Posts written after Helene’s devastating floods, many in real time during periods of limited connectivity. We were present and witnessing at our home in Black Mountain, North Carolina, but fortunate to, in the end, be mostly only inconvenienced by Helene. We did not suffer the grave losses many did.
This collection runs from the first day of Helene’s historic floods in September 27, 2024 through February 2025 and is updated with any new recovery posts made to social media. All dates are linked to original Facebook entries. Only some of the images and videos from the original posts are included here.
September 27, 2024
Disconcerting night and morning… our reservoir dam breached. We won’t be leaving the mountain for a few days but we are prepared and safe so far. Helene has upended the valley of our sweet little town and nearby Asheville with historic flooding.
September 28, 2024
I am told that wild, vicious Helene was a once in a lifetime weather event for our little town and nearby Asheville. Unprecedented. The French Broad River has never flooded like it did today.
But what really drove home the severity for me was when, at dusk, the electric company sent a text that translated to: “Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow, we can maybe start to make maybe half a maybe plan. But probably not.”
And so our generator roars on (lucky us). I can’t complain. But cell service is spotty and texting is a crap shoot, so I complain.
September 29, 2024
Update: Since earlier posts, I have learned more about the extreme local devastation in our neighborhood and town, and in nearby towns, some completely gone now. Like Chimney Rock. Not wounded. Gone.
Yesterday, I jumped out of bed into my jeans, and I helped as much as I could (others did more) to clear a mud slide in our ‘hood, a back breaking but heart-filling firsthand experience of what people can do as a group—one gloppy, heavy shovelful at a time.
Then I hiked with neighbors down the mountain road and out the front gate. We live next to the reservoir, so we saw the Asheville watershed’s huge pipes broken and strewn about like candy wrappers. And then we saw that parts of our road to town (North Fork Left Fork) have been completely washed away. Isn’t it interesting how shocked I was? As if we ever tame the earth for good. As if it can’t, at any time, just strand us or claim us in some other way. As if it can’t make us need each other.
We hiked back, uphill, telling stories despite being winded, I guess because that’s the human default when it’s time to emotionally sort. I imbided so many stories yesterday.
Here’s one: I heard that a farm I often drive by lost 30 cows to swift water—cows that I inanely moo at every time I pass. I am mourning those damn cows—docile, big-eyed cows—and if that’s a ridiculous use of my grief in this situation, so be it.
I hiked back home. Hosed off my muddy jeans and put on sweats. I made our bed (for some compulsive reason that those familiar with my particular crazy might understand).
I read half of the book I’m currently reviewing; and oh wow, it’s such a deeply considered, clearly written book about interrelating and expressing experience. A gift in this mess.
I stopped reading at 10 pm to try to text my kids. Between 10 pm and 6 am there is a bit of cellular bandwidth to access the internet from the house. I am already used to this partitioned time of connection. Not complaining anymore. I might even like it, revisiting my brain before the smartphone; but there is no denying that social media is a good information source in a catastrophe. I seek what data I can, when I can.
So here we are on Day 3, Post Helene. Not expecting much but also not upset about not expecting much. I am a fortunate one.
September 30, 2024
Update: Yesterday was a day of cognitive distortion. I am now both catastrophizing the catastrophe and downplaying it with a shrug. Thank you, defensive little brain.
World Central Kitchen helicoptered in barbecue sandwiches and macaroni and cheese—landed near the gate of our neighborhood and delivered dinner. If that doesn’t make you feel like you’re in a bind, nothing will. It also made me giggle a little, because how cool is that? And why barbecue? (I know, I know: fat and protein).
Earlier in the day, we had true cause to use Mike’s MSR Guardian Purifier to filter 20 gallons of mucky water at a nearby barn for the good of our neighbor’s 26-year-old horse.
Those who know Mike know that when life reverts to normal, I’ll be agreeing to even more survival gear purchases. This situation has proven his infrastructure-is-an-illusion point beyond measure. I may never NOT feel like I’m in a zombie apocalypse movie.
And we spent some time shoring up a buckled road in the most makeshift manner with sandbags and rocks and dirt borrowed from other places. Not a thing I thought I’d ever do. Afterwards, I went home and started my book club reading (_The Warmth of Other Suns_). If I still believe in book club, how much of an apocalypse can it be?
