Bidding farewell to the paradise that was Curtis Creek

Homes. Businesses. Cars. Jobs. Cherished possessions. Priceless family heirlooms.

Ninety-nine precious human lives.

In comparison to them, my own sorrow seems trifling, hardly worth mentioning. To do so seems almost impudent. Compared to the pain of much greater loss, mine is of little consequence.

All I lost was my favorite place on the planet.

Granted, Curtis Creek isn’t technically gone.

It still flows, clear and cold, out from under the bedrock somewhere high above Old Fort, snaking its way down through the steep slopes of the Blue Ridge, widening only modestly as it nears its confluence with the upper Catawba, where the two lock arms and begin their long, inexorable journey to the Atlantic.

The countless midstream boulders that stanched that flow for centuries, splitting the current into slow, swirling eddies on one side and frothing plunge pools on the other, are still in the creek, although most have been relocated miles downstream.

The trees that lent a distinctive character to certain spots along the banks — a gnarled holly here, an ancient cottonwood there — have been ripped from the ground and washed away with the torrent.

There are, undoubtedly, a few confused, wayward, trout that managed to avoid being swept from their homes or smothered in the stifling mud carried along by the deluge.

But the food chain that keeps them alive has been disrupted. Before Helene, you could pick up any rock anywhere in Curtis, turn it over, and see aquatic insect larva of all descriptions — stonefly, mayfly, caddis, March brown — writhing and squirming away from the daylight. For now, though, the nymphs have been scoured from their holds.

Gone, too, is a century of dark substrate that tiled the streambed and gave Curtis its soothing patina of deep green, transitioning to black in the deepest spots. Now, the bottom is pale and sandy and featureless. The water has turned to a diluted, slate-blue, like the rivers far to the north when they run high with melting snow in the spring.

The trappings of man fared no better than nature’s installations. Concrete bridges where friends talked and sipped libations between rounds of fishing have been overthrown and cracked into pieces the size of cars. Sturdily built piers where those in wheelchairs could spend an afternoon casting and relaxing are splintered into toothpicks.

But life goes on, and in time, nature, as she always does, will magically, transcendently, heal herself. The trees and bugs and trout will return, and the people will follow.

The heart of Curtis Creek still beats.

Its soul, I fear, will be forever altered.

As will ours.

Our ancestors were drawn to these hills, with their endless, sheltered coves and sparkling rivers, in part because the isolation afforded settlers a sense of security the flatlands can never provide.

That feeling of being shielded from the worst of Mother Nature’s fury — tornadoes, massive floods, unimaginable hurricanes — carries over to this day.

But Helene changed all that, as surely as she altered the courses of rivers all across these timeless, beloved mountains.

When that fiendish interloper roared through the Carolina hills, she carried away with her a sense of safety that had abided with most of us throughout our lives.

She tore away pieces of our hearts, some small and some enormous.

A sizable chunk of mine sailed off down Curtis Creek into the mighty Catawba, rolling ever onward to the eternal sea.