The Daily Grace
The Daily Grace

About Hurricane Helene.

Oct 16, 2024 | nature & awe | 13 comments

IT’S DIFFICULT TO WRITE about the destruction of Hurricane Helene and at the same time, it’s impossible not to. So many people—so many of you, quite frankly—reached out with concern and love and prayers, knowing how deeply we love our sweet getaway in Western North Carolina. A (beautifully) overwhelming number of friends and family offered to head toward Cats Mountain to take supplies to people stranded or to daggoneit, find a way to get to Tim and get him off that mountain and home. My estimation is 100% of those people would have done it, too, had there been a way. In the nearly three weeks since, thousands of people have, in fact, descended on the Asheville area, local folk and strangers and first responders alike who in superhero fashion have cut, climbed, waded, hiked, done whatever to get to those missing or cut off.

I was not in the mountains at the time of the storm, so I can’t speak to any of what I’m sharing about the trials there first-hand. What I can do is tell you of our experience—mine, and a bit of Tim’s—which is flavored on this side of the disaster with an intense, abiding gratitude. Let me also state even as I write this, I realize how very privileged we are. Privileged and lucky. Tim is home, safe and sound. Our house on Cat’s Mountain is okay. While there are ongoing concerns for our high mountain neighborhood, we are fortunate the properties were not directly impacted by the awful, awful flooding that occurred down below. Still it was a long few days for those on the mountain during the storm and for the the first days after. I’m quite certain that remains the case for those there today with neither power nor internet.

BEFORE: the pretty line of White Oaks at the base of our meadow

I’LL START WITH THE FACT I was not there, which in itself is miracle enough. We’ve had the place for nine years and this is the first and only time we’ve driven two cars so I could come home early. And this was not because of the storm. Helene had not even formed when we headed to North Carolina and she was but a minor consideration when I drove off the mountain that beautiful, early autumn morning of Monday, September 23. I left because I had a meeting to attend in Columbia. A business meeting. Tim stayed because he was preparing for and attending our mountain’s annual homeowners meeting the following Saturday. We kissed goodbye, I gave Stella (our dog) a big love hug and told them both I looked forward to seeing them at home on Sunday.

And that, we thought, was that.

Then Helene began to churn. As she strengthened, reports of the impact to us in the Midlands of South Carolina worsened. By Wednesday night there was mention of the possibility of some flooding in Western North Carolina, but neither of us gave the thought much worry. Significant flooding felt unlikely, and at 5000 feet our property was at such an elevation flooding was not a direct concern for us. Wind was another matter. On a regular day, regular storm gusts can hit 75mph and these, I’ll just tell you, are a rather regular occurrence—never fun but certainly not unprecedented. Plus we have a generator. A full-house generator that I think we may have needed to use once? Maybe? And I’m not even sure about that. What I was fairly certain of was the fact our trusty generator would come right on, if needed. The thing lives up behind my studio and I hear it as it tests itself, Tuesdays at 8am, like clockwork.

All of which is to say when I turned out the lights in Columbia, South Carolina, on Thursday, September 26th, I was at home alone. I was not afraid, but I was fully prepared: I had found the big flashlight in the laundry room and had placed it right beside my bed where in an emergency, I could easily reach it. I also hoped and expected I’d sleep right through whatever wind and rain we were going to experience as Helene made her way across our state.

And I did sleep well, until 4am, when with gusto Helene came knocking. I laid there a minute willing myself to drift back to dreamland but of course this was to no avail. I looked at the clock—10 minutes had passed and the storm raged on—and so I got up. I peeked out the window (it was howling out there!) then stepped to the foot of the bed as I tried to decide what I should do next. BOOM a transformer blew and then DANG the lights went out.

Okay then, I thought.

The trusty flashlight and I made our way through the house and down the hall to the den, then to the pretty sunroom that looks out over the back. Our yard is filled with tall, gorgeous, old oaks—a lovely benefit of having moved to this long-established neighborhood—and I shown the light into the darkness, curious as to the state of things out there given the intense winds. I saw a large limb had come down and had fallen across the party lights we have strung across the party deck and had pulled lights, poles, and plant boxes with it. Wow, I thought, how incredible is it that we’d had one of the old oaks THAT HUNG ACROSS THE ROOF OVER OUR BEDROOM taken down TWO WEEKS AGO. (It had been hollow when the tree feller sawed into the long trunk, something that surprised him and us, too.) Still, from where had this particular limb come? Lord knows there were plenty more up there, hanging precariously about.