We were told our water tower will soon be empty and there’s no estimate on when the watershed will be functional again to fill it, so we made contingency plans with backup plans that have backup plans, which involve staying in the ‘hood most of the time and possibly accepting generous offers from friends and acquaintances. I seriously don’t EVER want to be a charity case (and have done ridiculous things throughout my life to avoid it) but look how charitable some people are.
THEN: Duke Energy posted an actual date and time for the restoration of electricity, so that felt normal. It’s not for days, but still it says there’s progress. And after sitting outside at a certain high spot in the ‘hood, waiting for an hour to have the bandwidth, I was able to send an email— a letter of recommendation I promised to deliver by the first. Not efficient, but effective.
And the watershed agreed to allow residents of our neighborhood (on a very limited basis in restricted timeframes) to use their roads to get to town. The day was mostly cloudy, but the sun was out over the reservoir when we joined the caravan to test the watershed route.
Once we got out in town, Black Mountain’s neighborhoods looked as expected—so many poles and wires flung, some homes destroyed, some untouched, like life is just a series of random beat downs after all. A few cars, clearly flooded days ago, stood dead in the middle of the road.
Every person we met was busy fixing a thing and had a smile and a greeting for us, except one guy, trudging down the road with a case of Busch Light under his arm, grimace set. I relate to both the cheerful reaction AND the defeated resignation.
But downtown Black Mountain? Everything closed, of course. Ghost town. Still, the roads we saw have actually been cleaned up already. All debris is gone and the town is standing ready to resume its sweet life. Mike and I glanced at each other, both tearful when we saw this first, small slice of ok. And then we put that away and immediately reverted attention back to the perils of driving without traffic lights.
So good morning Day 4. Bring it.
October 2, 2024
Yesterday’s and today’s update—late and combined (so long AF) thanks to Verizon going SOS for 28 hours. Verizon is now back, but unreliable.
Noisy day Monday, beginning with the rhythmic beep-beep of large vehicles backing up, as truckloads of pipes arrived at the Asheville watershed. Because of this delivery, we were not permitted to access the reservoir roads and could not leave the neighborhood. Faced with the off-limits notice, Mike began finagling an arrangement to keep our promise to get a neighbor’s daughter here from an apartment a town over, where she’s out of food, and looting has commenced. Meanwhile, hearing there was no access out, a group of AirBnB guests in the queue, trying to escape what I imagine was THE WORST mountain vacation ever, just started weeping. All four of them—some sniffling, some bawling. Disaster Math mystery of the day: if I can 100 percent picture myself crying in the situation of the stranded vacationers, why could I not even access 1 percent of my available empathy for them? Nerves are frayed, I guess. Plus, I’m rationing everything now— food, water, pet kibble, cash money, and (evidently) feelings.
Another cacophony Monday: crews ripping through the forest south of our neighborhood entrance, felling trees in quick succession—looked like a Jurassic Park T-Rex stomping through—to create a new road to bring equipment to fix our road to town, our pipes, and electricity. And the background audio now: rotors, like a war flick soundtrack. Helos fly above the house on and off all day: National Guard “egg beaters” (I think); World Central Kitchen’s helo; and military-style helos of some sort, assessing so they can help clear roads and driveways with excavators and bulldozers—clearing is a priority since some folks are still trapped in their homes.
Stuck in the ‘hood, we helped with more of this clearing. Hiking through it, I guiltily experienced some of the destruction as beautiful… like the brand new waterfalls where roads and driveways just freaking broke off, and the rocky, rushing creek that displaced a whole street.
Afterwards, back home, hiding in my sweats, I scrubbed every section of the already clean kitchen counter (nut job); then settled down enough to finish some proposal and communications writing for work, and to answer emails and text messages—until our cell service suddenly, unequivocally cut off. Zap. One second: all the bars; and the next: SOS. I reached for the walkie talkie to tell Mike (he was still out there clearing), and found it had died. I felt cut off, vulnerable, especially since we’d parked my car at the entrance to the neighborhood (two miles away) in case of another mudslide. I realized I can do this if I’m not isolated, but I need to be able to communicate. That’s when my breath left me, fast as the cell service. My first ever panic episode. Weee! In an instant, I went from “I guess I’m fine” to heart pounding, chest grabbing. It was brief, terrifying, and mitigated by my dogs covering me in their slobber of concern. (The cat didn’t give a shit.)
