In the Wake of Helene: Resilience, Love, and the River That Endures

How was the Nantahala spared? I think I know.

My friends, this one is very personal.

The relentless fury of nature is something we prepare for, yet are never quite ready to face. Helene, a storm that wreaked havoc across Western North Carolina, serves as a somber reminder of our vulnerability. It’s deeply saddening to see some of the most cherished rivers—places where I’ve spent countless hours paddling—underwater and overwhelmed by unprecedented flooding. The Pigeon, the Nolichucky, and the French Broad, places tied to my happiest memories, now lie in devastation, their once-pristine waters swollen and violent, carving out new and unintended paths.

Yet amidst this destruction, there is an anomaly, a place that somehow stood untouched: the Nantahala. This river, nestled right in the storm’s path, remained unscathed as if spared by some invisible force. It was a miracle in the truest sense of the word. Was it pure luck? Or was there something more at play—providence perhaps?

For me, the Nantahala holds special meaning. The weekend before she was killed Alison was rafting on the Nantahala River with her mom, her boyfriend Chris, her close friend Katy, and me. It was her favorite place on Earth. She was a brilliant kayaker, and it was a family tradition she relished. On the river that weekend, we exchanged the mantra all paddlers must keep in mind while fighting the force of rapid water: "Never stop paddling. You just have to paddle through the rapids. You just have to paddle through."

After Alison's death, we scattered her ashes in the Nantahala, allowing her spirit to become one with the place she loved most. And now, as I think of the storm that ravaged everything around it but left the Nantahala untouched, I can’t help but wonder: was it her hand that spared it?

Alison’s spot on the Nantahala

It’s a comforting thought, even if it’s not one we can ever prove. But sometimes, comfort isn’t about proof—it’s about meaning. In times of loss and chaos, we search for reasons, for signs that those we’ve loved and lost are still with us in some way. I devoted a whole chapter in my book For Alison- The Murder of a Young Journalist and a Father’s Fight for Gun Safety. It was entitled, “Scooter Winks” about unexplained occurrences that I would have previously dismissed. Yet they happened and I couldn’t deny where they came from. The Nantahala’s unlikely survival feels like one of those signs to me, as if Alison was watching over it, protecting the place that held her heart—and mine.

In the end, whether it was luck, providence, or something more personal, the outcome is the same. The Nantahala stands as a symbol of resilience amidst destruction. And perhaps, it also stands as a reminder that those we’ve lost are never truly gone, that they continue to exist in the places and things they cherished most.

Helene’s devastation may have scarred the landscape I know and love, but the survival of the Nantahala feels like a gift. It’s a reminder that while storms come and go, love—like the river Alison adored—endures, flowing ever forward. Just as we paddled through the rapids that weekend, we keep paddling through life’s storms, trusting that, somehow, we’ll make it through.

Always joyous

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