I went window to window. I roved room to room. I couldn’t decide where to land, what to do. Coffee would be nice—oh yeah, there was no electricity. I should get dressed. That would be smart, I should get dressed so if there was an emergency, I would be ready for whatever. And so in the dark, I did.

I looked at my phone. There was no word from Tim, that was good, of course he could sleep through anything and that suddenly didn’t feel like such a funny joke. No word from Eliza and Preston, either, and they live not a mile away. Were they okay? All those trees around their house. That 10,000-foot Pine in the back. Was baby Posey in her crib? Was she in bed with them? Did they know what was going on?

Another loud bang, and not two minutes later, another. My mind raced, I could not quiet it, I wondered if maybe I should go into the hall bathroom, the tiny one, maybe that would be safer. You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. It’s not a tornado. Or was it? If it was a tornado, there’d be an alert on the phone. Wouldn’t there? You’re fine. It’s a storm. Go back to bed.

And I did. Right there in the back of our house, right in the corner, right near the window. It took about 15 seconds for me to think this was a bad idea and to get back up and to go round to the other side of the bed, where on the floor, I made a pallet. If a tree comes down, I rationed, the bed frame will provide some protection. Silly, I knew, but with all I could hear going on outside, a single ounce of reassurance was better than none. I covered up and dozed. I actually dozed, until 30 minutes later another BOOM and I woke up and I reached for my phone and there were messages from Eliza and Preston and from Tim. Stella and Tim had moved downstairs at 3am (thank the lord for that); power was out; he was planning to go out to turn on the generator as soon as it was light. E and P and Posey had all moved to the front bedroom of their house; they had no power; everyone was okay.

**********

I’LL CLIFFSNOTES the next loonnnggg days. PRAISES none of our three houses sustained any major damage (miracle #1 of about a billion) although none of us had power. I was mighty grateful to live near E and P and P who Sunday night, took me in and who let me drone on and on about my worry for Tim, with whom I’d lost all contact. The last I’d heard had been Friday around 6pm when he texted to say the folks in the neighborhood were okay but there were 150+ trees down across the main road of the neighborhood and they’d formed a crew of 15 men and women who were cutting, clearing and bulldozing their way down to the state highway, a drop of 1000 feet in elevation and a distance of about two miles.

And that was it. That was the last I knew.

Tim is built for this, of that I was sure. And the knowing did give me comfort. He’s smart, he’s strong, he’s good with a chainsaw. He was embedded in a community of neighbors who are equally capable and who are, at all times, focused on supporting each other. I worried about injury, of course—they were quite literally cut-off from the world with no way to reach out for help in the event of a medical emergency. And I also worried about the fact our mountaintop is so high and so remote it would likely take officials weeks to reach them, if they were on the checklist at all. Given the horrific circumstances and the desperate need that lay all around them, this was completely understandable. Another big concern? Aside from the destruction, with no power but for those with working generators (I prayed ours was one of them), and with no television, no internet, and no cell service at all—the folks on that remote mountain likely thought the major storm damage was limited to extreme elevation areas, brought on by the hurricane’s 100+ mph winds.

What I’m going to talk about next is admittedly a matter of my own inconvenience. But it was nevertheless a complicating factor, in light of the fact I was desperate to both get information regarding rescue efforts in Western North Carolina and to share what I learned with Tim, the moment I was able to connect with him. My power was out for six days here in Columbia and the kids had no power for seven. Which of course means we did not have television news. Plus I worked hard to limit the use of my phone as it also served as a hotspot for my laptop—a ridiculous point to make but that the storm’s timing coincided with big deadlines in my publishing contract and work on the novel—including the copyedit of the full manuscript—would nevertheless be due. Still even as I did my best to focus on the work at hand I’d catch my fingers sliding over to Facebook, looking for insights and information. These were details that were slow to come. How did Highway 197 look? Were the bridges out? Was there a road in Barnardsville? Was Burnsville under water? Click after click revealed new horrors, increasing desperation, unfathomable destruction. I simply could not take it all in. But also demonstrated on those Facebook pages was the overwhelming goodness of people. The dedication and selflessness of the first responders. The willingness of strangers to do anything/whatever it took to reach neighbors on behalf of those who’d had no word from their loved ones. The requests, and the promises of answers, went on and on. Still I forced myself to keep those sessions short. It was all my battery—and my heart—could take.

