First and foremost, we are safe. Our rig sits about a third of the way up a mountain, so flooding did not reach us. Tropical Storm Helene came through two days ago. Within fifty miles, whole areas are devastated. We watched posts roll in of bridges washed out and heard from friends about homes being carried away. Most routes to town are cut. A few bridges are gone. One that still stands is closed for inspection.
esterday we drove out to look for gas for the generator and to refill our extra propane tanks for the refrigerator. With the power down, no luck on either. Along the way we saw what the river did. Places where we knew houses stood were bare ground. A riverside campground had campers pulled out along the road, likely evacuated. Some rigs still inside were on their sides or tilted at angles that made our stomachs drop. Two of the bridges we use are simply gone. One we cross to visit friends now ends in water. The road just stops. It is hard to explain how strange that looks.
From what we can piece together, a dam in North Carolina failed, our river overflowed, and two other dams came close to failing. They spilled over, which was still more water than the rivers could hold. Flooded towns followed. One hospital rose faster than the evacuation could manage. People ended up on the roof, winds too strong for boats or helicopters at first, then finally a window to airlift them. I keep thinking about those people waiting in the rain, watching the water climb.
Even with all that loss, kindness has been constant. I belong to several RV groups, and before the storm I saw post after post from parks and private landowners offering safe spots to anyone who needed to evacuate. Local folks posted offers of spare bedrooms and even a couple of cots in the living room. Yesterday a friend told us about a man in line at the store who had just had shoulder surgery. Our friend offered to carry his case of water. When our friend did not have enough cash for his own items, that same man paid the difference. This is how things should be. Help offered without a spreadsheet. Grace passed hand to hand.
Not everyone helps. We have seen that too. Still, the good we have witnessed matters. It steadies the heart. It reminds me that community is not a theory. It is a person who carries your water and a stranger who says, park here, you are safe.
Today things are still a mess. We do not know what will open next or how soon. My dad used to tell me that worrying about what I cannot change only hurts me. So we are choosing calm where we can. We have food. We can cook. Vixen has a fresh bag of kibble. The power was out and came back in about eighteen hours, which felt like a small miracle given everything around us. Our phone and internet provider is still down, so getting messages out is hit or miss. Asheville is over the mountains and, last we heard, only accessible by air. Closer to us, the hope is that a couple of bridges will reopen soon so people can reach town again.
For now, we are here. We check on neighbors. We share what we can. We thank the crews who work without rest. We breathe and watch the clouds break and come together again. There will be time to rebuild. There will be time to tell these stories in fuller detail. Today I only want to say that we are safe, that we are grateful, and that the quiet, ordinary kindness of people is the strongest thing I have seen all week.