The rivers of Western North Carolina have long held the scars of floods past, their waters swelling like ancient beasts breaking free. Hurricane Helene Flooding turned the region’s waters into merciless torrents ravenous in their hunger to destroy everything in their path. I’ve witnessed these waters rise many times before, but this storm unveiled a force I hadn’t yet reckoned with—a catastrophe that threatened not just homes and landscapes but the fragile threads of our community’s spirit.
Drowning In Devastation: Hurricane Helene’s Impact
As the storm subsided, I realized there was no cell phone service anywhere. I turned to my ex-husband. “I have to go,” I declared, rummaging through my study.
“Where in the world do you think you’re going?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.
With my camera bag slung over my shoulder—my constant companion—I replied, “I need to check on Mom and Dad! I know Mom is panicking because she can’t reach me.”
He nodded, his concern evident. “Be careful! I understand why you need to go, but I don’t think they will let you through on I-40 to get to Fines Creek.”
Catastrophe Unfolding: Flooding in Western NC
I rushed down the steps to the Jeep, shouting, “Nothing will stop me! I have to get to them. We’ve faced enough this year with Aidan’s passing.”
“I know, but please be careful! I need to assess the damage around here first,” he cautioned.
My heart pounded in my ears as I sped down the drive toward Jonathan Creek, intent on reaching I-40. As expected, State Highway patrolmen blocked the interstate. I waited my turn, watching as others were turned away.
One officer approached my window. “No one is allowed through; part of the road in the Gorge is gone.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, but I’m not headed that way. I just need to exit at 15 to get home,” I lied, knowing I had to get through.
“You live on Fines Creek?” He scrutinized me, doubt clear in his gaze. I rolled my eyes internally, aware that my cap emblazoned with “Sabrina Greene Photography” didn’t lend much credibility.
After a brief back-and-forth, he reluctantly allowed me to pass, sternly warning me not to go further than the Fines Creek exit.
The Sanguine Serpent of the Pigeon River
Once past the blockade and around the next curve, I breathed a sigh of relief until I approached the bridge directly before the exit. I had been trying to catch glimpses of the river while driving, and all I could see was brown water. However, when I reached that bridge, I slammed on the brakes.
“OH MY GOD!” A serpentine torrent, swollen and vile, coiled beneath the bridge, thrashing against its foundations with a hunger I had never seen. The Pigeon had risen to almost meet the road, its murky coils writhing with debris and fury, threatening to consume the last fragile remnants of solid ground.
I have no idea how many feet above the river this bridge is, but my mind was stupefied at the bend where the Pigeon flowed underneath—it almost touched the bridge.
“No wonder he didn’t want me coming down here,” I muttered, transfixed by the sight. “Now, what are you going to do?”
Even though I knew no traffic was coming, I couldn’t simply turn around. The other bridges I knew of were already destroyed; I was sure of it. So, I had a choice: drive across the colossus of floodwaters or give up.
I closed my eyes and prayed aloud, “Jesus, you know my parents need to see me, but I don’t know what to do! Choose for me.”
I opened my eyes and yelled a word I wouldn’t share here because my right foot instinctively floored the gas pedal, and I flew across.
Once on the other side, I started laughing and hit the brakes again to look back. “I cannot believe I just did that! That was insane, Sabrina Louise, and you know it!!”
Ten minutes later, I pulled into my parents’ driveway, and my dad came running out with my mom following. When she saw me, the tension in her body visibly released.
“I’m okay, Mom. We’re all okay. The house is fine, and I knew you were worried.”
“How did you get here?!” she exclaimed.
“I talked myself through a roadblock and came via the interstate.” I winked at my dad. “Hop in!”
From Storm Work to Community Duties
My father, Rev. Ronald Greene, was once a foreman for both power and tree-triming companies. Storm work was his passion, his lifeblood during my childhood. I knew it was eating away at him, not knowing the extent of the devastation in our community, so I urged him to hop in the Jeep. I would drive him around.
As I backed down their precipitous drive, he glanced at me and said, “Your Aunt Nancy and I already drove out to the church to check Aidan’s headstone. They did an excellent job; it didn’t shift or move.”
“Oh, Dad, that hadn’t even occurred to me!” Shame washed over me, nearly choking me with its weight.
“Hey, hey! It’s okay. You were focused on ensuring we were all right,” he reassured me.
“I still can’t believe I didn’t think to check on it. What kind of mother am I?”
