The following is a first-person account from 828newsNOW reporter Jacob Vander Weide at Montreat College in Montreat, N.C. during Hurricane Helene.
As an Orlando native, I am well acquainted with hurricanes.
When I was a kid, hurricanes meant the power would go out for a few hours, a tree or two would fall in the backyard and if the storm was especially bad, we might lose a couple roof tiles.
Under those circumstances, hurricanes were an uncommon delight, maybe a few days off from school.
But there was something different about Hurricane Helene. She snuck in.
In Florida, everyone knows the rules. If there’s a hurricane coming, even if it might not hit you directly, you go to the store and stock up on shelf-stable food and bottled water. You go to the pump and get gas. If the storm is headed toward you, you get out.
Even if Western North Carolina knew the rules, it might not have helped. After all, what good will a tank of gas do if your car is swept away in a flood?
After a week of storms, the professors at Montreat College were mostly unphased. I was still in class until after 2 p.m on the afternoon of Thursday, Sept. 26.
Nothing seemed abnormal until a text went out.
“Out of an abundance of caution,” it said, “Montreat College’s campus will be closed at 2:30 p.m. today through Friday, September 27, 2024.”
“Great, we get a long weekend!” we thought.
We had no idea how long that weekend would end up being.
A couple friends of mine gathered on Thursday night, excited to use the extra time to get a head start on a short film for my final project.
After a good time filming, we returned to our dorms under what we thought was just heavy rain. The next morning, we learned how wrong we were.
I woke up on Friday, Sept. 25 excited. After all, I loved rainy days. I don’t know if I do anymore.
As soon as I walked out of my hall to go to breakfast, I knew Helene was a different beast. I have never been pelted so fast by so much rain at once, even in the worst hurricanes in Florida.
My dread over the looming chaos only intensified as I looked down at the lake below me. It was no longer a lake but a series of whirlpools, entire trees spinning around as if they were rubber duckies in a bathtub.
“This is bad,” I kept repeating to myself. “This is really bad.”
As I wandered the barren campus amid the torrential downpour, my damage assessment continuously turned up worse results.
Some of the roads were gone. The bridges had buckled in half. There were sinkholes and new rivers everywhere I turned. The fallen trees rarely caught my attention because the water, so much water, was everywhere it shouldn’t have been.
I witnessed the rapids rushing through what we once called a gymnasium. A freshly rebuilt hoe-down barn was crippled. Trees on cars, cars on cars, a mini fridge swirling around the lake.
While I was wandering, I crossed the last standing bridge in the area with water inches deep running over it. At the time, it seemed safe. It wasn’t.
My foot slipped straight down. I thought at first it was a divot, but as I continued to plummet, I instinctually threw my arms out. If I hadn’t, I would have been swept down the uncovered manhole into the flooding Flat Creek. I escaped with only a blood blister.
Needless to say, the College had no power or water. There was limited food, few working toilets and no cell service except for those with Verizon.
It was not only a nightmare for us students, but also for our parents who had no way of contacting us.
After the rain ceased, I began to walk the mountains of Montreat, sending photos to friends of the varied states of their houses. Fallen trees, mudslides, smashed roads and broken bridges stood between them and their properties. They will for weeks or months more.
I visited some family friends at the top of one of the mountains. What they told me made me disappointed and angry.
According to them, the Town of Montreat had been given a grant from the federal government to build a new bridge between Welch Field and Robert Lake Park. The bridge would have stood tall above Flat Creek. By the elderly couple’s estimations, the bridge would have survived Helene.
But Montreat’s residents wouldn’t have it, I was told. It would have disrupted the view of their old ball field and looked “too modern” for the historic area. Instead, a footbridge stands where the strong bridge should have been. That bridge could have allowed aid into the town that Montreat desperately needs.
Back down the mountain, the College was in chaos. Nobody knew who was in charge, not even the Resident Directors, who I thought were paid to deal with this sort of thing. The only people who seemed sure of anything were the cooks, who tirelessly cooked for us in the dark and for whom I will be forever grateful.
After a few days of not having a shower, clean clothes and clear communication from the College, sick from the mold growth in my dorm and not having a toilet, I made the decision to leave.
Thankfully, a few of my friends made that decision too.
On Saturday afternoon, five of us packed into a Pontiac Vibe and braved the roads despite the heightened concern of our parents. Nobody knew if there even was a way out. Still, we couldn’t risk staying any longer.
With a full tank of gas, we set off for Gastonia, N.C.. Apart from a few minor detours and traffic, we arrived safely.
That’s where I remain now, waiting at a friend’s house for answers that Montreat College isn’t giving.
“When will the school reopen?” We don’t know. It’s hard to tell if the administration knows either. The only information we’ve received is that the students remaining on campus are to be evacuated as soon as a suitable housing situation can be sorted out.
For me and the student body, that means we won’t be seeing Montreat anytime soon.
Montreat’s story is truly devastating, but there are many people who have it worse than we did.
Thousands of homes are destroyed. Thousands of Western North Carolina residents are missing. At least 90 are dead.
If you have the means to help Montreat or Western North Carolina, please do.
Read Jacob’s news report about Montreat here.