Mike came home 40 minutes later, and we decided this is the storm before the calm, the way so much is happening but there seems to be no progress yet—we’re even going backwards on the cell service. He was philosophical; I was defeated. I went to bed at 7 pm for the first time since I was a tiny child.
Tuesday, we got into town and saw a glimmer of progress— traffic lights are working now and some of the town has electricity. First responders were organizing near town square. But none of Black Mountain had cell service and there was no information about that. Lines for gasoline were miles long and we couldn’t wait because of our limited timeframe to use the watershed road to get back home. A couple we have met in passing at hiking club events flagged us down to check on friends in Laurel Ridge and then offered to wait at the gas station later that day and fill our gas cans so we can pick them up tomorrow.
We made it back home at the assigned time and took a rest on the back porch with our animals. Then we drove to the front of the neighborhood and hiked to see some repair construction. We met the foreman, who explained that the new flow of the river will not be corrected—it is what it is now. He gifted us his precious time to explain how they are fixing our road to town and replacing pipes, soon to be pressure tested so they can chase leaks and get the system back, part by part. We headed back home just in time to see the food drop helo landing in a field, so we met Chef Jose (with no idea that he’s famous), gathered the donation and brought it up the mountain to neighbors.
Here’s the part of this chronicle that a writing workshop would tell me was too on the nose: While we were in the midst of food delivery, at a house high in the ‘hood, Mother Nature posted a double rainbow above town. I snarked: Is that a hopeful sign or gaslighting from the bitch who did this to us? And *exactly* then, my cell service came back, I bullshit you not—just one bar, but good enough to bring the bing-bing-bing rush of texts, including wildly generous offers from our friends in other states to host Mike, me, and our animals. I crave the normalcy of my lovely half-a-hermit life, I do; but I know the raw connections in this hideous disaster are life for real. Day 6 begins.
October 3, 2024
Update: It was mainly sunny on Wednesday, a perfect early fall day—what I call Baby Bear weather—not too hot, not too cold. And Baby Bear got me thinking.
What about the black bears, usually a fairly frequent site in our neighborhood woods and streets? As far as I know, they’ve not been seen since retreating to hunker down for Helene; and now (with the constant noise and construction), they are sure to be pushing deeper into the watershed forest. But did we lose any? How to know? Will we even now before spring?
And what about the mules? Yes, mules. Mountain Mule Packer Ranch arrived early in our neighborhood
yesterday, with their beautiful beasts to get supplies to the remaining stranded residents—an exotic sight, just like Chef Jose, that you only get firsthand if you’re in too deep. Strong and humble and not in the slightest rush, they waited to be packed and then they trudged to it.
In stark contrast to the quaint mules with the focused mission, United Cajun Navy brought graders and bulldozers—a mass of heavy equipment—that also lumbered through yesterday on a more generalized quest to move all the crap out of the way. By sunset, 75 percent of the roads in our neighborhood were at least drivable—a mess on the shoulders, but not blocked. More Disaster Math: A bulldozer, even the mini kind, moves infinity x 10 more debris in 8 hours than 30 people with those shovels we used on Day 2.
Crews are working to fix the watershed and our roads to town non-stop, and crews also assessed our water towers—making plans and estimates, I guess, but nothing exact yet. That’s Disaster Math too: How long does it take to fix every little piece of infrastructure for millions of people? The correct answer is: Hell if I know.
We’ve also had the scammers show up, as they inevitably do. They arrive in pickup trucks or on ATVs and stop us in the street. Say they can help. Want to start work without formal authorization or a contract or proof of credentials. Is that a hustle for FEMA money? I don’t know, can’t figure it now, but savvy or not, we are all a bit scammable in the aftermath, because we want to talk, we need to tell you the story, and we crave the quicker fix than is reasonably available. “YES, please help us, full-of-shit stranger.” We have been warned about this, on the Black Mountain Police Facebook page, and also told that in the valley, there are out-of-town grifters posing as church groups doing “wellness checks” on residents, and asking about which neighbor households have relocated temporarily— casing the joint, as they say.
The police were called in to staff the watershed gates at all hours, and now we will be able to access the road to town more often, and with more security (and assurance that not just any criminal can get through).
