Hélène delivered my second catastrophic flood

The last text I received Friday morning from Josh, a close friend since kindergarten, said: “I just had to wade through waist-deep water to save my dog. Everything I own is ruined. I’m a little emotional. Sorry. I need a minute.

Cell service was dropped. The Wi-Fi signal has disappeared.

Josh lives 12 minutes from me, near Cherokee, North Carolina. This short stretch of land and water between us made all the difference this week. Scotts Creek, which runs right by Josh’s house and is usually fairly benign, swelled and formed a deadly confluence with the Tuckasegee River. And Dillsboro, its small community, just a few blocks in total, was submerged by floodwaters from Hurricane Helene.

I was on the mountain and my friend was in the valley.

I promised myself I would never be here again, caught in a 100-year flood, maybe a thousand years. This time, I was far from my friends in eastern Kentucky and their battered shores, still recovering from the devastating floods of 2022. These highlands of western North Carolina, largely protected from extensive mining for millennia would protect me and everyone who lives there. .

And from my porch, these mountains of my house stood. These river banks were real. These streams eliminated most of the swells. They kept my promise. My garden today looks nothing like the ones I passed through in 2022 as I fled Hindman, Kentucky, a foggy dawn lighting my path on this late July morning.

What I can’t really deal with is that my neighbors’ yards do this. Twelve minutes later. An hour east, in Asheville. Or just a little further, in Boone and most communities in between. Sporadic images filtered through spotty Wi-Fi service look remarkably similar to calls for help from two years ago in the Bluegrass State. The death toll is climbing. Even in Cherokee, people run on gas. Boil water advisories are in effect regionally. Friends are unable to locate the family.

My promise could have helped ease my fears. But promises are based on what has happened before, on what seems reasonable and possible. In Cherokee, we have become accustomed to hearing the expression for over 10,000 yearsin advertisements and museum exhibits telling tourists how long we Cherokees have existed in our homeland. How many 100-year floods and 1000-year floods has this land experienced during this period? The math that governs that past is not valid in this new era, in which I can live for over 40 years without experiencing a natural disaster, then go through two cataclysmic floods in two years.

On the morning of Thursday, September 26, 2024, I was in Asheville and the rain had already started. I learned from my experience in Kentucky that I needed to have supplies at home, water, maps, rubber boots, and a full tank of gas in my car. I also knew I would have to stop at Biltmore Village to pick up my son’s costume for his return to high school. Yes, I still imagined that he would be able to escort his friend to the football field in a few days, maybe even attend the ball. Even though I prepared for a flood, I was sure I wouldn’t have to survive another one.

Biltmore Village is notorious for flooding, even in light rain, and when I arrived, part of the shopping area was already blocked off. I waited for the store to open; the rain continued to fall regularly. I watched a video on my phone, supposedly from the night before, of a car trying to drive through floodwaters just beyond the barricade I could see from my back window. I checked the weather maps again. I decided my son wouldn’t need a costume anytime soon.

I went home thinking about how most people in western North Carolina had not seen the mattresses hanging from the trees or known the people stranded on the other side of a creek near a bridge washed away, like I did two summers ago. They hadn’t smelled gasoline in the air and watched the boats float down KY 160. I returned home unsettled by the thought that I would soon be comparing experiences of catastrophic flooding.

I texted Josh and told him he should leave and come stay with me. Bring his dog. I knew the Scotts Creek he saw from his porch in Dillsboro might still be calm, but I also knew how troublesome a creek can become. He assured me he wasn’t worried.

As I drove, I clung to the promise of these mountains. That, unlike many others in eastern Kentucky, they had not been cut down for strip mining by coal companies, the lack of vegetation allowing walls of water to rush down unrestricted; they did not contain ponds of coal sludge on the brink of collapse, spilling into the screams below. Yet in my rearview mirror on Interstate 40 and Route 74, I could see summer homes squeezed into mountain slopes like pieces of Jenga and far more economical homes dotted across so-called flood plains. The streams here don’t rise like thatI assured myself. They’re not wiping out Western North Carolina communities. In the back of my mind was an image of Canton, North Carolina underwater in 2021. Rare. Isolated.

When the rain turned to mist and the world went gray and silent the day after losing all communication, I ventured outside to see Josh. He cleaned his apartment, ran dehumidifiers and thanked friends who offered him help. He was safe. His dog was safe. He pointed to a group of adults and children cleaning the street with hoses and brooms. The children were covered in mud and barefoot. “It’s a religious group,” he explained.

I thought about the van that stopped in front of the house we were cleaning in Bulan, Kentucky, after their disaster. The man who jumped in the back was the son of the mayor of the neighboring town and offered us all tetanus shots to avoid the effects of the hazardous waste in the floodwaters. I wondered if these church kids had gotten their vaccine – if their parents knew they might need it.

As I write this, I don’t know how all the cities and towns in Western North Carolina are doing. I know gas is scarce and none of us still have reliable cell service or Wi-Fi. I know Dollar General is out of eggs. I know that landslides are covering some roads and that many others have collapsed. I know Cherokee Hospital cannot send patients to Mission Hospital Asheville for intensive care. I know that homes and lives are gone. I know my 11 year old remarked that “the people who lived under the bridge have nowhere to go now” because the waters have washed away their camps.

And I know that, despite the rain, the climb and the wind, the roadside campaign signs have survived, symbols of other promises. Promises that we can curb the waves of global warming. Promises that global warming does not exist. Promises that Appalachia will not be forgotten. And I remember that promises don’t do much and are rarely kept. They might help assuage our fears, but these promise makers also don’t know what they don’t know. Promises are facades of security that we make to ourselves, and that politicians often make to us, in place of protective actions.

After the waters recede and connectivity returns, what is certain, what I know we can count on, is the tenacity of Appalachia. Faster than the floodwaters rose, Kentuckians began organizing for North Carolina. They started reaching out, checking in. I can almost feel them at the borders, the loaded vans, their hearts full. A week ago, they probably put up their own campaign signs. A little red. A little blue. Yet they all recognize the white sign of abandonment to Mother Nature, coming to their rescue long before the politicians’ promises have time to break.

The fact is, Appalachia rarely forgets small towns like Dillsboro. We are a shouting people, loyal to our mountain valleys and unafraid to reach out beyond the city centers. And that’s what it will take here. Metropolitan areas like Asheville need enormous support, as do our most remote communities in Appalachia. And if another flood occurs, the residents of these cities will take care of the next one. This fierce allegiance cannot go any further; I fear that the world’s choices will once again herald disastrous consequences for the mountains we have protected for 10,000 years. But I also wonder how people here and elsewhere can repair the damage we have caused. I suppose it depends on how much we choose to see beyond our own heights, our national boundaries, our trust in someone else’s promise.

Each community must decide on its own values, its own priorities. But sometimes circumstances dictate them and the promises we can keep. My son’s school still held his prom the Saturday after the flood. He didn’t go there. It’s possible his suit is still underwater.