It Rained

Then the wind blew

It started raining on Thursday. Fairly hard. Constant. Yes, there was a storm coming but hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains. At least they didn’t in the past. Heavy rain and some wind. Localized flooding in low areas. Massive destruction? Heavens no. Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains. At least they didn’t in the past. But it kept raining. The wind kept blowing.

Friday morning early, very early the power went out. Expected. Surely French Broad Electric would have it restored in a few hours. A day or so at the most. It was the Blue Ridge Mountains. No way a hurricane would be that bad. Helene would diminish. Peter out. Move through fast and life would go on. Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains.

The phone kept beeping. Flash flood warnings went to DO NOT TRAVEL unless you are evacuating. Leave low lying areas. DANGER. We were high enough. Not meant for us. Poor people in the low-lying areas might get some water. Minor damage. This would blow over soon. Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains.

The rain. Relentless. Wind. Incessant. I’ve spent my entire life in hurricane zones. As a child I saw Camille come through. It was bad. Frederick. In South Carolina there was storm after storm. Hugo. Thirty years in Florida. Countless storms.

I am familiar with hurricanes. They are like water moccasins, alligators, mosquitoes, tornados and every other danger in the south. You learn about them. Don’t panic. Get out of the way. And move on.

Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains. Say it long enough, loud enough and it’s true.

Then one did. Thursday, September 26, 2024, it rained. And rained. The next day a hurricane hit the North Carolina mountains. High knobs of the Blue Ridge grabbed the wind and rain and held them to its breast. Hour after hour the tempest battered. And hit. And beat.

No power, no communications, little water, some food but what there was could easily spoil. No news. The air quieted.

Early afternoon on September 27 we ventured out of the cabin. It was still raining but not so hard. Fog settled in. Giant ancient oaks, poplar and every other alpine species thrown willy-nilly across the mountains. A neighbor came down the road on a back-hoe with a chainsaw. “Y’all ok?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Pulled my rain hood tight. “There’s a huge oak down that missed my truck but it’s blocked in.”

He busied himself opening up the road. We walked to the other neighbor’s houses.

Knocked on doors. One by one everyone came out. The back-hoe cleared a path.

“I’ll get you all a way out, but I’ve got to get others some help.” He did just that.

The conservations began. Communication was the first concern. By late afternoon we were able to get to the Switzerland Inn. There was an overlook offered intermittent service. We all called family and friends. Who was alive? Who was hurt?

“Hurricane Helene?” They asked. “Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains.”

In unison we replied. “They do.”

Signal Tree. Little Switzerland, North Carolina. September 27, 2024.

Indigenous peoples had a smart way of marking trails. They tied hardwood saplings down with a strap of rawhide. As the years went on the tree would grow bent in a particular direction. These trees marked trails, water sources and all sorts of places. They are all through the mountains. Called Signal Trees.

This particular specimen was split by the storm. It’s final signal prophetic. It points toward an uncertain future. When hurricanes hit the North Carolina mountains anything is possible.

The mountain woods are full of artists. For good reason. It’s idyllic, or at least it was. Cool mountain air. Rich trails appointed with rocks and roots. Delicate wildflowers and exotic mushrooms as big as dishpans. Mosses cover everything. Shades vary from deep forest green to emerald to almost fluorescent. Every color. The leaves hold green until that day in October when one-by-one they start to turn. Yellow-green first then gold to orange. Bright red. Rich mahogany. Browns and tans before they are let to drift to the rocks and trails.

Western North Carolina is the dream of poets and painters. Every texture. Every good smell the earth produces. Wild mountain mints. Spicy evergreens. Musky composting leaves. The mountains hold a scent of their own.

Oh, the vistas. Blues hover in the air of the Ridge. Indigo lurks in the shadows. Cerulean reserved for the garments of the gods drapes high on the saddles and slopes. Ultramarine milled from the finest Lapis fills in the balance. Mottled grays explain the rocks. Some are dark. Some almost white. Streaks of minerals and gems puncture the leaf cover. Mica flecks dance in sunbeams.

The artists come in droves. They dip brushes in clear mountain streams. Pick the leaves off the trees and match the colors. They learn to live and love. Its a safe place. Inspiring. Ancient and secure. Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains.

The potters come. They dig clay and make vessels. Color the pots and plates to match the wind or the water or the rocks or the leaves. Magic breeds magic. Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains

.The iron smiths come. Their furnaces fired with scented charcoal from the moist woods. Pings of hammers-on-anvils echo through the rocks and trees. They make knives, hatchets and hoes. Craft tools to let the ancient past pass to the future. Forge fires smoke curls and mates with the fog of clouds.

Helene said, “Not now.” She meant it. “Put your pen away, hide your brush.” She blew. “Snuff your kiln and your forge.” She spit. “I’ll pour buckets of water on your oeuvre. I’ll blow your canvas from your easel and fling your pages to the wind.”

When backed into a corner hurricanes go where they want. They release energy from the oceans. They balance the ocean temperatures. A safety valve.

It’s pure logic. The ocean temperatures are higher than ever. The energy goes somewhere.

So many find blame. If their search is unsuccessful they invent. “Why weren’t they prepared?” Smug pursed lips ask. “Why didn’t they evacuate?”

The reply. “Hurricanes don’t hit the North Carolina mountains.”

Helene did.

The mountain people need money more than anything. Send what you can to whomever you can. There is no “they” except for you.