So, with a wider timeframe, Mike and I went downtown early and
found shorter lines for gasoline—got our $30 cash ration— and a sense of community that reminds me why I love this sweet town. We walked past the White Horse, and snapped a picture of their slightly modified signage, and chatted with the staff, who told tales of “beautiful people doing beautiful things for other beautiful people” and reminded us that if we have to be in a disaster, this is the town to do it in. A good counter to the swindler storyline.
We indulged in the hot breakfast and good will being offered at The Open Oven (no bill, just donate what you can). They have no water or electricity, but are running the gas grill and serving the food in cardboard sleeves. Plastic utensils, of course. No drinks. We sat outside at a little bistro table, marveling at the beautiful Baby Bear morning, totally seduced by it, despite our weather-related PTSD. Might as well. The earth is still turning. A girl of seven or eight stood at the table beside ours, diligently arranging wildflowers in jars, rushing a bit to get done, as if that bouquet was the main course for the starving. In my case, she wasn’t wrong, so when she gingerly placed it in front of me, I gushed with absolute sincerity.
Then Mike and I chatted with some locals, gleaning more information, which leads me to: What about the yellow jackets? Evidently, those fierce little buzzers are mad AF—livid that trees are gone, and that leftover branches are being cleared away, they are vigilantes stinging everyone they can, especially the linemen working on electrical outages. While clearing yesterday, Mike was stung a few times (burns fierce, I’m told); but like everything these days, it seemed like an arbitrary punishment; so, it was interesting to hear that “Benadryl” is now part of the answer to the question ”What does your town need?”
And what about the cows? Before heading back up to Laurel Ridge to get to the day’s work— actual job work as well as survival tasks—we stopped by the field from which the cows were swept away. Where dozens stood Thursday, there were just four. I tried to be thankful for that, but I’m bitter. Did you really have to smite the moo cows, Mother Nature? OF COURSE I am NOT conflating this loss with the unfathomable human loss— I think we’re up to 60 deaths in Buncombe County. I am just grieving what I’m grieving when it hits me. So I said goodbye out loud to the lost cows and drove away.
And lastly what about the birds? The owls, hawks, sparrows, crows, chickadees, and so on? Not hearing much from them yet, although three little goldfinches all but tortured Nimbus on the screened in porch yesterday. And I did notice for the first time that my copper birds (a cardinal couple made by a local artisan) are still attached to our sign post— not real birds but I’ll take it. Last night, when I started cleaning detritus off our top deck, I pondered taking down the hummingbird feeder for the season. Just put it all away. Give it up for now. Most of the birds feeding there migrated before the storm anyway. Wouldn’t Helene have prompted the others to leave too? But before I could make a move on the feeder, one little green hummingbird whirred in, sipped, and lingered. A sign to be patient. And I’ll definitely need patience for Day 7’s quest: Getting Starlink equipment here fast when there is none to be had on the east coast.
October 4, 2024
Note: After this, I will go to posting every few days/once a week because: 1) I’m sure fatigue for this disaster story is setting in (but thanks for indulging me); and 2) Verizon is completely unreliable.
Update: Another surreal day yesterday. Mixed signals or no signals at all. FEMA reps came to the door to check on us, very caring and professional, but just another sign of the severity of our circumstances. “Nice to meet you sirs, but I wish I didn’t need to.”
We see and hear incredible hard work being done at the watershed and on our road around the clock, but there is no timeline available on the massive fix yet, just conjecture (from the media and from panicked residents) about weeks and months.
Duke Energy promised electric on today but sent an “actually, you’re screwed” text this afternoon.
But on the bright side, the Black Mountain community in the valley is the most solid I’ve experienced in my life; and a neighbor saw a mama bear and cubs up a tree near our house; and the US Post Office delivered our mail (!).
Verizon continues to be spotty. I had to drive to town square (5G!) to attend a few meetings, and then I attended a few more later at a scenic high spot in the neighborhood called Mount Moriah where there is some cell service. Mount Moriah is an outdoor chapel set up. (Long ago, our neighborhood and the adjacent property were a Presbyterian retreat.)
While I was working from a pew there, a hawk circled overhead again and again, surveying the valley along with me. I was ecstatic to see that bird, and want to emulate its big picture perspective, but the truth is my attitude fluctuates hour to hour. I’m a rock, then I’m a puddle.
