Hurricane Helene: A Detailed Account of My Experience in West Asheville

William Keller – 10/8/2024

It started raining on Wednesday, two weeks ago. I had just taken my wife, Ashton, and our two-year-old son, Otto, to the airport for a trip back to her hometown in Kansas. The skies were dark, and there was a sense of unease, but I figured the storm was still far off. On the drive back, the rain intensified, becoming so heavy that the roads quickly began to flood. My usual route was detoured due to flooding, forcing me to divert. Every alternative route was backed up with traffic, and what should have been a 20-minute drive stretched into over an hour as I navigated flooding and traffic jams.

Just as I was nearing home, Ashton called. Her flight had been canceled due to the storm, and I needed to return to the airport to pick her up. I took the freeway back west, which thankfully had less traffic, and picked her up without much trouble. But when we finally made it home, we found that the basement of the house next door, our rental property, had flooded.

I immediately began working to control the water in the basement. It was steadily seeping in through the floor, so I peeled back the underlayment to find the source. I started vacuuming the standing water, but it kept coming. I spent all of Wednesday night and into Thursday trying to keep the basement from filling up, but the situation wasn’t improving.

By Thursday or Friday, we lost power as the winds picked up and the rain intensified. By Friday morning, Hurricane Helene had arrived, and I was drained. I couldn’t continue. Ashton took over mopping up the basement water, and I collapsed into bed with Otto. From my window, I could see our large spruce tree bending in the wind, its limbs snapping off and hitting the ground. I worried the entire tree might come down, but I was too tired to stay awake. I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the worst of the storm had passed. I went outside to check the damage. Our property had been spared. The large limbs that broke off the spruce didn’t cause any damage. Across the street, our neighbors were lucky, too. Two massive trees had fallen but had somehow landed perfectly between their house, trailer, and shed without hitting any of them.

We ventured out to Haywood Road to see the flooding near the river. The streets were full of debris, fallen branches, and downed power lines. No streetlights were on, and the eerie silence was broken only by the hum of a distant generator. As we approached the Haywood Road bridge, which connects West Asheville to the River Arts District, we saw the river had risen 30 feet above the flood zone. It was carrying parts of the city with it—train cars, oil tankers, cars, pieces of buildings, and even whole homes. The devastation was overwhelming. There were no emergency workers or police, just a group of about fifty people standing in disbelief. The sight of the river swallowing the city was enough for me. I tearfully turned to Ashton and Otto, and we headed home.

On the way back, I noticed the varied reactions of the people around us. Some were out jogging or walking their dogs as if nothing had happened, while others seemed aware of the scale of the destruction. I knew we wouldn’t have power for a while, and I suspected the water treatment plant had been compromised. Unfortunately, I was right.

When we got home, we realized we only had about three gallons of water and a few bottles of Topo Chico. I grabbed Otto’s red wagon and went out to find more. On the way, I bumped into an old friend at a bar where I used to work. She asked how we were doing, and I told her we were running low on water. She offered me a case of bottled water, even though I knew she only had a few. I accepted, making sure she was absolutely sure I could take the full case, and then headed home.

As I walked back, several people stopped me, asking, “Where are they handing out water?” It dawned on me then that there was no “they.” No one was handing out water. There were no officials or relief workers yet. The responsibility had fallen to us. The “they” we always imagine would come to the rescue didn’t exist. We were on our own.

Back at home, the water brought a bit of relief, but our communication systems were still down. We had no idea what was happening beyond what we could hear from neighbors. Groups of people were gathering in spots where weak cell signals allowed for brief texts or calls. It became clear the situation was worse than we initially thought. The roads were impassable, and landslides, downed trees, and destroyed roads cut off entire mountain communities.

The only real news came from an AM radio station, 570 AM. They were running on a generator and broadcasting from a home cut off by downed trees. The hosts earnestly asked for help with supplies, which they would eventually receive. They tried to maintain their composure, but there were moments when they broke into tears. As I listened, it became clear how dire the situation was—people were calling in to report missing loved ones, homes destroyed, and bodies floating in the river. It was a stark reminder of just how devastating the storm had been.

