Day 25 of the Apocalypse, Ground Zero, Gerton, NC pop. 231

We’re headed today to a beach outside of Charleston, SC, for a much-needed respite.

Forty-five minutes into the drive, there are no signs of devastation. The warm weather and brilliant day allow me to notice, for the first time, that the leaves on the trees have changed color.

All of my memories from the past 3+ weeks are associated with place, yet it took until today for me to even notice that the brilliance of autumn here in our mountains has already arrived.

These are some of the places that define my recent memories:

Huddled under the covers in bed with Jeff and our dogs, during the worst of the hurricane, listening to the trees crack, and having no idea what we would see when the wind and rain stopped.

First learning about the devastation below us in the Gorge, sitting in the dark on our neighbor's couch, after our firefighter neighbor Erik finally hiked home from the fire station on Day 1, after the storm ended.

Listening to Erik’s walkie-talkie reports - a non-stop litany of new tragedies. Firemen who hiked out three miles to stay overnight with people trapped in a house that had collapsed, all who had sustained compound fractures.

Heading about mudslides that were impassable. Roads littered with fallen trees. Thirty-foot chasms where roads used to exist. Houses and cars that had disappeared.

Three houses on a hill that all slid simultaneously down the hill, and then further down what used to be the highway, each with families inside.

The firefighters realizing they had no cell service and no way to contact the outside world - even their county headquarters. The shock of recognizing that no one could contact us or access us, except by air. Noticing that nothing was flying overhead.

Talking with Fire Chief Jay outside the fire station early morning on Day 3, learning about my first trauma case - a family who lost a two-year-old. Watching him tear up, delivering the news.

Sitting in the middle of the field near our house on Day 4, watching a Blackhawk helicopter fly directly above us; me uncontrollably bursting into tears with the first sign of outside assistance.

Watching community members standing in line at the food truck for free meals, walking around like zombies, unable to have coherent conversations.

Focusing on getting their basic needs met because on most days that is all each of us is capable of doing, even three weeks later.

Sitting in the parking lot of the fire station with my friend Julia on Day 10, watching a Chinook circle above us, getting ready to land, to deliver pallets of food and water. Julia, later showing me a photo she took of the woman pilot who flew the helicopter - the most difficult of all to navigate with its two rotors.

Offering Old Richard a ride to the fire station, as I drove by along our broken road in our UTV, to save him from walking another mile to get lunch. His tiny red house, in a holler next to a creek, somehow miraculously surviving the hurricane, although water flowed all around it. Richard is still without water, and hasn’t been able to shower in a week, but took time to comfort me when he found out my brother died.

Standing outside the port-a-potties yesterday, in what used to be the parking lot for our post office, seeing a FEMA worker for the first time.

Jeff, sitting across from me on our couch, calmly telling me our lives were about to change forever.

Place has defined each of these moments for me.

Today I get to notice new things, like the color of the leaves, and in a few hours, ocean waves crashing against the shore.