When Hurricane Helene made landfall on the evening of September 26, I was visiting Asheville, North Carolina, a small city in the Blue Ridge Mountains with a population of less than 100,000. The following story details my experience in the days before and after the storm. For local reporting and factual information, Blue Ridge Mountain Radio and the Asheville Citizen-Times have been indispensable sources of on-the-ground insight.
before the storm
My leisurely weeklong trip to Asheville is coming to an end and I am leaving town on Saturday. This was a last minute trip as a friend offered to stay in his temporarily vacant rental. I fell in love with Western North Carolina during a reporting trip earlier this year and coincidentally met many great people in the North Carolina music scene. So I flew to Durham and headed to Asheville to relax, write, explore and enjoy the fall foliage.
It rained heavily on Wednesday. I was meeting a new friend at a cocktail bar and was soaked after being outside for 20 seconds. “Is that normal?” I asked the bartender. “No,” he replied. That’s not Helen. It was a completely different weather system that came and went. On Wednesday people were talking about heavy rain, not storms.
When the tropical storm and flood warnings were issued on Thursday, I started texting local friends and asking them, “Hey, how serious are you guys about tropical storm warnings like this?” The consensus was: “Expect heavy rain, but we didn’t expect any major flooding and tornadoes. We were in the mountains, but I decided to cancel my dinner plans.
By evening, as the restaurants and shops began to close, I realized that this week’s groceries – a slice of toast, a slice of tomato, the end of a slice of cheese, a quarter of a cucumber, two thin peppermint crackers – were to become my pet girl’s dinner that night. Anyway, I figured I’d use up the last of my groceries since I’m leaving town in 36 hours.
Friday
I woke up at 6 a.m. to the sound of 60-foot trees falling, buildings collapsing, and power lines snapping. Asheville is leafy, tree-lined… and full of huge old trees. By then, the power was out. A 60-foot fallen tree was only 20 feet from the ceiling above my bedroom, and a huge branch fell from three stories and crushed my neighbor’s car. I had read in the weather forecast that winds were expected to be 40 to 50 mph, but later found out that gusts were 80 to 90 mph. I can’t update the weather app; my data is too slow. I hide in the basement with my dog, away from windows, and walk him outside from about 8 to 11 p.m.
I had been texting my best friend on the west coast all morning and she miraculously woke up at 5 a.m. When the storm ended, my cell phone service started to go bad; I could text, but I couldn’t use data. So I messaged Google on my behalf, asking her questions: How far do you have to be from downed power lines? How do you know if it’s live? Is the storm over? Asheville hourly weather forecast?
The rain stopped and I looked out the window to see what was happening. Huts and cars were crushed. The road behind the house was blocked. There were a few hanging ropes around my car, maybe six or seven, some of them just a foot or two from the driver side door. An electrical wire was hanging two or three feet from the metal door handle of the front door of the house. I’m not sure if it’s safe to touch the door and go out.
When the strong wind and rain subsided, I saw a few people walking around, so I headed out the front door. A man was walking around surveying the damage and told me he had touched several wires. “The whole city was out of power,” he said. “Nothing is live.” He showed me how he safely straddled downed power lines. I thought, maybe I could walk down the block. At this point, my family has lost any cell phone service.
I waved to my next-door neighbors and they yelled at me to get some water if I didn’t have any yet. I filled two large pots from the tap. While camping, I knew I had enough drinking water for about 3-4 days, but I didn’t expect to need it. Water still flowed from the tap as usual.
At the same time, I was extremely hungry. I had a bottle of olive oil at home, a can and a half of oil, and a bag of microwave popcorn. 1/2 cup of dog food. I had to be out of town within 24 hours. I tried to get out of the neighborhood, walking extremely slowly around power lines for about four blocks, until fallen trees blocked the road on both sides. I started crying as reality began to set in: I had no connections. My supplies were zero. I had no way out. I didn’t know anyone.
Half-jokingly, I made a new friend, an emergency contact, while walking that morning. Little did I know that in a matter of hours we would soon be out of touch. I knew he lived nearby, but I didn’t know his address, only that he was on the other side of a fallen tree that no one could cross. I sent him a text message saying I was very stressed and needed food, if he got this message could he send me his address? No reply.
I realized I needed to get help. My community is one I’ve lived in for a long time. I just have to ask the right questions to get what I need to get through the day. I walked from corner to corner, reaching the weak service bar and failing, trying to find any familiar faces, but found no contact, neither phone or human. Everyone looked on in shock. Eventually, everyone’s cell phone service disappeared completely. A woman offered me a sandwich, and the warmth and kindness made me feel safe to determine my next steps.
