Pursuing Higher Ground - The Margin

Water from Hurricane Helene gathered through the day, overtaking the riverbank and eventually reaching a height of twenty-five feet. By the evening, Gaelen had no electricity or cell phone service. He did not know if his daughters Nicole and Carmela were safe about 35 miles south in Asheville. For three days, without any form of communication, Gaelen waited. The water receded enough by Sunday for him to drive the tree-littered streets to find his daughters. 

As Gaelen approached his daughters’ college home, he had enough cell service to call Carmela and tell her he was close. Carmela and Nicole raced outside when their father arrived. They hugged tight. “There were a lot of tears,” Gaelen remembered. 

Gaelen moved to Burnsville, North Carolina in 1998 to teach farming at Arthur Morgan, an independent middle school. Gaelen and his wife Nicole built a working farm nearby where they raised their two daughters. The girls grew up helping on the farm, feeding animals, and selling produce at local farmer’s markets. Gaelen has graying hair and sun-tanned skin. His resting facial expression is a smile. He walked us around their seventeen acres of land, part of the fifty the family manages, which are now dotted with piles of debris. As we surveyed the damage, Gaelen explained that farming in Appalachia has always been difficult due to the rugged terrain and nutrient-thin soil. The family’s lifestyle requires an unordinary amount of self-reliance, which is part of the appeal. “When something goes wrong, it’s all your fault,” Gaelen said with a laugh.

After losing greenhouses, sheds, tools, and farmland, the family is starting over. Hurricane Helene also took neighbors— a renowned local musician, a sheriff’s deputy, and a Ukrainian family who had recently resettled in the mountains. Burnsville residents leaned on one another in the days and weeks after the storm. Nicole remembers the roughly thirty people who would gather in front of their home each day at a river spring for fresh water, sharing updates about resources and checking in. “That was how we figured out who was alive,” she said. 

Looking at the devastation, Gaelen remained optimistic. He said he had the skills to rebuild because his farming practice and lifestyle involves taking materials others might throw away, scrap metal or loose bolts or wires or fallen trees, and repurposing them. The family maintains this countercultural practice with pride in a society that overconsumes and overproduces. “We salvage what we can,” he said, picking up a beam of wood. “The salvage approach makes it easier to start over again. You have hope. At least I can start.”

Gaelen and Carmela set about rebuilding one of the lost greenhouses using supplies from a mound of debris. He told Carmela the length a pole needed to be for a door frame, and she cranked up her hand saw. Remaking the farm allows Gaelan to express some creativity, for this he is grateful. 

We stood a few feet away from the river that devastated the family’s life. “I’m terrified of water,” Gaelen said. “There’s no obstacle it cannot move.”

II. AND THEN CAME THE FLOOD

Suffocating mud raced down mountainsides, wiping out dozens of homes. One study documented nearly 2,000 landslides during Helene. Parts of Asheville experienced wind gusts over 70 mph, bringing down power lines and century-old trees. Entire neighborhoods were left in the dark, some for weeks. This medley of hazards took out roads and flattened cell towers and power stations, making it difficult for first responders to reach people trapped in their homes. At the time of publication, North Carolina’s Department of Transportation reported that 133 roads remain closed.

This was a climate crisis-fueled disaster. Warmer ocean temperatures strengthened the storm and unusually high atmospheric moisture kept it from dissipating. Scientists have long warned that a hotter climate would allow hurricanes to push farther inland with greater intensity. Helene, the second deadliest inland hurricane since Hurricane Katrina in 2005, was tragic proof. Over its lifespan, the storm poured nearly 40 trillion gallons of rain across the southeast.

While the emotional suffering North Carolinians endured cannot be calculated, some figures bring the picture of other damages into clearer view. Hurricane Helene resulted in over 230 deaths across six states, with North Carolina making up nearly half. The economic toll on the state is estimated at $59 billion, making it one of the most expensive disasters in US history and the most expensive in North Carolina’s history. Annihilation forced its way into people’s lives, showing up daily like the sun rises, expressing itself in ways big and small. The stories shared in this project are only a glimpse.

Six months after the storm, the towns of Chimney Rock and Bat Cave remain undone.

“No one could have predicted this,” said Peter O’Leary, the mayor of Chimney Rock.

