Appalachian Trail Summary: From Zero to Hero Pt. 1

Hurricane Helene was always going to be a part of my hike. The question was, what would be my part in the recovery?

When I first heard the news that Hurricane Helene had made landfall in my beloved Blue Ridge Mountains, I was several thousand miles away, on a farm in Montana. What emerged was more of a survivor’s guilt type: I was from coastal North Carolina. A storm of that strength would have also caused serious damage to my hometown, but we were able to weather it. We had the infrastructure, the experience and the recognition that these types of weather events were the cost of living on the beach. But this place, previously considered a “climate refuge,” was now a harbinger, a reminder that no place is safe from the impacts of climate change.

Another kind of cocktail of guilt and grief also stirred inside me: why wasn’t I there? I knew I wasn’t the world’s gift to Appalachia, so what difference could one person make? The instinct to help is what makes us human, but it is crucial to balance that impulse with the real needs of affected communities. How could I present myself authentically to them?

As was the case with many potential AT 2025 hikers, my mind instantly focused on images of Helene from the Trail. What did it look like? Would the legendary cities of North Carolina, Tennessee and southwest Virginia be ready? In that cloudy period when no one had real answers, I realized what my role would be in the rebuilding efforts after the storm. I knew my small role would be best served not as a simple passerby, but as an Appalachian Trail hiker who takes a very special detour.

After more than 200 miles of wondering and waiting, we left the Smokies with our sights set on Hot Springs, North Carolina. It holds a special place in the hearts of many northbound (NOBO) hikers as the first town they pass directly through. But what would lie ahead for us now, just five months after the storm?

Hikers and trail towns united in their gratitude for the water filters, drinking water.

Gifts among the pain

The Camino gave us a magnificent pause in the midst of growing anxieties. We entered the Pisgah National Forest: a place that holds much of my heart and, in some places, lost catastrophic amounts of tree cover. Pisgah greeted us in its classic way: lightning preceded hail, which preceded an otherworldly sunset. «Pisgah in spring, baby!» I called my friends as we weathered the sudden storm. In all its chaotic glory, it was home.

The next morning, on our overcast drive to Max Patch, I found one of the treasures I had been most looking forward to on Trail. Ramp season was upon us! Before leaving for the Trail, my friend and chosen family, Allison, had tattooed this garlic-foraged delight on my forearm. We had both called Appalachia home before our recent move to Chicago; And although the two places may seem like polar opposites, the ramps united them. After all, the name «Chicago» derives from the Miami-Illinois word «šikaakwa»: the indigenous name for these wild onions that once grew prominently around the banks of the Chicago River and continue to populate wild areas outside the city. In short, ramps represent home. I couldn’t help but feel that the Trail was offering these delights as a show of good faith. “Keep going,” he would say. «Difficult times lie ahead, but there are also beauties.»

Showing my tattooed ramps to their real life counterparts for the first time.

Reunions and reconstruction

Our ride through Hot Springs was cause for further celebration – it was our first 20 mile day! Were we…understanding this? On the other hand, we found the most glorious, huge cinnamon buns at the Smoky Mountain Diner. It was one of two restaurants operating in the city at the time, but the lively spirit inside emphasized everyone’s gratitude. This was especially true when a class of 1977 hikers paid our bill. He thanked us for being there. We also thanked him for being there.

A cinnamon bun the size of your face is as good a “welcome to your favorite place in the world” gift as any.

After breakfast, I separated from most of my tram and waited to meet up with my friend Sarina, also known as «Flavortown.» I had bestowed that name on them while leading a guided trip through Pisgah the previous year, neither of us willing to let a thunderstorm get in the way of a well-seasoned community dinner. But today wasn’t about hiking; It was about helping.

While waiting for Flavortown to arrive, I visited the temporary library the city had set up in the basement of a church. The library had flooded and they lost 80% of their collection, including the entire children’s section. To this day, you can “adopt a book” for your new library. here. While I was sitting there, a man came in to chat with the librarian. His back was to me, but I recognized his posture, the way he held a cup of coffee, and his voice as he talked about the need for more shelves, benches, and art on the walls. I was in such a state of disbelief that all I could say was, «What’s your name?» But he knew exactly who it was.

In a previous life, I worked in the film and television industry from on-set production assistant to assistant director. My first job after the pandemic closure was as a decoration assistant on a television series. And now, five years later and several hundred kilometers away, my boss Jungle stood before me.

Work had dried up in my hometown. As Jungle watched the events unfold in Helene, he thought about the unused furniture and decoration warehouses. He decided his time and skills would be better spent here in Hot Springs and he was doing everything he could to help rebuild the library. On any given day, I’m quick to get up on my soapbox and explain all the ways the film industry is good for the communities it touches; and here we were.

An unlikely reunion

“Everyone stepped in and did what they do best.”

Community care is always worth a day zero

Shortly after, Flavortown arrived and they, Pep and I headed to the headquarters of Rebuild Hot Springs, the community-driven effort to…rebuild Hot Springs. We were tasked with organizing water bottles to be distributed to surrounding areas that still lacked clean access. Then we moved on to the food pantry. As we put away the instant mashed potatoes and ramen, I couldn’t help but think about how the room hosted hikers’ wildest resupply dreams. And yet here it meant something entirely different. Our complaints about the blandness of the meals seemed so trivial in comparison.

In speaking with Mandy, one of the volunteer organizers, we learned that no lives had been lost in Hot Springs during the hurricane.

«That’s good at least,» I said.

«Yes. Although we found a lot of bodies.»

The French Broad River reaches Hot Springs through more populated areas like Asheville, which had also suffered devastating losses. It was in its singular northward flow that debris, uprooted vegetation, and corpses had devastated the city.

“But we saved ourselves,” Mandy said.

He went on to tell us stories of neighbors using whitewater rafts to evacuate people from second-story windows and trash still in trees when water levels were higher. But he also shared stories about the ways the city came together and immediately began organizing cleanup efforts.

«Everyone stepped in and did what they do best.»

Pep, Mandy and Flavortown keep their spirits high as they rebuild Hot Springs

As the rainy morning gave way to the welcoming rays of spring sunshine, more hikers showed up and split into teams. Some cleaned the river. Some helped with the construction. We even put up some little Easter decorations. We may not have had much in terms of equipment, proper work attire, or acceptable body odors; but places like Hot Springs are what make the Appalachian Trail, the Appalachian Trail. There was more work to do. But perhaps the situation was best summed up in a message left on a cardboard box containing our water bottles.

«Sorry for the mess. It won’t last long.»

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