“One who has endured a great deal of trauma this year. Give yourself a break,” he replied, his smile gentle and understanding. We set off toward our first stop—Riverside Drive, the farthest entrance to the Panther Creek Community. I suspected it was flooded, but we needed to know for certain.
We hadn’t even made it a mile when we were forced to stop. The river had overflowed, flooding the fields, and a swift water rescue team had launched their boats to search homes for survivors. Those waiting with their vehicles graciously allowed my dad and me to approach the water’s edge momentarily. My mind was awash with memories of the homes and people I had driven by so often on my way to church.
My Beloved Hippie Cows and Bison Along the River
And I was worried about the hippie cows and buffalo! Buffalo Creek Vacations, located down the same road, was home to magnificent Scottish Highland cattle and bison. I couldn’t begin to count the years I had watched those herds, often reminiscing about the property’s original owners. We always laughed, calling them the “long-haired hippie cows” during childhood.
Thankfully, Buffalo Creek Vacations remains a fantastic destination, especially for families looking to escape and connect with nature!
After that, we stopped at several locations along Fines Creek before heading to the White Oak Bridge adjacent to I-40. About an hour had passed since the flood crest by that time, so I felt less anxious about crossing the bridge. In the near distance was the bridge I had traversed earlier to reach my parents, where the water had nearly touched its surface due to the river’s bend before it expanded into a wider area.
As I stood on the bridge, the river’s current thundered below, roaring like a dark leviathan, sweeping everything in its grasp toward Waterville Lake. The water’s force seemed otherworldly, twisting trees into splintered wreckage and grinding the earth beneath into a muddy torrent of chaos.
Even an hour after the flood crest, the scene was mind-boggling in the turbulent current campers and countless other items floated by, indistinguishable in the murky water.
That’s When Reality Hit
At that moment, the weight of what the swift water team had conveyed earlier settled in—this was far worse than we had imagined.
My mind flashed back to when I returned to my Jeep at Riverside Drive. On the way back I thanked the gentleman who had allowed us to approach the water’s edge and inquired about the situation in Canton and Clyde, NC.
“It’s everywhere,” he replied, his tone grave.
Puzzled, I pressed, “But how are Canton and Clyde?”
“We don’t even know yet; the flooding is everywhere, and teams are just getting started. Like our guys here, they are checking homes for survivors.”
“Oh, so the ENTIRE Pigeon has flooded?”
He nodded solemnly. “And the French Broad. It’s bad.”
Instantly, I grasped the full extent of the devastation. “You mean this is REGION-WIDE?!”
“Yes, ma’am, we still have no way of knowing the full impact right now.”
I heard my dad scoff softly behind me. When I turned to look at him, his expression mirrored my own concern and shock. I thanked the team once more, and we left.
Premonition As the Storm Hit
The night before, as the storm began to hit us on September 26th, we still had power for quite a while. Weather events fascinate me, mainly because Dad would take off for weeks at a time to work them. I knew the power would probably go at some point, so I turned on the local weather forecast.
Concern wasn’t even on my mind as the meteorologist chatted about the storm. Lightning flashed outside just as I heard her state, “It is going to stall on the Blue Ridge Escarpment.”
“WHAT?!?!” My eyes were glued to the television at that moment.
I must have shouted it because I heard my ex stir in the recliner behind me. “What are you carrying on about?”
My eyes wide with horror, I looked at him and said, “OMG, we are **bleep**!”
I don’t normally curse because, to me, it’s banal language, but it slipped out when I heard the woman on News 13 WLOS say that.
“Ok, ok, I’m awake. What are you worried about?” he asked, trying to grasp my urgency.
“You don’t understand! Oh NO! The storm is going to stall out on the Blue Ridge Escarpment!” I was pacing the living room floor by this point.
Quizzically, he asked again, “Ok, so what does that mean?”
“BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD!” I wanted to explain it to him, but I couldn’t even get the words out. I could only say, “Imagine the ridgeline of the Blue Ridge Parkway—a massive storm gets on top and stops! Just stops! And the rain keeps falling.”
He leaned forward and said in an astonished whisper, “That doesn’t sound good at all.”
As that memory flooded my mind, watching people’s lives drift away, I, too, whispered, “It isn’t good at all.”
Just the Beginning of the Storm
The river beneath the White Oak Bridge was a wasteland of debris—broken branches, shattered belongings, remnants of lives—floating on the surface like ghosts of what had been. Hurricane Helene had torn through the southern Blue Ridge Mountains like a vengeful tide, forever changing the shape and soul of the land.
Deep down, I knew I needed to document more as soon as possible, but that wouldn’t happen today; our battle was just beginning.