We ordered Starlink to be delivered to a friend’s house in a nearby town since UPS and FedEx have not resumed deliveries here yet, but it won’t arrive for several days, so Ian also sent the equipment “next day” from California. Plenty of neighbors want the second set, when we get it. It’s funny to read about “free” Starlink. It’s just the usual one month free and then forgiveness if you have to pay later (but you WILL pay) marketed to sound like something generous.
The highlight of the day: friends in our neighborhood invited us over for dinner. They supplied the grilled steak (brought in from Charlotte) and we brought the Our Favorite Neighbor wine, and a fancy can of French style green beans. Laughed our asses off until late in the evening. Felt “normal.” Went home, fell into bed. Woke up at 3 am and remembered.
October 9, 2024
Our road to town looks (seems?) almost complete—I’m awed by that progress.
And at least some of the bears are back. But “normal” is not yet on the horizon. For one thing, although our weather is perfect (sunny, cool), leaf season has begun here largely without tourists.
As one of the few with Starlink in the ‘hood, we hosted two days of Internet cafe at our house. It was a sketchy establishment: no useable bathroom facilities, but go ahead and email your gang. Last night, Skyrunner restored service to those of us whose fiber optic cable was intact. They brought a generator to power it. So now we have both satellite and fiber connectivity— but still no other utilities at Nolan Central.
Several electric crews are working hard in the neighborhood but there’s no estimated completion date. Duke Energy is cagey about whether we are in the group that will be back up within a week or the group in the undefined “longer” timeframe. Perhaps they can’t call it yet. Thus, the whole house generator continues to be the best freaking thing I ever paid too much for, and I get ripped off fairly often (worst bargainer ever), so that’s saying something.
Speaking of getting ripped off, yesterday we rented a house in Montreat so we can shower or do laundry over the next few weeks— and the landlord seemed to gouge us— jacked up the price to almost double what I expected. I did try to bargain in this case, but only succeeded in saving 3 percent, proving my inadequate ability in this area. So I blinked and absorbed the budgetary massacre.
Later, as I slowly scrawled the check in my prettiest script with my favorite flowy ink pen, an impromptu curse chanted in my head. And I don’t even believe in curses. I guess the impotent hoodoo was an automatic reaction in my disenfranchised state.
If I did believe in manifesting, then I would think that some opportunistic AirBnB bitch keeled over as I paid that ransom. The realtor brought me back down from my fantasy, explaining the grimy, earthbound fact that because so many out of town work crews are renting here right now, the short term market is actually “hot” despite the colossal catastrophe we all just endured. Oh goody. What a relief. The fate of the already overpriced short term rental market was really weighing on me.
So much has shifted for me in this mess, and become clear. Relationships and pursuits are beautifully clarified when you’re in the rubble. There’s a lot to sort through when I have time, but I’ve already begun casting aside what has been in my way, not overthinking it (for once).
Circling back to the fact that normalcy is elusive for now, here’s another reason we know we’re still in a surreal Armageddon situation: the Mets in the series? And that Chicago Bears win? Our typically losing teams having a few good days? What madness!
October 10, 2024
Today is Mike’s birthday and there is one bar open in town so we’ll be going there with some friends. I couldn’t get any gifts for him, so you know what I gave him? Electricity. Our power just came back on. Still waiting on water.
October 19, 2024
UPDATE: Living in a paradox inside a contradiction: not close to recovering normal life, but starting the reckoning anyway.
Mike and I are both happily back at our remote jobs, and I finished my latest book review (please read), but so much is contingent and still under repair. It will be a long trudge to a finish line that won’t mean we’re done. Some of the old life is unrecoverable.
We are volunteering more out in town now with repairs (Mike) and grants (me).
We still do NOT have running water at our house even though we actually do. The Asheville Watershed restored distribution (with a boil advisory) BUT we can’t access the water because our neighborhood infrastructure is still under assessment, and further water testing must be done. Even if we could access it, it would be murky. Disaster math: If there are zero hurricanes in the mountains, why are we still without infrastructure 23 days after a hurricane?
This feels like bad luck sometimes, but then I’ll drive through a nearby town like Swannanoa and see actual rubble, piles and piles three weeks post storm, and realize once again that our burdens are limited. We are merely inconvenienced while others are devastated. And so many are working hard in and out of our neighborhood.
So, I’m equal parts grateful and disillusioned right now. A recent sighting of armed men dressed in (unearned) military garb (riding on ATVs, staking out evacuated houses in our neighborhood) keeps me teetering on the uneasy side— seriously, WTF, America??—although these self-proclaimed “god fearing people” have been chased away and security has increased.
