florida, comes up on my news feed. Interesting, but not related to what’s happening here.
On the morning of Thursday, September 25,
the five additional inches of rain that fell overnight have changed the river. The Tuck no longer crawls like a turtle, but leaps like a wildcat, and the rain is still falling.
Mr. Pip, my Jack Russell, sloshes around in the front yard.
He’s not happy about the situation. Neither am I. To tell the truth, there’s something rising in my chest, rising with the water, and I’m pretty sure it’s fear. My friend, wisely worried about the weather, cancels her visit.
My son is an Eagle Scout.
His “Be Prepared” slogan is suddenly slapped across my forehead like a bumper sticker and I go on autopilot.
I fill every container I have with filtered water,
pull the camp stove and propane out and put them in the kitchen, run a load of laundry, wash the dishes.
It’s still raining, the river is rising faster now,
and the news says Helene is now a Category 4 hurricane sucking up hot water from the gulf. Like a 14-pound baby, she’s bigger than they thought.
After lunch, I pack an overnight bag, just in case.
The news says Helene will attack the Big Bend of Florida after dark, create massive storm surge, and race into the southeast, even coming as far inland as Western North Carolina.
I decide to make a Plan B while I still have internet.
My Plan B has to be a nearby motel that is high up and takes pets because no way is Mr. Pip getting left behind.
As a tree falls into a driveway across the river,
I add “motel near major roads” to my search, feeling pretty sure that if the worst happens, those roads will be cleared first. I find a motel and make a reservation with my credit card.
In less than half an hour, the river is no longer crawling or leaping. It’s roaring, and it’s coming for my house. The water is rising so quickly I can almost see it eye to eye.
At high noon on Thursday. I call the motel.
Hi, I just paid for a room online. How soon can I check in, is now okay? “Uh, yes, I guess we can do that,” a voice says in halting English.
I say a prayer for my house.
And then with my heart in my throat, I pack the car, lock the door, and head for the motel.
I still have cell service.
I text my son and neighbors to let them know where I am and what’s happening. I don’t want them to worry. I’m doing enough worrying for all of us. I can hear my Grandma’s voice in my head: “Stop worrying and do something.”
So, I call a few friends to pass the time.
When I take Pip out in the dark to p*e, the rain is still falling, and the wind has definitely picked up.
Back inside, I go to bed, where I toss and turn.
The wind is louder now. I’m glad of the concrete blocks that stand between me and the approaching storm but I’m worried about my house, my friends, and all the wild things that have no place to go.
Pip abandons his spot on the floor, and hops in bed with me.
That’s forbidden at home, but we’re not home anymore, are we? I’m thankful of his company and we cuddle until we fall asleep.
But then I hear the wind, lashing the mountains like a whip.
I get up and p*ek out the window into the darkness at angry, rotating rain pouring down onto already saturated ground.
Helene is here, and my muscles grow stiff with the fear of her. I give up on sleep.
Friday morning, the 27th of September, I get a text from my sister.
She is in the fight of her life with cancer and been in and out of the hospital.Her text says, “I’m back in the ER.” I lift my phone to respond, only to realize I no longer have cell service. Her text is the last I receive for the duration of the storm. Knowing my phone is useless only adds fuel to my fear.
Suddenly it all hits me hard, really hard.
I am sitting in a motel room, alone, with no way of communicating to the people I love in, what has now become for me, the outside world. Inside the motel room, I feel utterly alone. Except for Pip, who seems to understand. He licks my hand and insists he must go out again.
It’s fierce outside the motel.
Stinging wind and blinding rain soak us both in minutes. Pip is shaking.
Back inside, I towel us both off, and sit up in bed.
I try to read a book, but feel guilty for being safe and dry. I already know many are newly homeless. And the night is young, I dread what’s still coming.
Pip’s ears stand straight up. He's listening to the storm.
It’s frightening. Rain hurls itself against the window and we can hear limbs snapping and slamming to the ground. Every now and then the thuds include the crunch of metal, and I hope my car’s not been hit by a falling tree.
There’s no cell or internet service.
But the TV in the motel has two working channels: Fox News and the 24-hour weather station. Fabulous. It's just what I needed.
The commentators rehashing the weather are hours behind the storm. While they’re hyper-focused on Florida, Helene has moved on.
I strain my eyes and ears for news of what’s happening here,
here in Western North Carolina, but hour after hour they replay stories about the storm surge destruction along the coast. I watch the same coverage again and again, like images of the twin towers falling again and again after 9/11.
The weathermen are clearly exhausted.
They’re stuttering and mumbling and mispronouncing words like “Appalachia” and "Mayor" (Maynor?) They clearly need a nap.
I eat peanut butter bread and drink the cold coffee I packed from home. Just thinking of the house takes my breath away. After a quick trip outside, Pip and I again snuggle in the dark as the storm rages on and the motel power flickers on and off and then finally, just off.
I want to scream into the silence.
Scream because I’m frightened. I’m frightened for my sister, I’m frightened for my house. Frightened for my friends. Frightened by all the destruction I’ve seen on the TV. Frightened because there’s nothing I can do. Scream because I'm alone.
Pictures of broken homes floating in dirty surf haunt me all night.
“This used to be a marina filled with boats.” “This was once a thriving suburb.” Once, once, once they say. Once, but no more.
Climate change is here. Do you hear me? It's here.
It’s right outside the motel.