AFTER: the line of White Oaks, now a bit wobbly

Lordy but I’ve gone on too long with this story. Here are the next several days, in short.

I finally talked with Tim on Monday at 4pm, a miracle in itself which is not an exaggeration—somehow his call came through when there simply wasn’t service. I learned he was fine, Stella was fine, the neighbors were fine and pooling resources. Our generator had failed (thus no water in addition to the other complications) but three or four on the mountain were working and everyone was making do. I spewed and spewed and spewed every detail I could remember to do my best to give Tim a realistic understanding of the heartbreak and chaos below them, on both sides of the mountain. Then at some point—I seriously can’t remember if it was in that conversation or maybe even a couple of days later?—he told me a helicopter had landed in a neighbor’s yard and had brought to them large tins of hot Mac ‘n Cheese and BBQ. I broke down in tears, the first time I’d done that, realizing this meant officials knew they were there. Officials would keep out an eye. Officials would most certainly airlift out anyone in need, and if not now, soon.

They were going to be okay.

On the way home: along the Cane River, a few miles outside of Burnsville

FOUR DAYS and a hundred thousand important details later, Tim made it home. In rather dramatic fashion he drove the Subaru down the mountain and across ravaged Pensacola and through Burnsville and Asheville and out—a decision he says he’d never make again. The journey was more perilous than he’d expected, and if you know Tim, you know he’d done his homework. A couple of days prior he and Paul, the fearless leader of our incredible neighborhood disaster recovery team and also, a forester—Tim and Paul had hiked the 4.3 miles down Highway 197 to Barnardsville to see for themselves the literal lay of the land. Unpaved Highway 197 looked better than they’d expected (due to so many people, official and not, working to clear it) and while still a little treacherous, the two surmised Tim’s car could make it to the bottom. They’d also run into a Sheriff who assured them that from the base of the mountain, Barnardsville Highway was open all the way to the interstate. (I doubted this, given all I’d seen, but I had not been there in person and decided to do my best to let this worry go.) The morning Tim decided to give it a go, which was two days later, a couple of other rescue folks who’d come to the top of the mountain suggested the paved side, down to and through Burnsville, was the better way to go.

He made it home okay albeit a bit shook, given what he’d been through, given the very real danger of the trek, and given the emotional toll of a drive through such devastation and such loss. I cried and he might have teared up just a bit and Stella jumped from the car so happy we were reunited that she left a joyful, jumping, exuberance-caused bleeding gash and a couple of old-lady bruises on my right arm. No matter. They were home. They were safe. We were together.

Another view: conditions leaving the mountain

WE CHECK ON our neighbors regularly. The number on the mountain has dwindled from 25 people to eight—three families were airlifted out by helicopter and four others, in time, drove out. Those still there are hardy souls who are also performing the service of looking out for the properties of those of us not there. We hope to go up soon, Tim and I, to visit, to take supplies, to hug necks. We both know first-hand how much that sustenance—practical and emotional—matters. Until then we’re like you are, I would imagine—praying hard for the families who have truly suffered as a result of this awful, unexpected storm and for the thousands of people across Western North Carolina, Eastern Tennessee, Southwest Virginia and more who are still without even the essentials. The worry I experienced, intense though it was, was based largely on that most unfamiliar feeling in this digital communications age of not having contact and therefore not knowing. It was harrowing and scary but in no way the same thing as that which so many people have faced, and are facing still, in this horrific disaster. Those losses, in my mind, are still unimaginable.

These communities will come back, I do know that. Appalachians are nothing if not resilient. But it will be years. Years and years. And who knows what doozies that nemesis climate change has in store? I wrote of this after finding myself in the midst of the awful, awful Eastern Kentucky floods in July of 2022, an experience that, according to my nearest and dearest, might have rather strongly affected how I reacted to this latest disaster. I do not doubt it.

