We had been watching Hurricane Helene churn ominously in the Gulf of Mexico for days. Forecasters warned us repeatedly that its path would drive it directly into the upstate of South Carolina and into North Carolina. Hurricanes rarely reach the Blue Ridge Mountains with much force, so we underestimated the threat—figuring we’d face some strong winds at most.
At 6:00 A.M., I woke up to check on the trees. They were swaying violently in the wind, but after a quick prayer, I convinced myself all would be fine and went back to bed. That false sense of security was shattered when I stepped outside later in the morning. From my front porch, I counted four massive trees down—two of them completely blocking the road. Our neighbors had already gathered with chainsaws to begin clearing the debris, and I joined them, hauling chunks of wood to makeshift piles. If our small street looked this bad, the entire city of Greenville must have been in chaos. The storm had paralyzed everything.
We learned that Hurricane Helene had stalled directly over Asheville—where our kids lived. Communication was impossible; phone lines and power were down. The silence was agonizing. It wasn’t until Sunday morning that we finally heard from them, a full day after the hurricane’s landfall. Reports came in that Highway 26 was passable, so Kara and I loaded our FJ Cruiser with every supply we could manage—water, non-perishables, and extra gas. For some inexplicable reason, I had filled both our vehicles and three 5-gallon gas cans two days before the storm hit. That preparation turned out to be a godsend.
When we arrived in Asheville, the scene was apocalyptic. No water. No electricity. No gas stations open. The town was eerily still, like a ghost town ravaged by some unseen force. Our kids had been trapped in their home, their driveway completely blocked by a dozen fallen trees. We loaded them into the FJ and brought them back to Greenville, where, by some stroke of luck, our street still had electricity—a rarity in the city. They stayed with us for eight days, making daily trips back to Asheville to deliver gasoline and water to neighbors and friends.
The devastation lingered. It wasn’t until November 2nd that the Biltmore Estate finally reopened its doors. Lake Lure and Chimney Rock—places we had kayaked just two weeks earlier—were unrecognizable. Chimney Rock had taken a direct hit, and the damage was surreal. I’ll never forget seeing the amusement park where our granddaughter, Luna, had ridden in Car 7 of a small train ride. Now, the ride lay in ruins—all except for Car 7, still upright amid the wreckage, like a haunting reminder of what had been.
The storm’s fury was unlike anything we had imagined, and its aftermath left scars on the landscape and in our memories. It took weeks for life to feel normal again, but the echoes of Hurricane Helene remain—a stark reminder of nature’s power and our fragile place within it.
Links showing devastation.
Progress is being made in Chimney Rock.