While we were in the thick of dealing with the immediate aftermath of the storm, my son was playing with his little recycling truck toy. When he moved the loader, the toy broke out in song: "Reduce, reuse, recycle! Let’s keep our planet clean!" While my wife and I were relieved that Otto wasn’t aware of the disaster we were in as he played with his toy in the dark, powerless, waterless house, the message the toy delivered was haunting. It furthered our anxiety, as it was a stark reminder that events like this 1000-year flood are only becoming more frequent as we move deeper into climate change. Humanity’s failures of the past had never been more evident.

That night, after Otto was asleep, we heard gunshots in the distance. Ashton and I made eye contact. “Fireworks,” I said, but we both knew I was lying.

Over the next few days, our neighborhood started to come together. Neighbors checked on the elderly and shared whatever supplies they had. A couple down the street set up a dry-erase board listing what people had and what they needed. Ashton and I realized we could boil water the water that had filled my canoe next door in our rental property, which had a natural gas stove. It brought a little more comfort. Slowly, we began to organize and help each other, finding ways to obtain our essentials.

Local businesses also stepped up. Breweries handed out water, restaurants gave away food before it spoiled, and bars turned into makeshift aid stations. It was incredible to see how our community began to take care of itself. The “we” had become the “they,” and we were finding ways to get through the worst of it.

A few days later, I joined a friend to deliver supplies to some of the mountain communities that had been completely cut off. His friend, from the Eastern Shore of Maryland, had taken time off work and driven all the way down here with trucks full of supplies to help. He had crowdfunded $9,000 worth of disaster relief supplies, and we loaded up three trucks and trailers to deliver them to the rural West Yancey County Fire Department, just outside Burnsville.

As we approached the fire station, it was immediately clear that we had come to the right place. The station had been transformed into a full-blown emergency operations hub. The parking lot was packed with vehicles—trucks, SUVs, trailers, and emergency vehicles from all over, including some from as far away as New Jersey. There was an undeniable sense of urgency, but it wasn’t chaotic. Emergency personnel and volunteers moved with purpose, unloading supplies and coordinating relief efforts. Large tents had been set up around the firehouse, their tables stacked high with donated goods—cases of bottled water, non-perishable food, blankets, and medical supplies. Nearby, portable generators hummed, keeping essential equipment running.

Inside the firehouse, nurses and paramedics had set up a temporary clinic. A line of people waited to be triaged—some injured from the storm, others simply seeking refuge after being trapped in their homes for days. Entire mountain communities had been cut off, and this firehouse had become one of the only lifelines to the outside world.

Emergency responders from multiple states were working together, distributing supplies and coordinating search and rescue operations. Overhead, helicopters ferried supplies and dropped aid to those still stranded in the most remote areas. The tension in the air was palpable, but so was the determination to keep pushing forward.

We delivered our trucks full of supplies—the $9,000 worth of goods my friend’s buddy had crowdfunded back on the Eastern Shore. There was a sense of relief knowing we were adding to the effort, but the gravity of the situation hit me hard—this was just the beginning for these communities. They had been isolated for days, and while relief was finally reaching them, the road to recovery would be long.

The scene felt surreal. On one hand, it was a small, familiar mountain fire station. But the scale of the operation made it feel like a major disaster relief center. The storm had hit Yancey County hard, but the way people had come together to respond was nothing short of extraordinary.

As of now, the official response has ramped up—FEMA and other agencies are on the ground, and they’re doing an incredible job. The road to recovery will be long. Water is still out with no prediction of when it will be operational again, and there’s an enormous amount of debris and toxic mud to clean up. There’s so much work left to do, but we’re resilient. The love and strength in this community is greater than the storm’s devastation.

While we are devastated by the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, we feel incredibly fortunate to be safe and to be part of such a resilient and supportive community. Our hearts break for the mountain communities that lost everything. The physical landscape of Western North Carolina has been forever changed, and life here will never be the same. Yet, the spirit of the people remains unshaken, and together, we will restore and rebuild our communities—one step, one stick at a time.