Meanwhile, the little Town of Black Mountain and the City of Asheville are doing an excellent job of relaying data. This week,
watershed officials released aluminum sulfate into the North Fork reservoir, which is currently too turbid to be processed by the water treatment plant. Remember Disaster Math? Well, this is Disaster Chemistry: the aluminum sulfate will cause the billions of clay particles suspended in the reservoir water to aggregate and settle at the bottom. Since our road to town is still not drivable, we continue to be permitted to use the reservoir roads, and so we pass the big containers of chemicals everyday, and have seen the little application boat out in the water. We are truly excited at the prospect of watching the reservoir possibly get clarity over the next few weeks. Hoping I can get some too.
Given our water situation, we continue to take showers and do laundry at the Montreat rental. A few days ago, a young woman and her two toddlers, neighbors of the rental, stopped by there. We stood on the worn out screened-in porch and shared Helene stories. She told the tale of the big tree that fell and destroyed their garage. Her little boy—maybe he’s four, maybe five—stood beside her, scanning her face, riveted. The moment she finished the tree story, as if on cue, he singsonged: “But our HOME is fine. And not ALL trees fall,” clearly repeating the comforting company line, to which his little sister (in mom’s arms) nodded vigorously.
The rental neighbor also pointed out that the lock to the porch door was gone, leaving a small hole behind, a shoddy detail I had dismissed as just one of those short-term rental things. But no, there’s a heartbreaking Helene story for that too. The neighbor told us that a homeless family broke in and weathered the storm there. Never forced entry into the house, just sat through teaming rain and vicious wind on that rickety porch.
“They seemed like nice people,” she added, as if that were consolation.
The better consolation had come earlier from the boy : “Not ALL trees fall,” like the trees yet standing in the rental’s front yard, full of knots and burls, old wounds that seem arranged in faces. Not sure if these faces are friendly or menacing. Time will tell. “Not ALL trees fall.” But mine did, kid. Or atleast my ONE did. The only thing we lost on our propertyduring Helene was my favorite tree—a gnarly 80-foot pin oak that towered over the other oaks and the sourwoods and poplars in the back yard. (Again: we were lucky.) The tree was visible from our bedroom window and our top deck, which is 40 feet up from the ground, and I have often communed with her. Talked to her. Asked her to help me be brave (but that’s another half-a-nut-job post). I didn’t realize the loss until a few days after Helene, when I finally pulled the bedroom drapes open, and before even looking, chirped: “Hi Tree,” and then saw she was gone. Vanished. She didn’t fall towards the house, and I could not see where she’d landed, or evidence that she had ever even been there. Her looming presence has simply been erased.
Later, Mike tramped into the woods with the dogs and they found her on the ground, sort of swallowed by the earth. There’s been talk of making a table from her, but I don’t know. The thing is: I have not experienced her sudden death, or her sinking back into the planet, as a loss. It’s more a message, a sign, a metaphor. Something about clean breaks and moving on completely. Just another thing to unpack later.The storm has changed landscapes, outside and in, and sometimes I look forward to the (radically) new path that I see, but other times I’m comforted by signs of the old path. For example: the Black Mountain Tailgate Market opened up again today, a sweet reminder of what’s been good about our time here, and we’ve had the first frost and a dusting of snow on the mountain top. The world’s still turning, and we’re okay.
Tonight: A reminder of why we love the town of Black Mountain. The Trouble Notes energetic benefit show at Old Towne District BMT. Every folk-rock-dance song was preceded by its story. Just. What. We. Needed.
October 25, 2024
October 26, 2024
Update: Our “road” to town and back was opened today. This is rudimentary and not really a road, yet still represents progress. Here we are driving back towards the house.
October 28, 2024
October 30, 2024
Last night: This community gathering to reflect on the devastation of Helene started with a quote from Wordsworth and the singing of “A Bridge Over Trouble Water,” progressed through speeches and prayers about survivor’s guilt and holding hope and grief together and ended with candles flickering and the singing of “This Little Light of Mine.”
We have a sophisticated innocence here in Black Mountain—just enough of both.
November 7, 2024
UPDATE: The treatments are not working fast enough. The Army corps of Engineers are being engaged. Drinkable water won’t be available to Asheville or Black Mountain until mid-December, but our well is now scheduled to be drilled in a week.