A few days ago I met a family while walking my dog, whom I greeted briefly. Later, when they saw me come home and sit in the car searching for information on the car radio, my mom noticed me and offered to buy me dinner. She was the first to say, “Oh, this is really hard and you really need some help. Come here. I said I’m grateful, and I have to be honest: I really need support.”
It was their 13-year-old son’s birthday, so we cooked pasta on the camp stove and ate cake for his cancelled party. We spent a lovely evening together that rejuvenated my frayed nerves. I hadn’t realized how much emotional energy I had expended trying to suppress nervousness.
In the evening, the neighbor next to me set up a fire pit, and neighbors on the block gravitated toward it. No one is paying attention to what will happen after the weekend. Teens are wondering if schools will be closed on Monday. It reminds me of the early days of COVID — alarm, then calm, and then… well, we’ll be back in a few days, right? Before the full picture. They know they have to stay put to stay safe and they’re making the most of it. But my situation is different. They have supplies. I go to bed and prepare for tomorrow.
Saturday
I have received text messages with boil water advisories. I don’t think there is a problem with the water collected right after the storm because I drink it all the time. Plus, I only have an electric stove anyway.
I wondered if I could leave Asheville and if I should. I had no cell service, so my assessment of the damage came only from observation: I could see the river rushing down the mountain, flooding the entire street and buildings below. I know that almost the entire town is without power. I know that no one has cell service anymore. But I wasn’t sure of the route and I had to figure it out.
I decided to walk. Along the way I would see groups of neighbors. People were helpful when I asked directly for help, but other than a few friendly neighbors, no one came to me. It took me almost a day to figure out what I really needed, let alone how and who to ask for it. My situation was an extremely complicated, high-stakes puzzle. But by Saturday morning, my two options became black and white: I had to stock up or get out of town, and I had to quickly figure out which was the safest option.
My neighbor helped explain the interstate to me since I had no map, paper or digital, to refer to. We both decided that if Interstate 26 opened, I could get to Charlotte, and we both thought that would be great and I could figure it out from there. I decided to find WiFi and check traffic conditions. Those are the first steps.
So I drove downtown and saw huge improvements in the neighborhood streets. People walked through the rubble. Others were out walking their dogs. Some smart neighbors wrote down the main points of the daily county press conference at 4 p.m. on a whiteboard: 7:30 p.m. curfew, boil water warning, emergency shelters, Wi-Fi locations, noting the entire western part of the state is impassable. I saw dozens of cars crushed, several people trapped in homes and a few trees crushing old historic buildings and homes. But everyone in the neighborhood was safe. There was no panic. There was a gentle friendliness, an energy that was moving quickly. Maybe despair is imminent, but people are figuring things out. There is tension, but no chaos. Society is more peaceful than disaster.
In this neighborhood, people crouch, lie down, linger, and make the most of it: pancakes over the fire pit, cowboy coffee on the camp stove, kids on bikes and scooters zipping through the tree-strewn streets, reveling in the incredible novelty of this obstacle course. Downtown is where stranded tourists are, calling airlines, renting cars, comforting panicked relatives, and people are wandering around, joining small groups every four to six blocks and checking their phones in hopes of finding Wi-Fi. Oddly enough, some businesses have power and are still in business.
The library’s Wi-Fi wasn’t working for me, so I walked a short distance to the next group of maybe 30 people standing outside a real estate office where the Wi-Fi was somehow working. I used this time to connect with friends in Durham and Google the traffic. Are all the roads out of Asheville impassable? With a tank of gas, can I take the risk and turn around if trouble strikes? Can I risk taking a detour down a side street with which I have no familiarity and no way to see the immediate situation?
The car was the only way for me to charge my phone or listen to the radio to stay informed, and it was my only source of information other than a brief Wi-Fi signal. I was amazed that all four public radio stations were airing syndicated programs on Saturday mornings that provided road and emergency updates around the clock. Wait, wait, won’t you tell me? Brother. I gathered more effective and inspiring information from the local independent station WNCW as well as Christian rock stations. They invited people to call in and report road conditions, and on Saturday I heard shouts of “don’t leave” from people standing on the road. People drove down the highway trying to fill up a quarter tank of gas on their way out of town. People ran out of gas at every exit. It’s just a shit show.
A friend sent me a message summarizing that the city is an isolated island with no resources or outlets and that one needs to be prepared until power and water are restored. Buying groceries and preparing them for three to five days seems reasonable. I still have running water in my house, but I no longer flush the toilet.