The mayor met me to show the town’s rebuilding effort. His white hair stood high and he wore a black vest. His cell phone fielded steady texts and calls from contractors, state officials, and displaced residents. He looked tired, but resolved. As we walked Mayor O’Leary pointed out collapsed storefronts and small businesses along the river had been flattened to rubble. The mayor, with his attention locked on the town’s daily needs, did not mention he lost his own home in the floods, a fact I came to learn later.

Chimney Rock is a town with about 140 permanent residents. During peak tourist season, however, it hosts as many as 10,000 visitors per day, according to the mayor. Tourists come for the dramatic rock formations, the trails of Chimney Rock State Park, and the family-friendly waters of nearby Lake Lure. Tourism sustains the local economy. The destruction of roads and infrastructure has raised concerns about how long the recovery will take—and how much the town will lose in the meantime.

The rebuild is expensive. Mayor O’Leary said Chimney Rock was in good financial shape, but Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) relief largely operates on a reimbursement system, requiring local governments to spend money up front before receiving federal funds. This arrangement creates cash flow challenges that impact the pace of recovery so municipal leaders turn to philanthropists, NGOs, and individual donors for additional resources. 

Faith-based organizations like Samaritan’s Purse are investing millions of dollars and deploying thousands of volunteers across western North Carolina. Unexpected sources of help arrived too. An Amish group from Lancaster, Pennsylvania learned about the devastation and immediately sent dozens of volunteers. Because of the group’s homesteading lifestyle, many came skilled as builders and craftsmen.

Sadie, a young Amish woman, has been working on reconstruction projects since the early weeks of the disaster. She builds temporary shelters and “tiny homes,” and cooks meals for volunteers. When I asked Sadie why she chose to travel so far to volunteer in this place where she did not have a connection, she paused. She kept cutting strawberries. It was almost like she hadn’t considered the alternative of not coming. “We don’t know what it would feel like to go through a storm like this and lose everything,” she said. “It’s nice to come down here to be reminded.” It struck me as a form of hyper-empathy, or perhaps true solidarity; to see pain that is not one’s own and claim responsibility for stepping in to help.

Toward the end of our walk, the mayor pointed to the top of the mountains. If you tilt your head upward, you’ll see the chimney shaped rock formation that gives the town its name. Nearby, there is a long waterfall and lines of trees waiting to regrow their leaves. It’s breathtaking. Mayor O’Leary tries to focus on this view rather than the construction vehicles and unfinished roads. “Looking out every day at the destruction and rebuilding, sometimes it starts to get to you,” he admitted. After a moment he added, “But I try to remind myself that it’s also the sight and sound of progress.”

Luis and Angel, friends who grew up in Alan Campo, became full-time leaders in the rebuilding effort after their repair shop was totaled by the storm. They work with CORE, an international NGO that provides disaster relief, supervising new volunteers, teaching construction skills. Luis sat on a four-wheeler at the end of a workday, reflecting on the last few months of work. “It feels good to see people coming to support our community,” he said.

Conducting the entire operation was Kirsty Greeno, a 30-year-old disaster recovery specialist from Vermont. Kirsty wore glasses with thick frames and kept her brown hair tied back in a loose bun. She walked with certainty, responding to volunteer questions, assigning daily tasks, and frequently cracking deadpan jokes. Kirsty has spent years traveling from one disaster site to another, helping communities rebuild after hurricanes, wildfires, and floods. She understands, maybe more than most, the significance of a safe and healthy home, confessing that she hadn’t always had one herself.

Alan Campo is especially in need of private support from groups like CORE because mobile homes that do not sit atop “permanent foundations” are ineligible for FEMA flood insurance. So, Kirsty and her team move from house to house, month after month, trying to make the homes livable for displaced families. They also want to make the homes better. Kirsty said the organization works with homeowners to redesign homes, often lifting their foundations, installing energy efficient insulation, and replacing lost furniture. 

“Things will never be the same as they were,” Kirsty said, standing outside an almost-completed home, speaking over the hum of generators and the pounding of hammers. “This is the new normal.”

She said it as a matter-of-fact, but she was also frustrated. Traveling from disaster to disaster, Kirsty knew Helene could be a preview of what’s to come. Homeowners ask her the same question: Will this happen again? 

“It’s the worst part of my job that I can’t tell them no.” She went on, “I can’t make that promise.”

