Today is our 19th anniversary. I wrote this weeks after our house was hit directly by a tornado. I thought today would be a good day to share it...
I know I’m not alone when I say it’s been a different year—somewhat of a crazy wild ride where we don’t know what lies around the corner. In different ways so many of us are under unimaginable stress. I can’t even begin to get my head around what those on the front lines are experiencing. And those who are under such financial strain unable to work.
I’m driving to the river late this afternoon to fish with Jamie. This is the first time I’ve been able to pause in a while and I realized it’s also the first time back on the water in what seems like forever. I also realize I’ve probably eaten a few too many Twizzlers through the course of this pandemic. I’ve had to put my guide dreams aside for a moment and be a semi homeschool teacher and continue to operate our guide service.
As I get to the boat ramp, I am actually a little giddy. I take in the fall hues—glowing in the perfect late afternoon light. It truly is the golden hour. Jamie is already at the boat ramp. He has just finished up his guide trip and is meeting Andy, the photographer for Fayettechill who will join us today. We chat a little and then get moving since there is not a lot of light left. I back the boat in the water in a reasonable amount of time. I still get really proud of myself that I can do it now.
As we motor to where we will start the float, I get lost in my thoughts. I’m so intrigued with the healing powers of water, the soothing sound as it moves with the boat, how it swirls. I get a glimpse of what lies beneath the surface—amazed at this other world teeming with life. These quiet moments on the water are so powerful, giving me perspective.
Jamie shifts to the oars and I cast my rod—not too shabby even though it’s been a minute. I cast a little more than usual —getting lost in the rhythm and back to my thoughts. The last few months have been a whirlwind.
On September 1 late afternoon Jamie was at the house with our three dogs and cat when a tornado dropped down the river bluff and made a beeline for our house. It was a direct hit. We live in the river valley, surrounded by hundreds if not thousands of tall trees. Hundreds of our massive trees were snapped like matchsticks falling on and through our roof. Jamie somehow managed to get all the dogs into the laundry room, the only room without windows. Our 14 year old lab, Gus, has trouble with the garage stairs which lead to a safer space. Jamie could hear it coming and managed to close the garage door just as it had arrived at our house bowing the door. He dove into a crawlspace, holding onto the piling for what seemed like an eternity, not knowing whether he would make it or even if the house would still be standing.
I had gone up the mountain hours earlier to my parents’ house to use their wifi for virtual school for the kids. I managed to get a call through to Jamie to see if our wifi was back. He told me the house had been hit. For a second I thought he was kidding. I quickly realized this was for real and also he was in shock. For the first time ever I called 911.
It was hours before I could get there with the kids. I was standing at the top of our neighborhood about a mile from our house trying to get messages through to Jamie to make sure he was ok. Coverage was spotty. I was getting information indirectly through others that Jamie and the dogs were ok, but Tiger the cat was still missing.
First responders got there on foot, climbing over trees, etc. The road was impassable and it took awhile to get just a narrow lane open to our neighbors' house. It would be longer to get to our house and beyond. I finally pushed through and walked with the kids the mile to our house not knowing what we would see. My neighbor spotted us and directed our path to Jamie, who was standing near his truck in the middle of our property looking dazed and still worried about not finding the cat. I immediately started searching with the kids and thinking about where he would go. I determined he had to be under the house. I slithered back to the far corner where I found him and pulled him out—untouched but traumatized.
The days that followed were exhausting. We were there from sun up to sun down trying to save our house. Subsequent rains came and poured in through the chimney, through broken windows and holes in the roof. It was hard to get tarps on our incredibly tall peak to keep more water from coming in. We were overcome with emotion and being overwhelmed by it all. We took turns holding each other up, but at times we would both break down simultaneously...
I land a rainbow. Even though they are more plentiful and not as elusive as our wild brown trout, I still get excited. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect evening, the perfect balance of conversation, comfortable silence, tying of knots and bending of rods...
It has been months of cutting, removing and burning debris and living in a camper as we rebuild. As devastating as it was and is, I know we are incredibly lucky. Had we not had this huge steel I-beam that spans the peak of our house, it may have been a different story. Our house would surely have been flattened and I’m not sure what would have happened to Jamie and our four- legged family members. I don’t want to think what would have happened.
In all of this I am thankful. This is one of those defining moments in life that has deepened our connection, deepened my compassion. Until you experience something so profound, you never realize how these events impact lives long after the storm.
As we drift along taking turns at bat and on the oars, I think about how the river connects us all. I also think about how I don’t need to eat as many Twizzlers. And I really think about how I need to get on the water more. We will rebuild. We will help save what we can and replant what we lose. Our watershed will heal and thrive again. I don’t have to be physically on it all the time.
Our little excursion ended with me being able to snag one of those beautiful browns. It’s always exhilarating to feel that strong tug on the line. To give a little and let it run balanced with pulling a little line and then a little more until finally, hopefully, you have that moment of seeing it in the net and then ultimately, releasing it back to that other world. I got my moment.
As we approached the boat ramp to take out, the light had left us. We parted ways and I left feeling somewhat lighter, energized. I have a little guilty pleasure of drinking lattes and listening to the coffee house on satellite radio. One song, It’ll Be Alright by J.J. Heller keeps replaying and the words ring true for me.
“We’ve seen the waters rise
We’ve lived through desperate times
We’ve built it all and watched it fall down
I’ll hold you in the dark or daylight
Insta: @gettingoutdoors Photos: Andy Chasteen Insta: @andychasteen
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