A Flooded Town Now Has No Water
Special Essay: On Losing Places We Hold Dear and What It Means To Not Go Home Again
It’s been more than two weeks since Hurricane Helene barreled into the mountains of Western North Carolina, causing extreme flooding and devastation.
Normally in October tourists flock to Asheville, North Carolina, and the surrounding mountain towns to enjoy the incredible display of fall leaves. Reds, yellows, oranges, and more. This year is very different.
After the storm, schools and businesses remain closed. Local farms have seen significant losses. Some folks have regained power, but everyone is waiting on water to return to their taps. Best estimates say it could be weeks until it is restored, and months might be more realistic.
Imagine a town of more than 90,000 people without water. Think about not being able to flush a toilet, wash your face, or make your morning coffee without tap water. Try to picture how you might ration water supplies for you, your family, and your pets, or how badly you might crave a hot shower.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Asheville, because it was a place I called home for almost 10 years and moved away from in July.
A phrase popped into my head when the post-apocalyptic images first started covering my social media feeds, “You can’t go home again.”
It’s turns out that’s the title of a Thomas Wolfe novel published posthumously in 1940. The phrase reflects the idea that we are always in flux, making it impossible to return to the same place because both you and that space have changed. Wolfe was born in Asheville.
Where we dwell plays an integral part to our identity. When I moved, I told myself it’s not goodbye forever; it’s just for now. I knew I would be back to visit friends and family. I planned to visit my favorite restaurants and coffee shops again. I wanted to return for another concert or festival, hike another summit.
In times of a rapidly heating world, we are not just tracking the temperature of our oceans and air, but the rise of uncertainty about the places we love—and if we will be able to visit them again. There’s a tragic irony that NOAA’s National Centers for Environmental Information in Asheville lost their power in the storm too.
As I’ve been doom scrolling social media these past weeks trying to make sense of the unrecognizable images of my former home, my heart has been breaking for everyone still there. I have felt guilty for leaving, not knowing that my friends would have to endure such dire conditions. Like everyone else watching this tragedy from the safety of a home with running water and power, I’ve felt helpless.
Communication has been tough. My friends have spotty cell service, no internet, and they don’t have time to talk to me. They are figuring out how to flush their toilets without any water, waiting in line for a hot meal, and working to salvage their neighborhoods and businesses. They are the real survivors, seeing the devastation and making a way through it.
In Wolfe’s book, the main character George Webber realizes, “You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting, but which are changing all the time—back home to the escapes of time and memory.”
One of the definitions of disaster is “a grave misfortune.” Much of what was lost can’t be rebuilt in the same way. The feeling of safety has been shattered, not just for Asheville but for every community that has suffered with this kind of unimaginable wreckage from a natural or toxic event.
I think about the other places where people have been unable to access clean drinking water from their taps.
Navajo Nation
Drought, changing weather patterns, and government neglect mean that thousands of Navajos go without clean running water at home. Many are accustomed to using a fraction of the water other Americans consume. The average U.S. citizen uses 80 to 100 gallons per day, while they use as little as two to seven gallons. They travel long distances to haul water for personal use. Read more here.
Houston, Texas
In 2022, more than 2 million people in the Houston area had to boil their water before using it to cook, bathe, and drink after a power outage at a water purification plant caused low water pressure.
Jackson, Mississippi
The ongoing water crisis has been a result of decades-long neglect and a failing water treatment system with a history of equipment failures and issues. At times, the city was unable to produce water for important necessities such as fighting fires or flushing toilets.
Honolulu, Hawaii
In 2021, jet fuel leaked from the Red Hill Underground Fuel Storage Facility operated by the Navy, contaminating the drinking water of local Honolulu residents and sickening hundreds of families. All residents were unable to use their tap water until the following March.
Flint & Benton Harbor, Michigan
For years, both cities had dangerously high levels of lead, which meant that the water coming out of the taps was brown and smelly. In 2022, Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer announced a major milestone for the public water supply—that 99 percent of the city's water service lines had been inspected and replaced with new copper lines if lead or galvanized pipe was found.
In Flint, a program to replace thousands of lead and galvanized-steel service lines that connect city water mains to local homes started in March 2016. The program was scheduled to be completed within three years but in 2024, 10 years since the water crisis in Flint began, the work of identifying and replacing lead service lines remains unfinished.
The water in Asheville will return, but I can’t imagine residents not feeling a tremendous vulnerability from their water system going down. How many other cities could withstand that level of flooding? Is any place truly prepared for the storms that will continue to come?
I moved to Asheville like many others because I was enamored with the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the desire for a close-knit community. I took classes with local teachers who taught me that it’s one of the most biodiverse regions in the country. I learned that the French Broad River is one of the oldest rivers in the world. It sits on the ancestral land of the Anikituwagi, more commonly known as the Cherokee.
It felt like a sturdy place to call home, like those mountains could never fall.
Asheville is a magical place for those who love the outdoors. I went to dances hosted on farms and found wild blueberries on hikes to waterfalls. I foraged mushrooms in the woods with guides who recite poetry. My first summer there I lived in a tent in a backyard (with electricity), and I have never slept better or felt more connected to the natural world.
Life in a small mountain town can become predictable, and there’s a comfort in that lifestyle.
Many Saturdays I would shop at the downtown farmers’ markets with one of my dear friends. We would load up on veggies while catching up on the “news of the week,” which to us was politics, culture, our friends, and goings on around town. We knew the names of many of our farmers and vendors.
On sunny, warm days my husband and I would ride our bikes down the hill to a coffee shop near our home, which was right off a greenway that ran right through the River Arts District, one of the hardest hit areas in the storm with about 80 percent of the buildings there sustaining damage. At one point, we held a vision of him opening his own studio among the artists that have now had their work and livelihoods flooded and filled with sludge.
As storms get stronger, communities become more at risk. The place I once called home has been permanently altered. I can’t go back again.
The coffee shop we used to ride our bikes to has been decimated. My old neighborhood is full of debris and neighbors have had damage to their houses and cars—and they are the lucky ones. I know people who had to flee their homes and don’t know when they will return—if there is a viable place to return to. Every business has launched a GoFundMe.
Scientists say we are seeing the beginnings of a climate emergency, but for those in Asheville, the crisis is already here.
I won’t ever be able to return to the Asheville I knew. I can’t possibly know the trauma that my friends have lived through, but I know it’s a resilient town full of creative people who will work to build something new. I can only return to my memories of this place and the hope that something new can grow out of extremely hard times.
If you want to contribute to this community, here are some local resources: