The Creek Did Rise

The Day Before

I said, "See You Tomorrow."

She said, "God willing, and the creek don't rise."

I smiled and tapped the red button on the phone, reflecting, 'How many times had Sherry and I exchanged this archaic mountain idiom. And how many times has it come true?'

The Day Of

I was awoken at five AM by Mr. Spec, a Queensland Heeler who was whining and shaking, his standard response to his hearing thunder no matter how distant. I listened to the rain on the dome tent for a minute. It sounded heavy, and the creek was thunderous. I had to urinate, so I grabbed the flashlight and climbed out of bed. My mini horse, Ginger, was standing outside and nickered in response when I opened the tent zipper. The creek embankment water level was as high as it had ever been during previous downpours. My mule, Julie, stood under her tree pole-framed tarp shelter.

It had only been a few minutes since Mr. Spec alerted me when I noticed the rain volume had significantly increased. It would be about a half hour until sunlight, so I wanted to evaluate the creek situation and critters. I opened the umbrella and stepped outside. Immediately, I noticed a half-full five-gallon bucket, about eight inches of rain so far. I then recalled that NOAA had predicted Hurricane Helene would head inland. After all, I was far inland from the East Coast, where the previous hurricanes traveled north up the Atlantic seaboard.

I reside in the Western North Carolina Appalachian Mountains twenty miles North of Asheville beside a creek that snakes down from the Blue Ridge Parkway five miles and drops about two thousand feet through a National Forest. The creek receives all the rainfall from its vast mountain forest surface area. Most precipitation soaks into the topsoil during a light rain. After the ground becomes saturated, precipitation flows along the surface to tiny gulleys or troughs to merge into small creeks. Like a tree, these beginning twigs form larger creek branches to converge in the lowest valley creek. Multi-mountain valley creeks finally dump into the French Broad River that runs through Asheville, N.C. It would be three days before I heard of Asheville's devastation and death toll. I need to deal with the rapidly evolving disasters in my local high mountain holler.

Then I heard the screeching of the flash flood warning on the phone. Nothing new. I had listened to the warnings many times, which had never been an issue. I looked at the creek again; it had risen on the side, and six-foot waves obliterated the massive boulders within. I had never observed the creek floods reach that level. The feeder creek across from me, typically two feet wide, was now twenty feet wide and filled with numerous roaring waves made tall as they hit the boulders below. The edge water level had risen to about four feet below the flat where my tent sat. I now felt the earth I stood on trembling, vibrating with the roaring waves.

Suddenly, a West gust of wind struck me, and to the left of me, I heard a tree crack. In horror, I watched it fall on Julie's tarp shelter. She scooted from under the eight-inch tree trunk and bolted to the center of our camp. The trunk splintered eight feet up and lay across Julie's ten-foot-tall cyclone fence paddock. The treetop landed on the opposite side, crushing eight feet of fence. Julie stood uninjured in the middle of her paddock.

As I felt the ground shaking, I returned my attention to its source, the thunderous creek. I would later describe what, at the time, I observed with awe as an angry creek overflowing with muddy, reddish brown ten-foot waves from the soil and clay that had been washed in from upstream. I would later find the massive landslides that contributed to the creek's sudden earth volume. The creek had risen two feet from the top edge of its bank and ten feet the flat to my dome tent, my home.

It was still dark, although I could see silhouetted, fractured, full-size trees with intact root systems flying past me at an astounding speed twenty feet away. Standing by and watching the destructive process was intimidating, to say the least. I observed forty-foot trees sweep by, hit a boulder, rocket skyward forty-five degrees far over my head, and then splash down into the tumultuous raging current. One after another, massive amounts of brush and huge branches tumbled by.

In the early morning light, I found myself fearful as I, within a few minutes, went from a peaceful slumber to suddenly being thrown into a life-threatening situation out of my control. Fear is uncommon in my nature because I am trained to deal with most situations. I was in an entirely new situation.

Suddenly, another westerly gust surrounded me. Trees bent and shook. Many four-to-six-inch saplings would remain so. I heard trees cracking from every direction, and then to my right came a loud crack, snap, and crash, the familiar sound of a tree falling. It landed on the duck house.

The reader may wonder, 'Why didn't you run, get out of there?'

My answer is this: All you read thus far happened within minutes. How many? I do not know. I wasn't counting. Second, I was surrounded by forest along the creek up or downstream, with tree danger in any direction. I had three critters to care for.

Thus, I turned my fear and intimidation into emergency mode after the second gust. I monitored the creek level. The undulating edge I had picked earlier had the same average pulsing water level.

I decided to move my valuables to higher ground should the creek rise further. I moved pallets ten feet above my tent's base level, then removed Julie's tarp from its tree-entangled mess to cover them from rain damage. After half an hour of preparation, I had a place to move my belongings. It was much lighter outside now, and the water level was stable with minimal rain, although the creeks raged on. There was zero wind.

