A construction site showing a partially built bridge over a river, with dirt and construction cones nearby, and a hillside with houses and trees in the background under a clear blue sky.

10.21.2024

What happened in Bat Cave?

Rain. So much rain.

On September 25, 2024, the rain started to fall, and it didn’t stop until nearly all of Western North Carolina was underwater. The area impacted by Hurricane Helene is about the size of Maine, and has impacted more than a million homes. I can’t possibly see them all, so I’m showing you a small section of the area where I live, the area that is accessible on foot right now, about a mile of Highway 64/74 through Bat Cave, NC.

In roughly 60 hours, starting on Wednesday the 25th, we received 24 inches of rain at my house. We watched our small creek rise 12+ feet out of its banks, washing away our bridge, flooding our basement, covering our belongings in mud. Our mountain collapsed into mudslides, snapping power poles like dry spaghetti, whisking 70 year old weeping willows away as if they didn’t have roots at all. The water everywhere then combined with the water coming down from Hendersonville, from Black Mountain, from Fairview and Gerton, from over the mountains and from the natural springs, and funneled directly into Bat Cave, washing everything down the corridor, through Chimney Rock, and into Lake Lure. I read that the amount of rain that fell was enough to cover the entire state of NC with 3 feet of water. People I spoke to yesterday described it as a river of cement, moving both so fast and so slowly. We were flooded here before Helene even arrived - we were in trouble long before the heavy rain began on the morning of the 27th. And then, between midnight and 10am, 12+ inches of rain pummeled our already drowning landscape.

Yesterday, October 20, 2024, I finally turned right off our road, onto 64E towards Chimney Rock, for the first time since September 26. This path to down the mountain is second nature to me, we drive this route several times a day to get the girls to and from school. My clients are in Lake Lure, the bulk of my weddings are there, our friends are there. Driving yesterday was beyond disorienting. Suddenly there are beautiful long range mountain views, only made possible by the lack of earth and trees and homes that have lived on that land for as long as anyone knows. There are entire houses gone - and some picked up and placed back in another spot facing an entirely different direction. Driving slowly, trying to digest it, trying to not cry, trying to understand it all. The landmarks are gone, the familiarity erased. And then you come on a spot where there is no road at all and you realize you’re driving through what used to be someone’s yard, because the road is now in the riverbed. I know that on each trip up and down, I’ll see more and more layers of sadness, like a rotten onion peeled back and left to wither in the sun.

In many places, there is no road anymore. The landscape has been carved out at the river’s will, like a scoop through the ice cream tub on a summer day. The Rocky Broad River took what she wanted, consuming the land on either side of her banks, swallowing lives and lifelong dreams, leaving nothing but trash and boulders behind. There aren’t words in my vocabulary to accurately describe what now exists within Bat Cave. Just 10 miles from here, in downtown Hendersonville, it looks like nothing happened at all. People are driving around, going to lunch, shopping, living normal lives. But out here, time has stopped. There is endless work to do out here. Hands are needed, building supplies are needed. Donations are overflowing. Our residents crave safety, wishing for roadblocks, wishing for the ability to worry just a little less about looting and theft.

We have not had rain since Helene, and there’s no rain in the forecast. This is, like so many other things, a blessing and a curse. No rain means no additional damage, no water inside homes with newly formed skylights courtesy of trees. It also means that the air is thick with dirt and dust, and so many of us are experiencing dry coughs, lingering sore throats, hoarse voices. There never seems to be enough water to quench the thirst that we feel. Tired is not the word, fatigue fits a bit better.

This is a puzzle with no edge pieces, a project so large and insurmountable that nobody knows where to begin. And the folks in Bat Cave still, 24 days later, have no power, most have no running water, and have no access by car to where their homes once stood - drive to a point, walk the rest of the way. A man named Curtis says he can’t leave his house. He fears if he does, he might come back to find it’s been bulldozed.

There are no bodies. There is no smell. On this Sunday, there was barely any noise. There is sadness everywhere you look.

But among the sadness is sunshine, both from the sky and from the resilience of the people who are still standing. There are new friends to be made, neighbors to be met. There are hugs to be found from every person you pass, and tears to be shared between you. Hope comes in on the back of the fresh fall breeze.

Some people say we’re optimists, I say we’re just stubborn - no storm is strong enough to keep us down.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I sincerely hope that’s true, because the words escape me.