The real first responders of Appalachia weren’t on the payroll

I was working out of Blaze News’ headquarters in Irving, Texas, on September 27, 2024, when Hurricane Helene smashed into the heart of Appalachia. Within days, the scale of the devastation in Western North Carolina began to come into focus — and I knew I had to be there.

“I have more going on right now than I can keep up with,” I told my editor in chief. “So I need you to talk me out of this — but I think I need to be in North Carolina.”

Western North Carolina’s story is not one of despair but of resilience and defiance.

Matthew Peterson looked up from his desk, paused for a moment, and said, “You need to be in Western North Carolina.”

By that afternoon, I had checked out of my hotel and hit the road. My preferred route — Interstate 40 through the mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina — had been washed out by the storm, so I took the long way: I-20 to Atlanta, then I-85 up to Durham. Along the way, I stopped at eight Best Buy stores trying to find a Starlink satellite unit. All of them were sold out. It was a good sign: Relief workers were already headed into the mountains.

At home in the Raleigh area, I swapped my usual TV gear for boots and cargo pants. I ended up needing two pairs of boots. I blew out the soles on a pair during a rugged six-mile hike along the Toe River with a cadaver dog search team.

Blaze Media’s Jill Savage and Julio Rosas had already set out with Glenn Beck and Mercury One to Asheville in the early days after the storm. They quickly linked up with Savage Freedoms Relief Operations, a nonprofit led by Adam Smith, a 17-year Army veteran and former Green Beret. SFRO was operating out of the Harley-Davidson dealership in Swannanoa, and when I showed up unannounced and flashed my Blaze Media press badge, they took me in. I embedded with them for more than three weeks.

Smith is the kind of man you’d cast in a movie: six foot three, broad-shouldered, and commanding. But his heroism wasn’t theatrical. The first rescue he led was an aerial evacuation of his own daughter and ex-wife from the flooded Broad River Valley. He had no idea whether they were dead or alive until he got there.

Under Smith’s leadership — and in coordination with veterans, nonprofits, and local officials — SFRO helped launch one of the most effective private disaster responses in recent memory. They delivered nearly 6 million pounds of supplies and flew over 2,500 air sorties. Their supply chain used everything from helicopters and trucks to pack animals.

I witnessed more than 100 volunteers — many of them veterans — bringing food, fuel, medicine, clothing, and shelter to remote communities. There were days of search and rescue, followed by the harder, heartbreaking work of search and recovery.

Federal and state authorities were much slower to respond. National Guard troops and the 18th Airborne Corps were eventually deployed, working under the direction of Smith and SFRO leadership — but never in the numbers needed.

WNC saw no more than 3,500 military personnel at any one time. That’s a fraction of the 60,000 National Guard troops deployed to New Orleans after Katrina or the 17,000 sent to Haiti after the 2010 earthquake. By November 19 — just before Thanksgiving — virtually all military aid was withdrawn, even as thousands remained homeless and winter set in.

The Biden administration and North Carolina Gov. Roy Cooper (D) failed to meet the moment. But others stepped in: Samaritan’s Purse, Mercury One, Great Needs Ministry (an Amish charity from Pennsylvania), and countless others.

“We wanted to help the people with the disaster,” Amanda Zook, a volunteer from the Amish group, told Blaze News. “Our hearts just felt drawn to come help the people in this area.” The Amish have spent countless hours repairing and rebuilding homes and businesses in the hurricane-afflicted area.

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  Photo by Win McNamee/Getty Images

Local high-schoolers stepped up, too. Students from the Mountain Heritage High School carpentry class built a tiny home for 75-year-old artist Sherry Housley, who lost everything in the flood. “I was flooded with water,” she said. “Now I’m flooded with angels.”

There are hundreds of stories like hers. But recovery remains a long road. Estimates put the damage at $50 billion to $60 billion. So far, only a tenth of that has been allocated. One FEMA veteran told me, “This is the worst I’ve ever seen … times 10.”

I caught up with Adam Smith again just before the Independence Day holiday. He still lives in one of the hardest-hit areas. “Western North Carolina’s story is not one of despair but of resilience and defiance,” he told me. “The rugged people of the mountains have proven that they will stand when the system that is designed to protect, rescue, or save them collapses.”

“But they should not have to do it alone,” he added. “The region needs honest leadership, transparent spending, and a dramatic reduction of bureaucratic barriers.”

I asked him whether Western North Carolinians could still celebrate Independence Day after all they’ve endured.

“The real spirit of July Fourth lives in every volunteer wielding a chainsaw,” Smith said. “Every first responder risking life and limb. Every neighbor sharing a meal. Every small-town leader fighting to cut through the red tape.”

He’s right. “The battle for Western North Carolina isn’t over,” Smith told me. “It’s a fight that demands every American’s attention, because when the systems designed to protect us collapse, all that remains is each other.”

The people of WNC haven’t lost their independence — or their soul. They haven’t just survived. They’ve reminded the rest of us what it means to be free.