I walked around looking for a grocery store and ended up at the only grocery store still open, Harris Teeter. I waited in line for at least an hour, maybe two. The Trader Joe’s across the street was closed and I saw a woman trying to negotiate with the workers at the trash to get them to give her the food they were throwing away.
The manager of the Harris Teeter came out and said they could only accept credit cards or cash. The kid next to me said he only had $14, and the couple behind me said they only had debit, so I told them I would pay for them. The store was quiet, orderly, and unusually normal. They limit the number of people entering to a very small number. They had electricity, but absolutely no water, no propane, no coal, no nothing. I bought a few Powerades.
Then I walked around the city center looking for someone who might have found Wi-Fi. I walked around a corner to what turned out to be a Department of Homeland Security office, and the Wi-Fi signal there was the best I’ve ever had. Now I could actually do some business. Then I saw my new friend, my emergency contact, and we hugged. He said he got my message but it was a day late. His tap was completely dry. He met up with some friends who were planning a picnic. I heard people retweeting messages from the previous day’s press conference confirming that Interstate 26 was open to Charlotte – after all, it was the only way out of Asheville. This tells me I can leave tomorrow. I called airlines, rental car companies, my mom and friends to organize and execute a plan. It’s my only option.
Meanwhile, as I explained my plans and concluded the evening, I noticed a middle-aged woman collapsed vomiting near her parked car. Her young son looked at his cell phone nearby. I went to the car, gave her son a Powerade and asked him if he drank the tap water. Not everyone got the alert because there was no service. Some people are unaware of the boil rules. Meanwhile, a pregnant woman broke down crying on the phone, upset about the lack of water. After going to the grocery store, I learned that no shipment had come in for several days. I have one pot of drinking water left.
sunday
At dawn, I woke up, packed my bags and got ready to leave. I distributed my groceries and leftover water to my neighbors, expressed my gratitude, exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye. I practiced the plan several times, like rehearsing lines, writing down highway junctions and routes that would get me out of the city safely without navigation. A lot became clear on Sunday. My taps were dry that morning.
Relief was slow to arrive, with only one interstate highway leading into town. A press conference later in the day would reveal that power and running water would be restored in weeks, not days. Drinking water assistance from the federal government was on its way to Asheville, but at the time, I was told it had not yet arrived. Late Sunday night, I received several text messages from friends: They were evacuating, heading to their family in eastern North Carolina, Ohio, or Tennessee. I later learned that a neighbor also left with her elderly parents. Most of the locals I know have no reason or choice to stay home.
Being used to LA’s terrible traffic, I found it so easy to get out of the city it was almost scary. Asheville is a city of about 100,000 people. I shudder to think of something like this happening where I live with millions of people. One day, it will happen.
Within 30 minutes I was walking through the airport and being served at a bar again. Another 30 minutes later, I saw the famous first gas station outside of town with a line around it. Another 15 minutes passed and I returned to normal. I ate barbecue and realized it was the first hot meal I had eaten in several days. I started to shake a little from the pressure of holding it together. I drank two 32 ounce cups of iced tea. Meanwhile, everyone else was…normal.
But conditions in western North Carolina will not be close to normal, or even livable, for long. Much of the city will be without water and power for weeks. What is needed is infrastructure rebuilding, not substation repairs or factory rehabilitation. Coming back online was both a relief and a heartbreak. Many areas were wiped off the map, and hundreds were never found. A chain of destruction that begins in a terrible place and ends in devastating tragedy – unimaginable human suffering.
At the time of this writing, there is an urgent need for immediate assistance. I can attest that if I didn’t have a full tank of gas, I would be stranded for days, and starting on Monday, I will be without water – potable or not. The needs are basic and immediate: water, food, electricity. That means bottled water, charcoal, and gas.
With that comes a huge need from displaced people who must rent for months on Airbnb, whose livelihoods may be destroyed or disrupted, and who may have to wait months for FEMA approval or insurance payouts. No exaggeration. Mutual aid is the way forward, now and in the future.
This part of the country is special and the people here are suffering beyond imagination. In 48 hours, with very few resources, I built a support system in a community that was not my own. I relied on group text messages from new friends to help me get the right evacuation information. I rely on my neighbors for moment-to-moment decisions and day-to-day survival, and I rely on these people for my safety. I walked away with new friends, a broken heart, and completely proven something that was not a liberal yard sign slogan but a single-minded truth with existential consequences: in a crisis like this, community is everything.
This isn’t exactly a feel-good solution. In the age of climate disaster, it’s an existential truth: If you aren’t already, become someone who knows how to help when you can and, just as importantly, how to ask for help when you need it.