I thought, 'How nice,' although I wondered, 'Am I in Helene's eye? If so, instead of the gradual onset of a hurricane's outer edge, I will be hit with sudden hurricane-force winds as Helene's eye leaves me."

I took a break and waited. Julie and Ginger were calm, and the ducks were having a field day in numerous new hillside runoffs and puddles—all but one. I cut and pulled away boards and tree debris from the duck house and found Lu-Lu trapped between two boards. I freed her to join her frolicking flock, their carefree, in-the-moment joy the epitome of "ignorance is bliss."

After an hour, the land and sky remained relatively calm. The creek raged on.

Recall this story's beginning? "I'll see you tomorrow, God willing, and the creek don't rise."

Well, the creek did rise. I was seriously concerned if the "God willing" half of our last words were in effect with Sherry's family. A cell tower image was on my phone page, meaning no cell service.

Downstream Devastation

I quickly threw together an overnight bag and set a bale of hay out for the equine. Mr. Spec and I headed towards the mountain trails to discover how Sherri's family weathered the hurricane. I needed to walk down a gravel road for a mile to exit my hermit holler, then take to mountain trails. The gravel road out was nearly nonexistent. Much of it was washed out by a rerouted creek. At one point, the creek turned east one hundred yards and ran through a family's yard, then around the back of their house. No bridges were accessible. They were slammed by trees stacked up to 12 feet high, forcing the raging creek to bypass them, forming new creek routes. I clambered over and through or around the log dams, including Volkswagen Beatle-sized boulders, continuing my way North.

Mr. Spec and I hiked past a few wandering folks, looking stunned with mouths agape, staring in disbelief at the roadside attractions, including crushed autos mixed in with the log jams and small houses that had washed off their foundations and now sat intact or in scattered pieces hundreds of yards downstream. There were houses with doors, windows, and side walls missing and their interiors absent, washed downstream. No telephone pole stood erect, and the road was strewn with cables, wires, and transformers.

The farther I journeyed downstream, the greater the damage due to the larger volume of water from the feeder streams and the debris from higher elevations knocking out whatever was in their path, finally settling into one of the numerous growing debris piles. Imagine a large creek with banks of logs, trees, autos, roofs, washing machines, parts of homes, trailers, barns, and anything that once stood in or around those structures. This debris formed the new creek banks.

A group of National Guardsmen marching down from the Blue Ridge Parkway would follow in my footsteps later that first evening.

Forty Year Reunion

I left the lower valley's devastation and headed up a trail over the ridges to seek the family I prayed survived Helene. On a downslope, I met a man at a crossroads. As we approached, I seemed to recognize his face. His red hair had faded grey, and his freckle pattern was a giveaway. But here? I had not seen Rob since our high School ten-year reunion on the opposite side of the country, in California.

"Rob?" He looked at me momentarily and then walked closer with a growing smile of recognition.

"Marc?" he replied.

"Yes! Holy Mother Mary n Jesus. What are the chances?"

"No bull, man. What are you doing out in this shit storm?" he replied.

"Literally. Have you been in the valley?"

"No. Been hiking the Parkway and heading into a town for food. You?"

I explained my morning adventure and the situation in the valley, then, "I'm heading East to check on a family I am concerned about. I believe you will have better luck finding food in this direction."  

Rob, "Let's go. I'm a paramedic. Hopefully, they will not need my services."

We started down the ravine trail, the raging creek growing louder as we descended. The trail was rough, washed out into deep gullies in places, and fallen trees forced us to clamber over, around, or through piles of them. We forded larger creeks as we caught up on our past forty years, laughing each time one of us cut in with, "What are the chances?"

We leveled out in a valley where the gushing water spread wide, branched at some points, and came together again downstream. We saw a destroyed mountain cabin. We hollered out but got no response. Mr. Spec ran ahead to a whining Labrador Retriever about a hundred yards downstream. The black Lab was focused on a body thirty feet out, folded at the hips around a tree, held there along with accumulated brush debris, undulating within the rushing water. He, if it was a male, was obviously deceased, and we were unable to get to him safely.

Me, "We can call him in later. I need to find my friends."

Rob, "Nothing we can do for him but risk our lives."

I ran. Rob followed. The loyal Lab stayed.

We passed more destroyed and washed-through small, abandoned homes, which heightened my anxiety until I saw Sherry's house within the wide rushing water. On the roof sat Sherry and her family. The relief to see them alive was overwhelmingly beautiful. I smiled, and tears flowed as I witnessed Brandy, their six-year-old daughter, cuddled up in Sherry's lap and ten-year-old Buck curled up next to his parents. Chris stood waving to get our attention.

Rescue

They sat safe and sound, at least for the moment, although they were surrounded by treacherous raging water fifty feet distant, making verbal communication difficult.

Me, "Are you OK?"

