CHARLOTTE, N.C. — The long climb to Banner Elk follows switchbacks tangled with power lines, blocked by tree trunks and complicated by a two-lane highway reduced to a pile of boulders, and when you reach the top, you find a town living without running water for the last five days.

The police lieutenant saw his house float away, so he’s been sleeping on the couch at Town Hall.

For days, food, water and diapers have arrived by helicopter.

Some parts of town may go without water for months because Hurricane Helene took the pipes.

“How are we holding up?” asked Town Manger Rick Owen. “You can ask me when I’m tearing up or when I’m feeling strong.”

And yet on Tuesday, a convoy of volunteers loaded Banner Elk’s supplies and headed down the mountain in a 30-truck convoy.

Because down in Avery County, people fared far worse.

People missing in Avery County, NC

Driving in Avery County, known for its ski resorts, gets tricky on a normal day.

But post-Helene, the roads lay scattered with rocks and river mud, cratered with sinkholes and sudden dropoffs — all passing through landscapes marked by pulverized houses and cars floating upside-down.

The convoy made its first stop in the tiny community of Frank, population 158, just down the road from tinier Minneapolis, where fire Capt. Kacey Hughes pointed out two houses that slid down a hillside and smashed into tall oak trunks. They remained there in a thousand dangling pieces.

“We have one person missing from that,” he said. “It’s just devastating. We have people who can’t get their insulin. We have people who can’t get their inhalers. Welcome to the Metropolis of Frank.”

To these far-flung communities, bigger and more tourist-friendly cities like Asheville take all the attention.

Around Frank and Minneapolis, churches set up folding tables on the side of the road, handing out donated water. Signs get tacked to trees, saying, “Food here.”

In Banner Elk, chain saws, generators and the need for toilets

In Banner Elk, Lowe’s opened its doors to all takers, handing out chain-saws, generators and batteries.

They fear the attention will fade.

This catastrophe will last months, if not years. Meanwhile, the town needs trash bins for spoiling food.

“Portable toilets would be phenomenal,” said police Chief Kevin Hodges.

“Let’s be honest,” said fire Chief Tyler Burr. “We’re the stepchild of the nation. If Taylor Swift gets engaged tomorrow, we’re an afterthought.”

After losing their homes to Helene, they helped others

On its second stop, the convoy pulled into the even tinier community of Spear, where trucks donating food and clothing formed a rural traffic jam.

Erin and Derek Buchanan have five employees at their country store who lost their houses in Helene, and all five were helping gather donations.

“One of them is living in a tent,” she said.

Asked if that person was available to talk, she said, “He’s on a grading crew right now, working in the roads.”

Her sister is the local mail carrier, though Helene’s flooding tore through the nearby post office in Plumtree, reducing it to studs and insulation.

She knows everyone on her route, and she made her rounds making a tally of who was still there.

How many?

“Most of them,” Buchanan said.

Smashed cars in corn fields, live wires on roads

For their last stop, the convoy pushed on to Spruce Pine, past smashed cars in corn fields, past a Dollar General shoveling out from under two feet of mud.

They passed country lanes few ever travel — Licklog Road and Tatertown Lane — knowing many people now missing will not be turning up with a story to tell.

Then a few miles from Spruce Pine, the convoy stopped dead. Nobody moved for 30 minutes. Finally, a patrol car flew past with blue lights flashing.

Live wire on the road.

Everybody turned around, back into the ruins they passed.

They dropped what canned goods and condensed milk they had with a church and its folding tables, and they drove back to Banner Elk, which now seemed like civilization.

“Nobody’s talking politics,” said Mike Dunn, a town councilman and one among 100 volunteers working 14 hours a day.

“Nobody’s talking religion. Nobody’s talking anything else,” Burr, the fire chief, chimed in.

“A week ago,” he said, “I was worried about my credit score. Now we’ve got to save the town.”

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