Helene—a name with origins in Greek and French culture, meaning “shining light”—unleashed Mother Nature’s fury on Western North Carolina.
I’ve always tried to find a deeper purpose in life’s events, no matter how ill-conceived or poorly timed they seem. Ultimately, I lean toward trusting that there’s a grander plan I don’t need to understand. It’s during the hardest times that I find it easiest to focus on work—a distraction that keeps my mind from wandering into darker places.
The Storm
When the storm hit, I was at home with my wife and daughter in the East Asheville Riceville/Bull Creek community. We live on Bull Creek and anxiously watched as it rose, covering the yard. A tree fell on the garage, knocking it off its foundation amid a foot of water that surrounded it. Soon, water began to fill the basement.
As the storm subsided, we surveyed the damage, unaware of the devastation beyond our property. Upset and scared, we ventured down the road, only to quickly learn that the bridge to our holler was gone. On our way back, a neighbor was fiddling with his generator, and another zipped by on an ATV, asking for help for an older man trapped on the ridgeline with a head injury. The reality of the storm’s impact began to sink in. Later that day, we learned that the man with the generator accidentally burned his house down, and the man on the ridge was rescued by helicopter.
The next day, neighbors who had hiked out relayed the full gravity of the storm to us. We realized we were in for the long haul. After a day spent ripping out carpet and walls in our flooded basement and relying heavily on camping supplies, we settled into a new, makeshift normal. It wasn’t normal at all, but it was what we had—AA batteries powering headlamps, five-gallon buckets of water for basic needs, and determination to keep going.
Recovery Begins
A day or so later, we made it out of the valley and finally reached our shop, which sits next to Gashes Creek. The floodwaters had ravaged it in ways we’d never seen before. Thankfully, most of the equipment was salvageable thanks to Billy Barbour, who risked his life to drive trucks and trailers out of waist-deep water.
Now it was time to work. Mud, debris, tools, and equipment—all of it needed cleaning and sorting. Little by little, we began to recover.
Our shop is next door to Beloved Asheville, a group we’ve partnered with in the past. Saying we love having a relationship with them is an understatement. The support they’ve brought to the community has been overwhelming. Anytime we needed something—food, water, sanitation supplies, a hug, a tissue to dry our eyes, or simply a conversation—someone was there. Vendors set up to cook hot meals, and a man named Lee became our hero for over a week. He drove from Eastern North Carolina, an area often ravaged by hurricanes, to lend a hand to his western brothers. He reminded us that we’re all kin to one another and showed how vital it is to remember that.
An Army of Support
As we cleaned up, colleagues from across the state and country called and showed up to lend a hand. To say we were blessed to have some of the industry’s most talented arborists working with us is no exaggeration. These teams helped us tackle an unprecedented number of storm-related calls to restore a sense of normalcy to the community.
The intensity of the work was staggering. Each day brought jobs as difficult as what we might face in a typical two- to three-month period, but we were doing two to three jobs a day, six or more days a week. Fatigue settled in, but reinforcements became a saving grace, keeping us moving forward.
As the sound of helicopters delivering supplies faded to “normal” business hours and light rains turned dust to mud, the new normal began to take shape. Stores reopened, and needs were easier to meet in central areas of town. Yet, reminders of the storm remain—power lines down by roadsides, trees still precariously hanging. Every corner turned reveals another disaster to address.
Reflection
Somewhere in this dust storm, a light began to shine through—literally and figuratively. Most mornings, I drive past Warren Wilson College and the Swannanoa River on my way to work. It’s one of the most beautiful valleys I’ve ever seen and holds deep meaning for me. It’s where I proposed to my wife and where we married. It’s adjacent to our home.
The first weeks after the storm were hard. The sights and smells were overwhelming, constant reminders of the devastation. Then, one morning, the fog clung tightly to the river like ghosts. Chills ran through my body. As the sun broke through the clouds, it was a beautiful, bittersweet moment that left me in tears.
I lost my father almost five months ago. Some days still feel like Day 2. I don’t know why things happen when they do, but I’ve come to accept that life can’t be anything other than what it is. I feel his presence every day, watching over me and my family. While I grieve his loss, I know it pales compared to what many others have suffered recently. Everyone here has lost something. Letting go seems to be another lesson we’re all learning.
A Shining Light
The waters came fast. Mother Nature is impartial, sparing no one. I pray for peace for the countless families who are suffering. I pray for the pain to subside and for strength and resilience to emerge. A friend once told me that loss can create space for something greater to grow. I believe Helene has torn apart much of the WNC community but, in doing so, has revealed a resilience and light that will shine forward.
I’ve never been prouder to call these mountains my home. For 18 years, Appalachia has been where my heart sings. Every time I drive back up I-40 and see the mountains, I feel them calling me home. I know there’s a reason I’m here, part of this recovery and rebuilding effort. Together, we’ll help the light of community shine near and far, wherever it’s needed.
Nich Maidment