Chris shook his head in the negative as he pointed to his son's leg, then formed his hands as if breaking something. I took his gestures to mean Buck had a broken leg. Sherry crossed her arms and shook her body. They were wet and cold.

Chris pointed to the barn behind us, signaling, 'Go there.' We found the barn full of supplies. Sally and the two goats were safe. Rob and I devised a plan and hauled what we needed to pull it off.

We were preparing a rope to shoot over to them when we heard Sherry scream. We looked upstream and saw a tree flying towards the house. It hit a corner and shifted slightly.

Me, "We need to double-time it."  

Rob, "With efficiency and no mistakes."

We tied a quarter-inch rope to a crossbow bolt, took aim, and let her fly. It landed upstream, washed down, and wrapped around the house, thus making it inaccessible to Chris. I pulled. It snagged like a fishing line. Rob cut it. We reloaded and took another shot. This one stuck into the side of the house. Chris pulled up the line. I tied a half-inch rope to the quarter-inch line. Chris, a trusted rock-climbing buddy,  pulled it over and tied it to the opposite side of the house, then gave us a thumbs up.

I climbed an oak tree and tied it off with a trucker's hitch. I slipped a sheave or roller on the rope. I then belayed Rob well harnessed across and ten feet above the raging waters. He descended towards the roof, carrying a backpack with his sleeping bag and splint supplies. It was nice to see Sherry smile as she and her youngins snuggled the sleeping bag around them. Rob evaluated the young boy's leg and then applied a makeshift splint. I snugged up the stretched rope.

Then, another tree headed downstream toward the stranded family. This one slid around the house. The rushing water was eroding the bank and releasing soil-holding roots.

Rob hand signaled that they were ready to return to solid ground. Chris strapped on a harness with his daughter tied to his back. He pulled hand over hand on the half-inch weight-bearing rope as I pulled them to the tree with the quarter-inch draw-line. Rob pulled the sheave back to him, and Sherry returned uneventfully.

Sherry, "Rob asked ya'll to send over a rope so he can form a Buck-size chest harness to keep him vertical."

Me, "Excellent. Buck can be pulled over hands-free with his leg dangling."

Chris, "Rope tied in a figure eight with a carabiner will do."

Me, "On it."

"Chris, "I'll get it, my friend. Would you mind scavenging in the barn for stretcher parts? There are some hefty bamboo poles in the NW corner and a few blankets."

Me, "On it."

Chris smiled. I dropped to the ground and made for the barn.

I returned with the poles and blankets just as Buck reached the tree. I climbed up, and keeping Buck in the harness, we lowered him to Sherry at the tree base. Now for Rob. We sent the harness back to my long-lost friend. Rob stepped into it, buckled up, hooked into the sheave, and started across.

Chris and I were alerted to a scream from Sherry.

Sherry pointed, "Look there, another tree. It's huge."

Chris, "Pull, pull, pull."

Like the others, the massive Red Oak headed straight for the house. However, unlike the smaller trees that flew by or clipped a corner, this one impacted the house head-on, jarring it loose. With the rope still attached, it started moving slowly, then twisted. The rope slacked, taking Rob with it until he was within a few feet of the raging waves. With the steeper angle, we haulers had a heavier burden.

Me, "Rob's getting heavy. Lean back and brace yourself."

Then, as the house continued downstream, the rope stretched until it snapped the window frame to which it was tied. Now halfway across, Rob plummeted into the creek and disappeared, jerking us forward. Chris and I wrapped the quarter-inch rope around our hands and coordinated our pulls with wrap/rewraps.

Chris, "Sherry double-wrap the rope around a limb and keep out the slack as we reel in Rob."

We pulled on what felt like dead weight. As Rob emerged, the resistance decreased. His arms flapped at his side, and his head was lax. We quickly hauled him to shore.

We jumped down. Rob was not breathing but had a good pulse. I turned him sideways, wherein he sputtered out muddy creek water. I turned him to his back and forced five full chest breaths.

After a few more breaths, Rob took a deep breath.

Everyone was safe, although some were wet and exhausted. We started a roaring fire to dry out and warm up.

Rob, "You guys have some serious rope burns. I have salve and bandaging.”

Me, "We got it. Stay warm and rested."

Rob, ""lease bring my pack here. You saved my life."

Chris, "OK. I'll grab a bottle of Scotch I got stashed in the barn."

Sherry, "Pull out those steaks and corn from the freezer."

Chris, "We can head into town after a good meal."

Buck, "What about my ankle?"

Chris, "Rob said it is likely a bad sprain. You can ride Sally."

Brandy, "Buck, can we ride double?"

Chris poured four shots, "Here's to selfless acts of kindness and loyal friendship."

Dedication

This account is dedicated to those who lost their lives and the brave souls who risked their lives after catastrophic events. The events contained herein are my actual personal Hurricane Helene experience. Although "The Rescue" is fictional, it represents the selfless acts of kindness and camaraderie as folks came together after Hurricane Helene.