“We had to go back to old-fashioned living,” Gresham said. He showed me an outdoor showering system he rigged using a tube that pumped water from a natural mountain spring yards away. He sounded proud that the family had adapted so quickly. They washed their clothes in the creek adjacent to their front yard and built fires. One son found a way to connect his Xbox to a generator so he could play games in the tent, a small attempt at normalcy. The backyard has campers and tiny homes – the family’s bedrooms for the foreseeable future. 

I followed Gresham inside of the original house where he pointed out hazards that made it dangerous to stay, including areas in the foundation and behind walls where white mold has begun to grow. Brown silt with silver specks coated nearly every surface, a risk for Gresham’s daughter with asthma. Gresham held the dry river silt in his hands, thumbing through to show how fine it was. The family will rebuild from scratch. Their new home will be located higher on the hill, far above the flood zone.

Gresham sat on the ground, and I joined him as he told me what gets him through the days. He said faith is his resource to confront the loss. “This is all temporary. My home, my material items, even our relationships. Not that it’s not meaningful, but I have to remember it’s all temporary.” Gresham is at peace. He grew warmer and steadier as we passed time together, eventually admitting, “It does get to you at times. I get tired of looking at it.” 

He rarely pauses for long reflection because there is work to do. Gresham’s construction business is still running despite losing thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. The crew mostly takes on rebuilding projects in the local area. "We have to keep working," he said. "That’s how we move forward."

Gresham told me that before leaving the area, I should see the nearby town of Spruce Pine. He said the damage there was worse than what we’d seen in Burnsville. He pulled out his phone and called Jennifer, a project manager on his team, who told us to come see another town’s recovery efforts.

Jennifer Newton walked down Oak Avenue, pointing out Spruce Pine’s business district.

In this town, the storm lifted the North Toe River up so high that some buildings had water marks of 10 feet. Buildings remained boarded up and papered over, their owners gone.

Mitchell County had been completely blacked out in the days after Helene. Jennifer remembers finding ways to pass time in the dark with her family. They played a game of preferences. “Would you rather have flushing toilets or hot showers? Would you rather have television or ice?” Jennifer retold the story fondly. “Ice. Ice was what I missed most in those days.” 

Jennifer, who works part time with the town, helps people navigate the extremely complex and sometimes slow recovery systems. “People don’t realize how complicated it is,” she said.

“You’re not just fixing what’s broken—you’re dealing with permitting, building codes, structural engineers. And that’s before you even get to figuring out how to pay for it.” Unlike homeowners or farms, most small businesses aren’t eligible for FEMA or United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) relief, leaving them to find other ways forward. Some turned to private loans, which Jennifer noted are frustrating for businesses already carrying debt. Some relied on community support. Others made the choice to walk away.

Jennifer led us into a building being shared by multiple small businesses. We met her friend, Tricia, the owner of DT’s Coffee, which now operates out of the back of a furniture store. Tricia is proud to live in a place where individuals pitched in to help others start again. She attributes it to Appalachian culture. 

“Mountain living is special,” Tricia said. “I recommend you find a mountain you love and spend all the time there you can.”

On Your Bike worked to re-open as soon as possible, one of the first in the town. People needed a place to sit, to sip a hot coffee, to run into familiar faces and talk, and to hold a sense that things would be okay one day. Alex and Adam worked around the clock to get things back to normal. Alex started MarshallStrong, a GoFundMe where families posted funding requests. This system of private online donations has become an inadequate substitute for a social safety net in America, but Alex is undeterred. “Mountain people are scrappy,” she said. 

Marshall, like much of the region, had little outside help in those first days—no government crews, no large-scale aid—just locals, figuring it out with the tools they had. Adam recalled a local resident man using his personal pressure washer to shower mud off the roads downtown. “Seeing the yellow lines again made a psychological difference,” Adam said. “It reminded people we weren’t buried.”

Over the course of weeks stretching into months, rebuilding has slowed. Professional contractors—electricians, plumbers, carpenters—are booked out indefinitely. Without them, most families can’t move forward. People in Marshall worry that slower funds and dwindling media attention could set back their efforts. When Adam saw the news of the Los Angeles wildfires, he wondered, “Are we on our own now?” 

No disaster holds the headlines for long in the climate crisis.

The environmental cost of Helene is more difficult to quantify, though no less profound.