So. Thank you for reading. Thank you for your many, many messages of love and concern. I send back to you love and light. I hope that wherever you are, whatever you have faced with regard to these storms or any others life is prone to throw our way, I pray you have experienced grace and connection and goodness. I hope for myself that when I look back on these stressful days it will be the faces of the helpers that I see. They’ve come from all over—other states, other countries, and also just next door. And it’s the kind of goodness that gives hope and makes possible and that unites. That’s not nothing in this world today. I would venture to say it’s everything.

The view from Cat’s Mountain, the last day Tim and Stella were there

And continued prayers—for those who’ve lost so much, and for the helpers, and for us all.

XXOO,

Cathy


13 Comments

  1. Aunt Toni

    Thanks Cathy for your minute by minute, day by day, week by week personal story of fearsome Hurricane Helene. Your descriptions made a vivid picture of what was happening around you and what you were doing, feeling and thinking. They made
    it all so real to me. That is what good writers do, I guess.
    While Tim was stranded on mountain top, and you all in Columbia were powerless but coping, I was in and out of contact with son, Chris in West Ashville. That area was
    hard hit and without power and water for a long time. Trees were down every where but houses were spared. Neighbors started grouping and cooked freezer meals on a grill. People arrived with chain saws and attacked trees. Chris
    got water from a stream to flush toilets. He hiked a hill to find a cell tower. No
    communication leads one to the worst imagination for an aging mom.
    You see first hand why togetherness is stronger. They consider themselves lucky
    in comparison to the areas that were wiped out, and people lost their lives.
    We are now approaching a family get together in Ashville. I hope we can pull this off and I get to see you.

  2. Fran Bouknight

    What a beautiful description of the awesome power of the human spirit that shines through this unbelievable and devastating disaster.

  3. Barbara Hooper

    Your words touched my heart! Glad you and Tim are safe.

  4. Rosie Locke

    I had tears of gratitude after reading this. I hung on every word. Cathy, that entire area has bèn sacred in my mind since childhood vacations. Life is so precious. Hug tightly at every chance.

  5. Mary Elizabeth

    So glad you and the family are safe and together. Thank you for sharing your story. It’s one thing to see this on TV, but it becomes real when you know someone directly involved. Love and good wishes to all.

  6. Eddie

    Cathy, thank you so much for sharing. Your words and thoughts made me feel as if I were there in the midst of it all. Glad y’all are safe and sound!

    • Linda Cole

      Cathy, Thanks for sharing your story. I can’t even imagine all the emotional stress you and your family went through. Thankful you all are safe and able to navigate through the aftermath of that horrific storm. Xo

  7. Lou Robinson

    Thankful you & Tim are safe.. Your story helps all of us to better understand the terror of the storm. As always, your writing always touches my heart & my spirit

  8. Brenda Chase

    So glad you are all ok. The photos coming out of that beautiful area were just unbelievable! Your words, as always, tell the most amazing stories. Thanks for sharing! Love and prayers!!!!

  9. Donna Tucker

    Dear friend, thank you for sharing. I was so relieved when I received your message that you and Tim were okay.

  10. Debbie

    Thank you for sharing Tim’s and your stories. As I read your words, the memories flooded back with great intensity, bringing up a wave of emotions. I’m so glad to hear that everyone is doing well and look forward to hearing about your next visit to your mountain home.

  11. Kathy Morganelli

    Cathy, I love you and yours. Our stories need to be told. Thanks for telling yours. Glad Tim and you, of course are safe. Hope

  12. Patti Pyle

    So happy you are all safe
    The shock and Heartbreak will not heal quickly. My son lives in Old Fort and I have many friends in Chimney Rock, Bat Cave and Black Mt.
    We have one Black Mt friend staying with us in Columbia for now. My son is ok and very grateful he lives up on a Hill. It takes a toll seeing the destruction and loss all around. So grateful that everyone is Safe. Continued prayers for all.

Cathy Rigg Headshot

Hi. I’m Cathy.

This is a blog about writing, creative living, and grace in the everyday. It’s my hope this little spot on the internet will be for you a place of quiet and reflection, a source for inspiration, and a reminder there’s beauty all around—we simply need to keep our hearts open to see it. Thank you for being here with me.

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