My neighbors in North Carolina are saving themselves

We knew something had gone terribly wrong when the culverts washed up in our backyard like an apocalyptic art installation, splattered with loose rock and black concrete. The circular metal pipes were a crucial piece of subsea infrastructure that once carried water beneath our street and provided the main connection to the city for our small rural community just outside of Boone, North Carolina. When they foundered under flooding caused by Hurricane Helene, the narrow strip of concrete above them had no chance. The road, weighed down by a fallen tree, collapsed into the river, leaving a 30-foot abyss near our house.

I have lived through many disasters: the 1994 Northridge earthquake in Los Angeles, many hurricanes in South Florida, the first months of COVID-19 in New York City. In these places at this time, the first sound you heard when you poked your head outside was the sirens, the eerily calming sound of first responders coming to save one or a neighbor in distress – the modern equivalent of the Hooves of the cavalry just arriving in time to save the day. But out here, after Helene, separated from the government's life-saving infrastructure by impassable roads, mud-covered mountains and overflowing rivers, there was nothing but silence.

With some roads blocked by fallen trees and others completely destroyed, emergency vehicles struggled to reach rural areas like ours hit by the storm. As soon as the rain and wind subsided Friday afternoon, people in our community began to leave their homes. The recovery effort had to be done on your own, at least for now.

Marina Koren: America's hurricane luck is running out.

A neighbor, a roofer named Russell Taylor, who had been weathering the storm alone while his wife was on duty with our volunteer fire department, started setting his chainsaw on fire and cutting down the trees blocking his driveway and the street. Before long, he and others cleared a path for cars to pass.

Further down the road, a spring at the top of the mountain had burst, sending an avalanche of rocks, water, and agricultural supplies toward the houses below. A truck had crashed into a garage, a trailer had moved several meters and the street was flooded.

Dylan Shortt and J. Willson, two Appalachian State University students who had recently moved from downtown Boone and were renting an apartment at the bottom of the hill, watched the disaster unfold outside their window.

“Our street became a river,” Willson told me. “You can’t see an inch of gravel.”

This river brought with it debris that made the road to the house impassable. A neighbor came with a bulldozer, cleared away the debris and went on to repair another driveway.

As neighbors watched each other rebuild their streets and clear debris, the urge to help became contagious. Without cars, our street became a parade of neighborhood people carrying whatever they could—chainsaws, shovels, groceries, cases of beer and water—as they searched for people in need. Due to the power outage, our well pumps were unable to provide running water. Taylor, who had a generator, donated jugs of water from his bathtub.

Before the storm hit, my wife had prepared two huge pots of chili to serve at our book club. Because the power went out and the refrigerators lost power, the food could no longer last long. So we packed it, along with a side order of chocolate chip cookies, into family-sized serving bags and knocked on doors. While we were away, someone came to our property and repaired the water damage to our gravel driveway. (We later learned that it was Chris Townsend, a farmer who lives about a mile away, who simply did it while driving by in his SUV. He didn't say a word about it at the time and hasn't done it since.)

Soon cars began arriving looking for a way out of the mountain. We learned that Google Maps was directing people down our street as an escape route. With no cell service or internet on site, no one could alert the app that this trail ended with a gap in the road the size of a semi-truck, which could allow unwitting cars to plunge into the river. A Ford F-150 sped down the street, slammed on the brakes and stopped before crashing over the ledge.

Since there was no indication that our local transportation department would erect a barricade, we built one ourselves. We piled up lawn chairs, a scattering of orange traffic cones, tree branches, and even a blue playground slide that had washed up on the edge in the storm to warn drivers. John Barry, who plays piano in the local church band, found a fallen street sign and balanced it with sticks on the other side of the precipice. His words send a truly unobtrusive warning to oncoming traffic: LOOSE GRAVEL.

“The Chasm,” as it was called, is now a gathering place for the community. In a place cut off from the world, all information is transmitted, passed down (and perhaps sometimes exaggerated or misinterpreted) orally. It has become the place where families gathered to check on each other. Shout across the divide and see if anyone needed anything. One side of the hole opens into a road that leads into town. In the first few days after the storm, the others remained isolated.

As the water receded beneath them, the people walked to the bottom of the hole and pulled themselves up to the other side. The next day, steps were built into the mud to make it easier to cross back and forth. A rope handrail was then tied between the trees. People came with food: pots full of hot soup, bags full of sweets and jugs of fresh water passed back and forth across the land bridge. Anxious people who couldn't reach their families by phone for days parked their cars on the sidelines, stumbled over and were taken to their loved ones in unfamiliar cars and SUVs.

Marina Koren: North Carolina was prepared for disaster

This mountainous region of far western North Carolina was long ago known as one of America's “Lost Provinces,” a place notoriously inaccessible due to its poor roads and lack of access to the outside world beyond the southern Appalachian valley network. The early Scots-Irish settlers who made a home in this harsh terrain became known for their extreme self-sufficiency and distinctive culture. Modern infrastructure and transportation have made these areas more accessible in recent decades—Boone is home to Appalachian State University (where I teach) and has become a popular tourist destination—but Helene's attack is a stark reminder that ancient vulnerabilities remain.

We are still learning the catastrophic impact the storm had on communities like ours in the Appalachian South. Homes are destroyed, lives are lost and infrastructure is destroyed. Reconstruction requires extraordinary resources and support, both public and private. We do not know how long it will take for emergency responders to reach our community, repair the power and repair the damage. But in the meantime, people aren't waiting.

“The rain is over,” explained Sarah Sandreuter, a 23-year-old who lives on our side of the abyss. “It’s time to get to work.”