A Love Letter to a Drowned Land
In the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, a young writer chronicles the devastation of her beloved mountain community—and the resilience of her people.
Saturday, September 28, 2024
The past three days have horrified me, devastated me, stupefied me.
My home is the small community of Hot Springs in Madison County, North Carolina. I am a graduate student studying English education at Appalachian State University in Boone. I chose App State to do this work because I didn’t want to leave these mountains.
Immediately after my class in Boone on Wednesday, I was caught in my car during a tornado warning. I was only five miles into my two-hour commute toward home in Hot Springs before I encountered flooding and landslides. I spent the next two days in a friend’s apartment in Boone, then at the Red Cross center on App State’s campus, then in Winston-Salem with my great-aunt and uncle. I’m writing this from the Piedmont, now safe, with cell service and with the knowledge that my immediate family living is safe, at least for now. But I am still waiting to hear from countless others.
Everyone I love lives in these mountains. When I started trying to find someplace to go when Hurricane Helene began flooding us, I quickly realized that every place that would welcome me with open arms was in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee. My entire family, apart from some great-aunts and great-uncles, lives here.
Western North Carolina is where I have always felt safe. When I travelled out West and saw the flat horizon, absent the blue mountains I knew, I worried for fear that some storm or tornado would rush through without my mountainous protectors to stop it. When I am hurting, anxious, feeling lost, I always flee to my home in the Blue Ridge. She always takes me in, bandages my heart, soothes my every worry.
I work as a whitewater raft guide on the French Broad River. The French Broad is massive. Wide and powerful, the river flows through the middle of western North Carolina. Every day this summer, I took groups of tourists down Class II and III rapids in Marshall, the Madison County seat. Every day, I told them about the Great Flood of 1916, in which the town of Marshall was swept away, in which dams broke and the railroad was twisted off its tracks and pushed into the river like the helix of a DNA strand. When sixty people died.
Today, I saw new pictures of Marshall, covered by the French Broad. It still sits below several feet of water, the river still swollen far past capacity and lapping up at the steps of the post office. The river crested at twenty-nine feet, five feet higher than the level reached during that Great Flood 108 years ago.
We do not have a town, but we have our people. Buildings are destroyed and will not be rebuilt because insurance companies now consider the town a flood plain.
At least five buildings have completely disappeared from Marshall. In addition to studying writing and working as a river guide, I play the fiddle and sing. The old Marshall railroad depot, which had been converted into a community stage and was the first place I ever sang for a crowd, is gone except for the remnant of one wall.
Hot Springs is currently cut off from the rest of North Carolina. The 500 people who live there are currently all accounted for, owing to the incredible community organizing which took place to ensure everyone’s safety. We do not have a town, but we have our people. Buildings are destroyed and will not be rebuilt because insurance companies now consider the town a flood plain.
This morning I got a phone call from my dad. I had known since yesterday that my immediate family had survived the initial flooding. My uncle was aiding in rescue efforts in Buncombe County and had managed to reach my grandparents’ house, where he found all of our family members who were in North Carolina. My uncle found cell service somewhere in Asheville around 2 a.m. and called my aunt, who was at their home in Erwin, Tennessee. Interstate 26 between Erwin and Asheville had washed away in the flooding, leaving my aunt unable to see anyone in her family. My aunt communicated to me that my family was safe. Today, when my dad called, he said power had been restored to our home and that our family was well, only lacking in resources.
Many are not so lucky. Hurricane Helene has literally has washed away towns in western North Carolina. Hundreds have died, and thousands have not been confirmed to be safe. Cell service and power for the region was almost entirely down but is slowly been coming back online today. However, many people in the hardest hit areas are still without cell service, leaving them unable to contact emergency services, much less their friends and families. Resources are running thin, and access to resources is even more difficult. People are desperate, and things are going to get worse.
Know this: if there is a group that can make it through a disaster that’s being called “biblical” and “catastrophic,” it is the people of southern Appalachia.
I work on the French Broad River. It is my home, the place where I have learned so much strength and belonging. To see my river sweep away my town, hurt and take away the people I know, ravage the people I love is something I was never prepared for. My fellow river guides are aiding in swift-water safety operations through my county and other counties. When water level predictions were issued, I was painfully aware of their meaning. I remembered all I had been told about the Great Flood of 1916. I remembered, and I shook with fear. I do not think, no matter what happens, that I will ever be a raft guide again. For the first time in my life, I am terrified to go home, terrified of what awaits me.
The longer I stayed in Boone, the more I realized that my home would never be the same, and I would never know her the same. I didn’t sleep for four nights. I told myself over and over my family was safe, that water levels would go down, that help was on the way. Every road between my location and my home has washed away or is covered by a landslide. We will never be the same. None of us will ever be the same.
But let me tell you this: there is no group of people stronger, more capable, more determined, and more loving than the folks who make up my home. I have full and complete confidence in that. I can look at the way my friends in Hot Springs have kept each other alive in a situation that was nearly impossible. I can look at the rescue efforts being waged nonstop in communities that are completely isolated. I can look the four texts that popped the minute cell service was restored to Marshall, all from people in my hometown, asking if I was all right, even though they were the ones who had almost died. I can tell you there are hundreds of casseroles at the fire department, cooked by folks who have power for their neighbors who do not. I can tell you that I saw pictures of people kayaking down streets to check on their neighbors. We have suffered great loss and will suffer great grief, but I can tell you I have already seen great miracles. I can tell you I have seen the hearts of my people, and they are good. They are strong. They are resilient.
Know this: if there is a group that can make it through a disaster that’s being called “biblical” and “catastrophic,” it is the people of southern Appalachia. But they’ll need help. They’ll need folks who have resources to give, skills to give, equipment to give. They’ll need boots on the ground—now and for many weeks to come. When we rebuild (because we will), we will need you to remember why you love this place and come visit us again. But until then, we will need prayer, and we will need this story to be told. If you can give nothing else, you can give us those gifts. We refuse to be forgotten.
I have often said my entire life has been a love letter to my home. So here I am writing another love letter to the place that has always held me, to the people who have always loved me, to the mountains that have always given me strength. I will love you again. I will love you always.
Options for Donating to Local Relief Efforts
- Beacon of Hope Marshall is collecting and distributing food to those who need it.
- Specific GoFundMe campaigns for the towns of Marshall and Hot Springs, for the city of Boone, plus Watauga and Ashe counties, and for food delivery to those in need across western North Carolina.
- The Asheville Buncombe County Christian Ministry, which addresses poverty, hunger, homelessness, and access to healthcare year-round, has established a Hurricane Helene Relief Fund.
- For broader outreach, consider BeLoved Asheville and the American Red Cross’s Hurricane Helene fund.
About the author
Grace Buckner is a writer from a small community in the mountains of North Carolina. She is currently a graduate student at Appalachian State University. Her work has previously appeared in Reckon Review and The Peel Review.
heartrendingly, beautifully done.
thank you, Grace.