There’s a sign at the eastern terminus of Interstate 40, near North Carolina’s Atlantic Coast, that reads “Barstow, Calif., 2554 miles.”

      I-40, one of the longest continuous interstates in the nation, cuts right through America, through state after state, almost from coast to coast. A little more than a week before Hurricane Helene hit the mountains of western North Carolina, where it killed dozens and created unfathomable destruction, we drove through those mountains, on I-40, on the way to and from now equally troubled eastern Tennessee.

      I don’t like that part of the drive very much—even though it’s an interstate highway, the road is twisty, narrow, and you feel almost claustrophobic with the southern Appalachians hanging gloomily over you. There’s not much distance on either side of the highway and there are a couple of tunnels that miraculously were built through those mountains. How did they do that?

      Because of the engineering difficulties, the road through the mountains wasn’t completed until the late 1960s. Now parts of it are gone, but I-40 is only one of the almost numberless roads in the area that are broken, closed, impenetrable, impassable.

      I’ve lived in North Carolina now for almost 40 years, and I know the area that has been so irredeemably damaged pretty well. Last summer, we spent some time in Old Fort and Black Mountain, two quaint mountain towns near Asheville that have been almost obliterated by the hurricane. My kids fondly remember the penny candy displays at the Mast General Store in Boone, Valle Crucis and Asheville.

      And I’m definitely not the only one with connections. North Carolina is a very wide state; more than 400 of I-40’s 2554 are within our borders. I-40 is the ribbon that ties the state together; that’s why, even here in the NC Piedmont, more than three hours down the road from the mountains, so many of us have been affected or feel they have.  

      The daughter and family of one of our oldest friends here lives in Asheville and the big news we heard yesterday is that the family now has cell service. But the family still doesn’t have power or water. They may not have them for a long time.

      Other friends, on the way home from Tennessee, found themselves stuck in Asheville, on the day the storm hit. They had to spend a couple of nights in a hotel without water or power before they could slowly escape east, using multiple alternatives to I-40.

      Another couple we know has children and grandchildren in Asheville. My friend Jock just told me his cabin outside Rutherfordton has come through blessedly unscathed.

      Local restaurants here are raising money for hurricane relief. Neighbors are heading to Costco to buy supplies. Local political leaders are sending out emails offering advice on how to donate. Everyone here seems to be wondering, how can we help? What can we do?

      Asheville, in particular, is a very cool place—lots of neat restaurants, a center of craft brewing, a terrific indie bookstore, buskers all over the streets and much else. And being in a valley, usually mild weather. That’s why so many retired people, people like us, have moved there in recent years.

      And that’s why, so many of us here think, if it could happen there, it could happen anywhere. In our sixth, seventh and eighth decades of life, we are made aware, once again, of the increasing fragility of things, of the fickleness of fate, of good luck and bad luck, and of how precious our good life is.