On Saturday, September 28, I wake to silence.
The rain has stopped. The motel power is back on. Pip and I venture out to find the parking lot circled by power company cherry-pickers, with license plates from Michigan, Ohio, and Canada. They tell me the highway in front of us is clear, as is the one that leads to my house.
I decide it’s time.
Back inside the motel, I shower and dress. Eat another piece of peanut butter bread and wash it down with the last of my cold coffee.
It’s time to prepare myself to go home.
I’m nauseated with fear. I try to ready myself to find my home like the ones I’ve seen on TV: In tatters or collapsed or not there at all.
There’s still no cell service.
Pip and I are alone, but I have to find out. It's like needing to know if your man is being faithful. I have to go home and find out.
I pray. I meditate. I do yoga and some deep breathing.
I screw up all the courage I can find and get in the car, but I leave my bags in case I need to return.
"Nights at this motel are now cash only,"
says the lady from Puerto Rico who was camping in Deep Creek on her outdoor trip of a lifetime to the Great Smoky Mountains only to be rescued from a flash-flood, with her sopping wet tent, and brought to the hotel by park rangers. Thankfully I have enough cash to pay for another night’s stay, and somehow that steels my courage.
Outside, I see tall southern pines tossed about by the remaining wind.
Inside, I see sorrow and dread.
You know the questions we ask at times like these! What if I get blown off the road or swallowed up in a flash flood with no way to call for help? What will I do if my house is blown to bits like the ones on TV? Where will I go?
Most of our roads are closed.
Mudslides and flash-floods have torn up the roadways here. Two major interstates are out of commission until further notice.
I see the diesel-powered cherry-picker crews head out.
I decide to follow them. As we drive out of the parking lot, I’m both anxious to know, and afraid of what I’ll find, all at the same time.
They wave and head for Florida. I take the exit for home.
I must brave this part alone and I pray for the courage to keep going.
I cross the bridge over the river.
That it’s still there is a good omen. I pass the launch for the river adventure company, and pull into my driveway.
I put the car in park and close my eyes.
I close my eyes because I’m afraid to look.
When I finally open them, I think, "I must be hallucinating."
Because the can of OFF I use to repel the legions of mosquitoes that have arrived to bite me this summer is still sitting on the railing of the entry, right where I left it.
My eyes move from left to right and left again.
I blink, because I really can’t believe what I’m seeing.
My home appears to be fine.
The river is almost at eye-level it’s so high. I see a few branches down, but I still have a roof.
I unlock the door.
I flick the switch and the light comes on. I can’t believe it. I move down into my dining room that looks out over the river, and see my beautiful screened-in porch is still there. And just a few inches below my porch is the high water mark of the river’s crest. Nature has never been closer.
I collapse over the table and sob.
The tears won’t stop. I cry until I’m cried out, and within the weeping, are prayers of gratitude.
Then, “Bing” I get a text from my sister.
She’s home from the hospital.
Which means I have internet.
No cell service, but internet. I race to my laptop. I Google Helene and Western North Carolina and as the images come up, I start crying again.
Black Mountain is flooded beyond recognition.
I see the rooftops of my friends’ homes sitting above newly formed lakes of muddy rain water. A teddy bear floats down Main Street and I struggle to imagine the terror a child must feel in a flood.
I pull up images of Asheville and Marshall.
Good Lord! There’s a river where Biltmore Avenue should be! My favorite restaurant in Marshall is underwater. I feel like I’m in a time-warp! I ate there just two weeks ago and now the Star Diner’s sign floats above the flood waters.
As first responders pull bodies from the rivers,
national reporters use words like “unprecedented” to describe what has happened here.
Others, who I guess bought a crystal ball at Walmart,
are declaring it a "once in a generation storm," like they actually know how long it will be before the next one comes.
But come it will, because we’re not in Kansas anymore.
After six weeks of drought, over 20 inches of rain fell onto the mountains in just three days. Helene brought Armageddon to our mountain paradise.
I start texting my friends.
Are you alright? A few answer, but most do not. My son calls me, he’s been worried sick. I’m fine, but most of our friends are not. Relatives are missing, homes are destroyed, lives have been tragically lost.
Three days later, it’s time for an update:
There’s still no water, no power, no internet, no answers from those friends.
Climate change is here.
She’s right outside the door. Maybe she’s headed for your home next.
Please hear this message from battlefield earth:
Climate safety must be our top priority this election year.
It’s not a political problem. We the people need a survival plan.
We’re in a new world of Big Scary.
COVID, heat waves, drought, massive hurricanes, flooding, and raging wildfires are in every nightly news report. Each disaster brings new levels of suffering, devastation, and death to Republicans, Democrats, Independents, and the undecided alike. Nature is not a partisan organization.
Demand climate safety NOW.
Do it now, because we might not get a second chance. Write that letter, make that call. Demand that we fund this problem and put our best minds to work to stop climate change. Refuse to take no for an answer. Because the next life that needs saving might just be yours.
Know this: the threat to you is real. The time to act is now.
As my grandma would say, “Stop worrying and do something.”
Get started and take 3 actions today:
1) Write a letter and email it. 2) Call your leaders on the phone. 3) Forward this story to your friends and neighbors and ask them to do the same.
Remember: Only action changes events. See how easy it is to do something? Thank you for saying “Yes!”
Have you heard the news? There’s another storm coming.
