On Friday, September 27th, 2024, the tropical remnants of Hurricane Helene made their way into the Appalachian Mountains of Western North Carolina. In the three days leading up to and including that Friday, an estimated 31 inches of rain fell on Avery County, North Carolina, where I live. Tropical storm-force winds and feet of water accelerating down the steep faces of the Blue Ridge Escarpment overwhelmed the creeks, streams, and rivers. Landslides carried entire mountainsides through roads, highways, homes, and livelihoods. In Newland, a little mountain town with a population of just over 700 people, the North Toe River broke its banks and ravaged unchecked through homes and businesses. Places like the Cruz-Thru, San Dee’s Diner, and Kaye’s Café – all went from quaint, small-town hangouts by the gently flowing river to being submerged in a matter of hours as the waters crested to nearly a dozen feet above the banks.
As the flood receded, riding my bike was the furthest thing from my mind. The damage was unimaginable. I had previously been in Hurricane Florence when it made landfall on the North Carolina coast, but even with the catastrophic damage that storm caused, this seemed so much worse. It was crushing – physically and emotionally. When a disaster like this happens, it’s difficult to know where to begin. It was two days before there was even a route into or out of our town that was passable, and that was fast compared to surrounding areas. As soon as I could, I took the opportunity to send my wife and son to stay with family while I tried to navigate what was supposed to happen next.
Our family was lucky. Even though I spent a week shoveling mud out of my flooded garage, trying to dry and salvage whatever I could, so many had it much worse. Our community, along with so many others in Western North Carolina, had been shattered. Homes were gone. Family members missing. So many of the idyllic roads of the Blue Ridge that weaved through the hills and hollers had either been swallowed by rivers that had changed course or buried by the mountains that gave way under the deluge of rain they could no longer absorb.
Almost immediately, help arrived and slowly but surely began recovery operations. Military and civilian helicopters landed several times a day in the baseball field across from my house, bringing in supplies, which were then loaded onto four-wheel-drive and all-terrain vehicles to get them to the places where normal vehicles couldn’t reach. Shelters were set up for those who either evacuated or were rescued from their homes that had been destroyed or otherwise rendered uninhabitable. I constantly checked in with nearby friends who had lost large parts of their lives, all the while trying to field phone calls from friends and family in other parts of the country just wanting to know how to help.
By the time my immediate family made it back home, things had returned to some semblance of normalcy, if only within our immediate household. We had water. We had power. We had internet. Within a week, a reliable route had opened to nearby Boone where we could get groceries. There were plenty of volunteer and rescue organizations bringing in food, water, and necessities, but it just didn’t feel right taking them from those who needed them more than we did. Instead, we donated. Clothes that we no longer wore, extras of basic household goods – whatever we could part with to help feel like we were doing something.
Like so many of us, I deal with stress through exercise. After the storm, I argued with the question: When is the right time to ride my bike again? It felt like a luxury to even be able to ask myself such a thing. With so many who had nothing, was it even right for me to throw a leg over my two-wheeled carbon excess just to burn some energy? I had ensured my family was safe and was continuing to help my community where I could, but something about trying to ride my bike still felt so unnecessarily self-centered. Then, a week after the rain started to fall, on a beautiful fall day, I was staring out my window drinking a cup of coffee and watched a man leave the shelter down the street in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and go for a run.
I thought I would be angry. I thought I would be asking myself, “How could he go for a run at a time like this?” Instead, it brought a brief sense of relief that maybe we would all get through this and maybe things might return to normal and maybe, just maybe, it would be OK for me to ride my bike without feeling guilty. That evening, I watched a Blackhawk helicopter land in the field across the street and a National Guard convoy carry supplies out of town, all from the rolling virtual hills of Watopia. It was then that I realized how much I needed it. And that it was OK. And that if I spent an hour a day spinning out my stress, it was going to make me better able to deal with everything that had fallen apart around me.
A few days later was the first time I met with some friends to ride our usual winter loop. It was in a spot an hour away from home, off the mountain, and significantly less affected by the storm than the high country was. It still felt a little wrong to be doing it, but we all promised that if military vehicles, or power trucks, or anyone associated with recovery operations were on the road, we would make the extra effort to pull off and let them by. Down where we were riding, it was surreal. It was almost as if nothing had happened. There were a couple of trees down here and there, but it stood in stark contrast to the closed roads and flooded houses where I lived. Things felt eerily normal. Even though our ride that day was around three and a half hours, it stood as a recovery ride in a different way. Finally, we were able to take a breath and have a little hope that things would get better.
Three months later, there is still a long way to go in building back. Riding from my house is still limited, as many of the roads that used to be on my daily routes are either impassable or just don’t exist anymore. There are still hundreds of people with inadequate housing, or no housing at all. Helene has left an irreparable mark on much of our beloved Blue Ridge, and some of it will never return to its former glory. But… the roads are being rebuilt slowly but surely. Kaye’s Café is back serving a killer Sunday brunch, and San Dee’s Diner is selling their locally famous chicken sandwiches again. The Cruz-Thru is once again the finest place in town to grab an ice-cold Coke and an oatmeal crème pie after a long ride. And Western North Carolina is still one of the best places in the world to ride a bike.
Thanks to Escape Collective member Peter for sending in this story. If you have an essay or experience you think might fit on Escape‘s pages, email us.
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