Floodwaters carried not only the usual detritus—cars, appliances, pieces of homes—but also sewage and pollutants, potentially contaminating rivers and local water systems. Gresham’s family in Burnsville were drinking from their well and noticed the children were getting sick daily. The family stopped using the water, suspecting it was compromised with some bacteria or fungus. Helene flew through delicate ecosystems, disrupting habitats in ways that will take years to fully assess. Some early indicators include significant damage to fisheries and loss of important species. The awesome volume of rainfall reshaped the mountain topography itself. Farmers lost fields of crops, forcing them to rethink their decisions to continue working the land. 

According to some residents, efforts to recover have been moving, but not fast enough. In December, Congress approved a $100 billion disaster relief package for Helene across several states. The package includes funding for infrastructure repair, aid to displaced families, and loans meant to restart businesses. These funds were set to begin in March 2025. North Carolina’s former Governor, Roy Cooper, requested an additional $25.6 billion in federal support and $3.9 billion from the state legislature. As of March, the legislature has proposed a fraction of this amount at $535 million, which lawmakers continue to debate.

Lawmakers, scientists, and advocates have begun thinking about long-term resilience. The desire to rebuild quickly faces the need to plan thoughtfully to prepare for future storms. Some say the goal is to construct smarter, even if it is uncomfortable. Mayor O’Leary said, “people want what’s familiar, but we have to build differently.” He noted the two bridges in Chimney Rock that survived the flood were both modern structures designed with contemporary engineering standards. “That tells you something.”

Branson has played in the bluegrass jam sessions since he was a teenager. The sessions typically took place at the Old Train Depot, which is now gone. Helene had lifted the building off its foundation and carried it about 200 yards down Main Street until it crashed into the On Your Bike coffee shop. The town is prioritizing rebuilding homes, medical facilities, and other things people can’t live without. So the Depot, with all its history, would have to wait.

As people entered the church, they stopped to squeeze hands and ask, “How’s your family?” or say, “I’ve been thinking about you.” They hugged. Then entered Pat Franklin, a seventy-one-year-old woman with curly hair, an intense stare, and whip speed humor. Three nights a week of folk, gospel, country, and bluegrass music, and local residents filled the old train station. It had been a heartbeat of the town funded by a Saturday night cakewalk. Pat created the Depot’s music program nearly 30 years ago so the poorest people in Appalachia would have a place to get food and be part of the larger community. Pat doesn’t mind the church as an alternative location, but she knows its limitations. “We can’t square dance in here,” she said. “We’ll end up through the floors in the basement.”

Pat introduced another woman named JoLeigh Bowden, who wore a black sweater and a fuzzy scarf. Pat told us JoLeigh is the daughter of a Baptist preacher and a former Ramones background singer, who now runs a small record company in town. “She’s not just any old redhead,” Pat said with a smile. JoLeigh and Branson began sharing memories from the flood.

Branson remembered the night of the 27th clearly. When he got the emergency text notification, “Dam is at critical levels. Reach higher ground now,” he grabbed his dog, his instruments, and his mother, setting off in his car towards higher ground in Asheville. He said the wind sounded like a jet engine circling above town. Like Branson, everyone I spoke to had an image that the storm had imprinted in their mind. Someone else remembers seeing a semi-truck drifting through Asheville’s arts district. 

A strained optimism occupied the room, a silent agreement between the musicians not to dwell too long on what had been lost. Marshall had experienced an historic flood in 1916, Branson said, and the Depot had shifted on its foundation. But this time, in 2025, it the river washed it away entirely.

The musicians took their seats in a circle. Branson started to tap his foot, counting off a bluegrass standard. Then instruments began to sing. A double bass groove reverberated in the floorboards and in my chest. The banjo, mandolin, and harmonica let out emphatic strums and bright riffs that danced around one another. The fiddle wailed out above the others, a melody which floated into the church’s dark brown rafters. It was a musical concoction big enough to contain grief, melancholy, Appalachian history, and release. 

JoLeigh sat beside the fireplace, taking it all in. Arms pressed to the sides of her chair she shared, “The earth is always changing and, in some ways, I’m grateful. The storm made us more adaptable, more resilient.” She added, “it was a dress rehearsal.”

A dress rehearsal for what? I asked. “For change,” she said. “Change is coming.”

Your donation supports in-depth reporting, data analysis, data visualizations, and original photography. Join us in the fight for environmental justice by contributing today — every dollar helps us tell the stories of the people and communities who have been and are currently experiencing injustice.