Navigating tech-free connections in my Asheville community following Helene's disruption
By September 28th morning, the alerts fell silent, yet not because the worst had passed. Our mobile devices were rendered useless.
Situated merely half a mile from our street, the French Broad River peaked at an astonishing nearly 25 feet. Such heavy rain transformed it into a dark, surging mass, reminiscent of boiling chocolate. Normally, the French Broad River should stand at around 1.5 feet, tranquil and serene, azure blue. As far as my knowledge extends, this river height has never been reached in recorded history.
The eve prior to Helene's arrival, I was privy to whispers among Swifties that Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce had parted ways. In actuality, they were still an item.
The following day, I could hardly fathom the extent of my town's survivors.
"Trek to the river," our neighbor Ron, the first face we encountered after leaving our home, advised. We followed his counsel.
The enlarged river had seemingly expanded beyond its previous boundaries, engulfing a 30 to 40-foot area, now gently lapping at an edge by a railroad track. The original bank was distinguished by a line of trees that seemed to sprout from the heart of the water. Lengthy, white streaks floated atop the waves. Initially, I mistook them for extended whitecaps, but someone corrected me: they were PVC pipes, an entire warehouse's worth, swept away by the river.
Obtaining Information After the Calamity
For the duration of those days, we possessed no more than radio broadcasts for our sole source of information, confined to car listening — vehicles now drained of fuel and electricity. Stalwart Blue Ridge Public Radio staff reignited our hope, relaying the names of the missing and informing us of available supplies.
They imparted official announcements provided to them by governing bodies and public services, repeatedly urging us to consult specific websites for updates. But, alas, our running water supply had yet to be restored.
In a world obscured by uncertainty, information became the key commodity. This hidden market thrived, a mystical currency bestowed upon those who dared brave the unknown. Our neighbor Kevin came calling the next day to share the good news: Charlotte held sustenance, power, and water. Numerous exits from Asheville were obstructed due to flooding, fallen trees, and power lines, as well as mudslides. He generously granted us directions to bypass these obstacles.
At our endeavor to trek eastward towards Charlotte, we encountered a handwritten sign along a county road: "Road Closed, Mud Slides." Below it, a more frenzied scrawl, "Pray For Us?" The signpost stood at the site of an organic farm we frequented during our farmers market visits. The urgent query was theirs.
We reluctantly turned around and returned to Asheville.
For several days, the river occupied the headlines, yet it also served as the focal point for gathering fresh news. Residents congregated at the riverbank, sharing word upon word: "There's no signal except downtown at the library." "It's rumored not to drink the water." "The River Arts District is reportedly destroyed."
After an arduous seven-hour journey that covered a mere 120 miles, we arrived, at long last, in Charlotte on September 29th. Our mobile signal was reinstated en route, allowing us to finally reassure loved ones that we had weathered the storm in one piece.
For two nights, we sojourned in a Charlotte hotel before filling our hatchback with supplies to deliver to Asheville's food banks. Each stop along our route invited contributions of both money and food from fellow travelers who learned of our mission. A kind-hearted senior male, resplendent in denim and worn flannel, pledged to contribute anything we managed to fit into our already-full car.
Upon our return to Asheville, a colossal white tractor-trailer lay stranded, partially submerged, a mere stone's throw from our home.
Who Composed Your Team?
Six months prior, I relocated to this riverside haven from coastal Washington state. My husband and I had hardly known any neighbors before the approaching storm. But, shortly thereafter, we shared acquaintance with nearly everyone who remained, having chosen to shelter elsewhere.
Our community had always boasted an active Discord group. Through our online chats, I felt as though I had a grasp on most of my neighbors, even if we hadn't actually met. I recognized their addresses and had an understanding of their various proficiencies.
In the aftermath of the storm, it was deemed not only acceptable but also commendable to visit doors or pause cars in their path to inquire about their destinations and share our own experiences. The blend of former virtual relationships with recent, in-person encounters served to maintain our attachment to one another and to our shared river.
My mind drifted to the works of author Athena Aktipis, who penned in "A Field Guide to the Apocalypse: A Mostly Serious Time for Surviving Our Wild Times" that countless individuals would be confronted by a "zombie apocalypse"-level disaster in their lifetimes. She urged the importance of having an established "Z team" — friends and neighbors stocked up to lend a helping hand — long before disaster struck. Our Discord group functioned as our preassembled Z team.
The Role of Social Media Previously
Although some social media platforms have fostered communication strife in person, our Discord group operated as a collaborative exercise in trust.
There exists an inherent expectation within online discourse: the belief that one's audience is select, and unity flourishes in this space. However, we were already a specially selected group with commonalities beyond the digital realm — we were human, bound together by shelter, sustenance, information, safety, and connection. Our collective consciousness transcended the confines of the screen and manifested within our living, breathing bodies.
The Discord platform we're utilizing again has undergone a transformation.
Previously, it featured channels dedicated to suggesting eateries and sharing event notices.
Now, it encompasses topics like water-related updates, power outages, and volunteer opportunities. A fellow resident named Alison proposes a face-to-face meeting on Discord to exchange survival tips during water scarcity. Perhaps our future encapsulates this peculiar fusion of digital and primitive spheres.
Creighton Hoke, my neighbor, explains how our Discord group emerged due to the community's demand for a "digital twin" coexisting alongside the physical realm. Perhaps it's time to revive our digital social aptitudes, such as trust and reliance on communicating, sharing, and valuing each other's insights, in the tangible world. I'm contemplating meeting Alison by the riverbank.
In our struggles for information, the radio broadcasts served as our sole source, providing updates on the missing and available supplies. However, access to the internet and reliable news sources remained a challenge due to the lack of restored running water.
Given the circumstances, our neighborhood relied heavily on the word of mouth at the riverbank, gathering fresh news and sharing experiences about the affected areas like the River Arts District and downtown library.
In response to the calamity, our pre-established Discord group, functioning as our Z team, evolved into a communal platform, providing essential information about water updates, power outages, and volunteer opportunities. This digital twin, transformed to meet our needs, became an integral part of our daily survival strategy.
