Rising from the Storm: The Heart and Resilience of Western North Carolina
Updated: 10/11/2024 • Bernie Gilchrist
It was a Thursday like any other in Western North Carolina. The rain began to fall in soft, rhythmic drops, barely enough to notice. We’d all heard the news—tropical storm Helene had spun herself into a
Category 4 hurricane, but we weren’t worried. Why would we be? We lived high up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, cradled by ridges and rivers, sheltered from the usual wrath of coastal storms.
But Helene … Helene was no ordinary storm.
By Friday morning, the Mighty Tuckasegee River was swelling, rising in a way that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The storm was battering Florida’s coast by then, hundreds of miles away, yet here in Sylva, the river lapped at my front yard as if it had a mind of its own. “Maybe I should move the RV,” I thought, a fleeting notion, but one that soon turned urgent. By the afternoon, the water had crept higher—first to the foundation of my lower floor, then flooding under my house entirely. That was my cue. I packed up and headed for higher ground, a decision that, looking back, may well have saved my life.
Four days later, I returned to what felt like a different world. Helene had torn through Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, and yes, even our beloved Western North Carolina. The mountains that had always felt like our shield had taken a direct hit, leaving us in a scene that felt pulled from a 1970’s disaster film.
Entire towns were submerged, homes swept away like twigs in a raging river. The roads—our lifelines—had crumbled, washed away by landslides and floods. Both interstates that ran through our region, I-40 and I-26, were gone, as if they’d never existed. Bridges snapped in two, roads collapsed into the rivers they once crossed, and the once-pristine Lake Lure was filled with the debris and detritus of our collective lives. Livestock, wildlife, even the rivers themselves, had suffered immeasurably.
But here’s the thing— Helene didn’t just take from us. She revealed something, too. Something powerful.
I remember standing with my neighbor, talking about the devastation, about the fights over gas in
Asheville, the looting, the panic. "Times like these bring out the worst in people," I said, feeling a weight in my chest that was heavier than the waterlogged ground beneath our feet. But my neighbor, in the calmest voice, said, "Yes, but they also bring out the best."
And she was right.
As the floodwaters receded, we rose. People weren’t waiting for help—they became the help. Neighbors who’d never exchanged more than a wave were now side by side, clearing debris, rescuing families, sharing food and water. Helicopters buzzed overhead, but it was the human spirit, not machines, that flew highest. Strangers opened their homes, offered their last bits of food, and searched tirelessly for the missing. Local radio stations became beacons of hope, directing people to shelter and safety, while hands, rough from work, pulled others to higher ground.
It was a beautiful sight, that rising tide of humanity.
And me? My mountain river home took a beating, sure. But what’s a bit of water damage when you've witnessed the best of what people can be? The real damage wasn’t in the homes, the roads, or the
bridges—it was in the doubt that we’d lost our sense of community. But that doubt was washed away just as surely as the floodwaters came.
We’re still here. Still rescuing, still rebuilding, still standing. Because that’s what we do in Western North Carolina. These mountains may shift beneath us, but our roots run deep. We love this land, this slice of heaven, and we love each other. And when disaster strikes, we don’t flee. We dig in. We fight. We rebuild.
Hurricane Helene might go down in history as one of the most destructive storms to ever hit our region, but I’ll remember it for something else entirely—the day our mountains didn’t protect us, but we protected each other.
And that, my friends, is why there’s no place on earth I’d rather call home than these old mountains.
Category 4 hurricane, but we weren’t worried. Why would we be? We lived high up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, cradled by ridges and rivers, sheltered from the usual wrath of coastal storms.
But Helene … Helene was no ordinary storm.
By Friday morning, the Mighty Tuckasegee River was swelling, rising in a way that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The storm was battering Florida’s coast by then, hundreds of miles away, yet here in Sylva, the river lapped at my front yard as if it had a mind of its own. “Maybe I should move the RV,” I thought, a fleeting notion, but one that soon turned urgent. By the afternoon, the water had crept higher—first to the foundation of my lower floor, then flooding under my house entirely. That was my cue. I packed up and headed for higher ground, a decision that, looking back, may well have saved my life.
Four days later, I returned to what felt like a different world. Helene had torn through Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, and yes, even our beloved Western North Carolina. The mountains that had always felt like our shield had taken a direct hit, leaving us in a scene that felt pulled from a 1970’s disaster film.
Entire towns were submerged, homes swept away like twigs in a raging river. The roads—our lifelines—had crumbled, washed away by landslides and floods. Both interstates that ran through our region, I-40 and I-26, were gone, as if they’d never existed. Bridges snapped in two, roads collapsed into the rivers they once crossed, and the once-pristine Lake Lure was filled with the debris and detritus of our collective lives. Livestock, wildlife, even the rivers themselves, had suffered immeasurably.
But here’s the thing— Helene didn’t just take from us. She revealed something, too. Something powerful.
I remember standing with my neighbor, talking about the devastation, about the fights over gas in
Asheville, the looting, the panic. "Times like these bring out the worst in people," I said, feeling a weight in my chest that was heavier than the waterlogged ground beneath our feet. But my neighbor, in the calmest voice, said, "Yes, but they also bring out the best."
And she was right.
As the floodwaters receded, we rose. People weren’t waiting for help—they became the help. Neighbors who’d never exchanged more than a wave were now side by side, clearing debris, rescuing families, sharing food and water. Helicopters buzzed overhead, but it was the human spirit, not machines, that flew highest. Strangers opened their homes, offered their last bits of food, and searched tirelessly for the missing. Local radio stations became beacons of hope, directing people to shelter and safety, while hands, rough from work, pulled others to higher ground.
It was a beautiful sight, that rising tide of humanity.
And me? My mountain river home took a beating, sure. But what’s a bit of water damage when you've witnessed the best of what people can be? The real damage wasn’t in the homes, the roads, or the
bridges—it was in the doubt that we’d lost our sense of community. But that doubt was washed away just as surely as the floodwaters came.
We’re still here. Still rescuing, still rebuilding, still standing. Because that’s what we do in Western North Carolina. These mountains may shift beneath us, but our roots run deep. We love this land, this slice of heaven, and we love each other. And when disaster strikes, we don’t flee. We dig in. We fight. We rebuild.
Hurricane Helene might go down in history as one of the most destructive storms to ever hit our region, but I’ll remember it for something else entirely—the day our mountains didn’t protect us, but we protected each other.
And that, my friends, is why there’s no place on earth I’d rather call home than these old mountains.
