Battered, but not Beaten
Fall in Western North Carolina brings peak leaf color and fishing. Two reasons visitors make the pilgrimage from mid-September to Thanksgiving. The drive up I-26 northwest to Asheville from our home in South Carolina is void of traffic due to the early morning hour. The familiar haze of the humid mountains increases along the dips in the highway as the sun slowly brightens the morning sky. I pull off a familiar exit after traveling east briefly on I-40. Once off the highway I notice the traffic light at the end of the ramp isn’t working and an attendant with an orange vest directs traffic. An abnormal number of cars for that time of day slowly meander up a hill to a vacant hotel parking lot meeting area. The exit lacks the common glow of LED and neon business advertisement lights. To the left down the hill sit two Caterpillar 320 excavators with their arms crossed like the famous sabers in Baghdad blocking the road. The BP station sign next to them stands tall, but the building is a crumpled mess with most of it washed away. Both sides of the road beyond the excavators hold remnants of buildings. This trip is different. I might see some leaves turning colors, but no fishing today.
Hurricane Helene hit a few days before I arrived. I was one of hundreds of volunteers meeting at the Billy Graham center with Samaritan’s Purse to help serve those impacted by the storm. We spent the day clearing trees and debris from homes and power lines. Recovery in some areas would take months at best, most likely years. The sheer volume of debris remains difficult to describe. The necessity of clean potable water to the city was a month away. One street appeared as though nothing happened, the next had trees through homes and power transformers fallen in the road. Grim reminders of nature’s power.
Our day started with a brief outline of expectations. The administrators informed us search and rescue efforts recovered several human bodies earlier that morning. The leaders instructed us to leave an area if search and rescue moved in. We split up into work groups. After quick introductions, we hit the road to our designated sites.
Our first site was in an old Asheville neighborhood. Residents, including the elderly woman living at our first location, had been in these homes for decades. The large old trees, winding roads and unique home designs represented the quintessential beauty of Asheville. A refreshing contrast to today’s cookie cutter neighborhoods. The seamless integration of architecture with nature’s mountain topography created a dangerous scenario when Helene came through. The immense volume of rain that preceded the strong storm winds softened the ground and weakened tree defenses. Many deep rooted reliable old trees, which grew long before these homes were built, finally failed to stand firm. They crashed through roofs, flopped across roads and snapped power lines.
We worked hard. No dawdling for our crew. The sawyers made quick work of the trees laying across power lines, houses, and yards. The rest of us moved the cut pieces to the roadside for eventual pick up. The elderly homeowners choked backed tears as we prayed together for their family and the community at the end of each job.
Despite the devastation, people within the community immediately began efforts to clean and re-build. Businesses assessed damage and developed plans to function in whatever capacity possible. Many organizations volunteered to help. People found creative ways to serve others. Survival requires effort, innovation, and community.
Weeks later my son and I returned to Western North Carolina. This time to meet a guide and fish some of our favorite streams. The fly shops in the area desperately needed the business. Many anglers assumed the worst after the storm and traffic was slow. We happily obliged their need for business as much as our desire for time on the water. The day offered a cool breeze, slightly overcast sky, peak leaf colors in the trees, and plenty of trout.
Our guide was young and talented. His patience with my nine-year-old son made for a fantastic day. They fished upstream and I followed behind them, making sure they had first dibs on the best water. My son enjoyed fishing tips from someone other than his dad. The independent mindset expected from a budding young man. I could hear them laughing often and saw his bright yellow Echo Gecko rod bent over enough to keep the boy interested.
The water level was normal and except for a few larger debris piles nothing seemed out of place. At one point the wind picked up. Many of the now brightly colored hardwood leaves released and made for a rainfall of yellow and orange. The view looking upstream through the leaves falling and my son fishing made me happy. A complete reversal of the despair experienced weeks earlier.
The fish seemed eager after resting the water behind my son and the guide. I chose a dry dropper rig with a tan colored size 14 elk hair caddis and a size 16 bead head pheasant tail nymph. A standard set up for this area and time of year. Most of the trout picked up the pheasant tail dropper, but enough took the dry fly that I felt as though I’d fished well. The takes ranged in enthusiasm. One rainbow hid in a calm pocket in front of a basketball sized rock and lifted lazily to sip the caddis as it drifted through the slower water. It was the kind of take that makes a three-hour drive to and from the river worth the effort. Another eager rainbow chose violence and erupted from the dark side of a rock ledge to hit the elk hair caddis. The fish launched a foot into the air like a missile from a submarine before splashing down and bringing the line tight. Not bad for a 12-inch fish.
The best fish of the day was our last. We gathered to work the last section together. I left my reliable dry dropper rig firmly connected to the branches of a beautiful streamside oak tree a few riffles back. I preferred to watch my son cast to the remaining water rather than tie on another fly. The last pool had a slight crescent bend with the deepest water we’d seen all day. My son, now with a refined confidence from several hours of working out his casting kinks, presented a well-placed indicator rig through the darkest part of the pool. The water moved slow in this section, and I was proud to watch my son’s focus through the slow drift. His effort paid off as the indicator went down hard at the tail of the drift. Thankfully he set just hard enough for a good connection. The fiberglass Echo Gecko bounced forgivingly as he navigated line control. He was on the reel before he knew what happened, which made the remainder of the fight less stressful for the guide and his old man. After a few minutes and some fancy net skills by the guide, my son had his personal best rainbow in the net. We couldn’t have scripted a better ending to an already wonderful day.
We crawled up a small rocky area that served as a staircase to exit the stream for the day. Our shuttle vehicle was parked at a small local community center. A group of teenagers were clearing sediment from the storm off the basketball court. They used shovels, brooms, and good music as they worked and socialized amongst themselves. The gravel parking lot was abnormally full. As we approached, the half-moon drive was lined with cars for a Halloween Trunk or Treat event. Their rear hatches and trunks open to offer candy. Kids dressed in all sorts of costumes congregated in small groups moving from one vehicle to the next. Everyone smiled and laughed.
We broke down our rods at the truck. A few men couldn’t resist and inquired about the fishing. We chatted with them for a bit and asked how they were doing. My son admired a few costumes and the candy haul many of the kids carried. We pulled out of the parking lot feeling light after a great day of fishing and seeing a pleasant scene in the local community.
My son and I stopped off at a favorite farm to table taco joint on the ride home. We laughed at the fresh memory of a few solid jokes made by the guide as we crunched on chips and queso dip. I asked him if he noticed the excessive number of trees laying along the roadside on our trip. He had and correlated the storm from a few weeks earlier as the culprit. I wanted him to understand the impact nature’s force has on our world, but also the importance of resilience in the face of tough times. In that moment his focus was the cheese quesadilla in front of him, but I was confident the memory would linger with the right framework.
As we approach the one-year anniversary of the storm, many people and places of Western North Carolina still have a long recovery ahead of them. The work doesn’t end when the news cycle finds another story. In fact, the toughest efforts require consistency, vision, and continued support. Volunteer, donate, and support affected people and businesses. Every little bit helps.