Making Helene a Memory

I have heard it said and I have repeated, we are in the memory-making business. Well, this month Mother Nature decided she would not let us outshine her in that category. As we went to bed on September 26 after reviewing the latest forecasts and discussing the storm, we were worried for our neighbors in Georgia and Florida but felt pretty confident we would be spared from the worst of Hurricane Helene. As we got up the next morning, we slowly realized that a wobble of direction had dramatically changed the outcome for both our state and our neighbors to the north.

We began to assess damages and the reality started to sink in. It became apparent that Hurricane Helen was an unprecedented storm and we did not come out unscathed. As I write this, there are still people unaccounted for, widespread power outages and at least 230 people have lost their lives to Helene, all while another storm just passed over Florida. My heart breaks for the loss of life, the loss of home, and the loss of place and peace that many are still reeling from.

I have traveled through parks these past two weeks and the loss is devastating, but the resilience of our people is amazing. While I know we have been fortunate in our Parks and our Park’s family, our staff is intact, we are also hurting. The special places entrusted to us, the ones we have poured our hearts into sharing with the world, have been damaged beyond recognition.

I typically try to write these columns with an eye toward not singling out a park but rather sharing a statewide perspective. As I reflect on the damages from this storm there are so many devastating impacts. From landslides and crushed facilities to missing roads and thousands of downed trees. It is impossible to mention them all. A laundry list of devastation may make the scope real, but for me, it misses the point of why this is such an emotional and hard time for many people on our team. So please allow me a self-indulgent moment of catharsis as I tell you about a tree.

When I was a young Ranger I had the good fortune to be selected as part of the State Park’s climbing arborist team. We trained with ropes and saws at parks like Santee and Table Rock and practiced our skills on problem trees around the state. One of my favorite training memories was at Paris Mountain State Park in the picnic flats. We were teaching new arborists how to use ropes to climb, learning foot-locking techniques, and in general, having a great time. The picnic flats were great for the training because they had several giant Southern Red Oak trees we could practice on. I remember one arborist climbed to get a limb out of a tree and found the remnants of a sandwich a squirrel had procured and carried up to eat. At the end of the training, we got about a dozen of us in one tree and snapped a photo. I wish I could find a copy of that photo.

Paris Mountain and those trees became a favorite place of mine. As Park Manager there I lived just across from them where the old wooden playground was nestled. On days off and evenings, I would take my boys down to play under the shade of those trees. As Director, a solo walk through that picnic area, under those trees, brought memories rushing back, memories that fill me with joy even as I sit at my computer. Those trees are as grand in my memory as they ever were in life.

On October 9, I parked my car and walked into the picnic flats to join these trees and make one last memory with them. Most of the team gathered there had special memories of these trees, and though you might believe they had gathered for an emotional send-off, that is not what they were there to do. On that day, and several more, this group charged with protecting and sharing this special place, was tasked with the unimaginable duty of cutting up and chipping the trees that were damaged beyond saving. 

The work stopped when I arrived, an oddity of my job, so I could thank them for their work. The conversation was about hard work, chainsaw size, skid steers and safety. The attitudes were great and the work ethic undeniable as we stood among the remains of giants. The tree rings tell a story that is over 150 years old. These trees have become characters in hundreds of visitors’ memories and stories. These trees have seen the waters of Lake Placid dammed, and Paris Mountain protected and turned into a park. They have stood watch as families gathered and children became grandparents. These trees have seen Rangers come and go, and many come back just to say hi. Their last action will be to create one final story. It will be a tale told by a few friends who gathered to carry them away, a story of hard work and comradery, and a story of change.

This month we know we have a lot to celebrate and be proud of. From the things that were spared to the incredible people who have made this recovery effort so much better than it could have been. But this month, I ask that you remember that our team, our family past and present is suffering a loss. We are trying to find ways to express and to remember, to mourn what will never be again, and to plan for what can be for the future. Our impacted parks won’t be the same in our lifetimes and though we recognize it is not our doing, we still need to find a moment to just be.

To my team members reading this, my heart breaks for some Southern Red Oaks, for my family who will never get to see them again, and for all of the special places I know you too have lost. Hang in there.

Paul

October 2024