The contractor called about setting that date, and also to ask us if we would agree to be interviewed by the AP about our choice to install a well, and what it’s like to live without water for months.
I’m considering what to say, being all writerly about it. So far I have come up with this eloquence: “It sucks.”
November 21, 2024
Windy on our mountain last night. Those howls and whistles usually inspire me— but not so much this round. The electricity surged repeatedly. Each time it went dark then light again, I had to talk myself off an internal ledge. (Calm down, Leigh.) Guess I’m still raw from Helene. I finally said fuck it, put my AirPods in, turned up the white noise, and slept the deep sleep of the ardently disengaged. (My Oura ring approved this morning with the highest Readiness Score I’ve had in months.)
Tonight, we expect more wind and a bit of snowfall (already flurrying). Winter is arriving right on the heels of the warmest of autumns— I only just brought my macho fern and Monstera inside from the front porch (a full month later than last year). It was a non-fall, really, which I typically despise, but at least it made initial Helene recovery easier on the 24/7 crews.
Despite the balmy temperatures, it’s been icy cold winter in my heart for weeks. My Christmas trees have been up since the day after the election—an odd display of defiance, I know, but decorating them was a restorative act of composition and a chance to quietly strategize. Somehow, it felt natural. (Who doesn’t plot against the patriarchy while hanging porcelain snowflakes?)
Anyway. This is all an irrelevant prelude to the BIG news…
After 55 days, the Asheville Watershed is now supplying potable water— a few weeks ahead of predictions. It will be a few more days before we get the drinkable stuff as our neighborhood system is still being flushed… but it’s imminent. Maybe this weekend we can shower at home and wash dishes. How seriously exotic. Either way, we will still be getting the well installed (for the sake of property value and self-sufficiency). Our ever-changing drilling date is now next week.
The road to town remains a dirt one, but as of yesterday it has “crush and run” on it for a demonstrably better ride. And we did see paving trucks out there (!) so maybe it will be a real road before Christmas. I feel guilty saying this, but: The new road is scenic—actually prettier—boulder-lined, with a more expansive view than the old one.
So much is improving, but so much is still a mess. Walking or driving around town, I see lots of normal mixed with destruction, and it feels as if last night’s on-and-off electricity is just a metaphor for this phase of restoration. It’s functional. It’s not functional. It’s functional. It’s not functional. So I expect I’ll continue to hide some, but also bask in a few of the well-lit moments.
.
November 24, 2024
Here we are, 59 days after Helene, and we have potable, drinkable water coming out of our faucets! We’ve had it for an hour or so now. Hard to believe it’s real.
December 8, 2024
Helene Update: We’ve had city water back for a week or so, but our infrastructure hardening efforts continue. Well drilling started this week. We were both fairly anxious about it— expectations for any event going smoothly are low right now. So, I can’t say we were shocked when, on day one, *the drillers hit our existing main pipe and completely took out our recently restored water supply.* 🤦♀️
Can’t even make this shit up.
(And yes, we tried to have the water main marked in advance, but no municipal organization was quite sure where it was.)
Our reaction? Mostly, we laughed. (We might just be lunatics after all.)
The well company was great— they immediately got an excavator and unearthed the area. And God love our plumber. He left the job he was on to make an emergency visit to our house, and he fixed the pipes, and returned our water within hours.
Big picture, this was positive, since we want our house to have access to both public and private water, and in order for that to be a thing, we did need to know the location of the existing pipe. But, in the moment, it just seemed like punishment (so odd how my mind does that).
Well drilling resumed the next day. We’re now at 190 feet, hoping to hit water tomorrow. The average well depth here in our mountains is 450 feet.
Nobody who knows Mike will be surprised to hear that he helped so much, the drilling lead offered him a job.
Interesting moment for me when I peered down into the hole at the damaged pipe. It’s such a small thing—looks almost flimsy. It’s not
that I had a clear picture of my water infrastructure in my head, but I unconsciously believed that what sustains us is big and bulky and sturdy and maybe even a little mysterious. I will never believe that again.
2024 will go down in the annals as the year when I realized we’re never really safe or in control, and that fact somehow calmed me, and made me braver.
January 3, 2025
Update: the cows came home! Of course these are different cows than those lost in the storm, but still SO good to see them on my drive home this morning. And yes, I said “Moo!”