A Reflection by Steven Follis
Growing up with a grandpa and uncle who served in the United States Air Force, and an uncle and father who were general aviation pilots meant that my brother and I spent significant time around the aviation community as kids. I had always dreamed of learning to fly, but it was not until the homebound cabin fever of COVID that the stars aligned, and I was able to pursue and ultimately earn a private pilot certificate.
When Hurricane Helene began barreling towards the Southeastern United States, I assumed the scenario that would unfold would routinely match the previous dozen such storms: heavy rain, moderate flash flooding, and potentially a short power outage. As Friday morning came and the situation became demonstrably more severe, it was clear that this was not a perfunctory storm. Over the weekend a trickle of pictures and videos began detailing the devastated power grid, cellular networks, and road infrastructure in mountain communities.
By Monday morning, pilot-focused Facebook groups, including Operation Airdrop, began calling for volunteer pilots to fly supplies to areas not accessible by semi-trucks. Our small plane was finishing its annual inspection at Charlotte-Monroe Executive Airport, but by Tuesday afternoon, I flew it back to Concord-Padgett Regional Airport. Upon arrival, I was surprised to see nearly a dozen planes waiting for takeoff and a rare Douglas DC-3 being loaded, marking an unusually busy day at the typically quiet airport.
I was not prepared for what awaited. Concord is typically a semi-sleepy airport, catering to a handful of student pilots and the comings and goings of various NASCAR teams. While landing I noticed nearly a dozen planes waiting for takeoff compared to the normal 0-3. While taxiing to our hangar I also noticed a Douglas DC-3 being loaded up on the ramp, an exceedingly rare and legendary aircraft manufactured in the 1930s and 40s and which played a critical role in the Second World War. This was not a normal day at Concord.
Parking and walking over to the Operation Airdrop hangar I was met with a beehive of activity, with dozens of volunteers eagerly unloading, weighing, and loading all manner of supplies onto pallets. Tucked behind the already towering rows of water bottles, canned food, and toiletries, I found a table with a hand-drawn “Pilots” sign. After a quick sign-in on a clipboard, a volunteer asked if I was a pilot, how much weight I could take, assigned me to Gatlinburg Pigeon Forge Airport, and pointed me at a clipboard-wielding fellow organizer. Within minutes a forklift operator had snatched up a pallet labeled “300”, placed it onto the trailer behind a golf cart, and a team of 3 folks and I were zipping our way back to my airplane where we together loaded supplies. 60 minutes from my tires touching down in Concord, those same tires lifted off headed west.
With the team of volunteers having already headed home for the night due to my late evening arrival into Gatlinburg, the airport manager kindly drove her old pickup truck out onto the ramp where we unloaded and reloaded supplies into the bed of her truck in the darkness. After exchanging pleasantries, I headed back to Concord, where two search and rescue crews from Burleson, TX waited next to large Airbus helicopters, “on call” for their next assignment. Excitement and adrenaline offset the long day’s tiredness as I collapsed into an Uber to head home.
Over the following three days I completed 4 more round trips to Rutherford County Airport and Western Carolina Regional Airport in North Carolina, Pickens County Airport in South Carolina, and Greeneville Municipal Airport in Tennesse, each time following an identical pattern of coordinating with the numerous other aircraft coming and going, landing, locating where volunteer teams were located at the airport, quickly unloading supplies, and taking off. Average time spent on the ground was maybe 15 minutes due to the sheer scale and number of aircraft coming and going and the need to make space available. Through such brevity came moments of interaction with the wonderful people volunteering to help their communities.
In Rutherfordton a team of a few dozen volunteers stood shoulder to shoulder, forming an efficient assembly line that passed each box taken from the aircraft from person to person until it reached a box truck, never once hitting the ground. In Greeneville a helicopter with a search and rescue team hovered nearby waiting to come in for fuel while planes were unloaded and supplies re-loaded into a well-worn cattle trailer parked next to airplanes. Out in Andrews, NC at Western Carolina Regional, I unloaded behind a beautiful Daher Kodiak, an airplane typically seen delivering cargo supplies to remote Alaskan villages. In Pickens County a local sheriff and police officers were leading unloading efforts; while handing a broom over and quipping, “I was going to fly in on this here broom, but I make for a poor witch,” I managed to elicit only a groan to such a low-quality joke. At each stop I was determined to make an attempt for levity through smiles, hugs, and jokes, although each was at odds with the visible exhaustion of volunteers given their recent ordeals.
As the week progressed and roads were gradually cleared, the need for aircraft deliveries gave way to more efficient heavy truck deliveries. Friday was the final day of flight operations and provided a moment to pause and reflect on the experiences of the week including the magnanimity of individuals, the challenge of processing information during times of crisis, and the sheer scale of Helene’s destruction.
The humans I met throughout the week were exceptional. From the relentless organization and processing being done in a hangar in Concord, to the frenetic unloading and reloading of planes on tarmacs, to the pilots who traveled in from homes literally across the country, each person aligned around the simple idea that each hour was an opportunity to make life a bit better for others. Skillsets did not matter as much as a desire to help. A team of ladies whose legs were covered in small, postage-stamp sized squares of painter’s tape had devised a system where after weighing an item on an electric scale they would quickly write the weight on a square, rip it off their leg, and stick onto a box. They were not able to lift heavy cases of water, but pre-staging the tape squares let them move quickly and keep pace with the deluge of supplies. Employees at Concord’s airport became a well-oiled machine, parking new planes as old ones departed and flagging a colleague over in a fuel truck to immediately refuel aircraft while new supplies were loaded. Coolers of water and platters of food arrived, a cavalcade of refreshment ensuring nourishment for all. There was not a playbook for such activities, but individuals working and iterating with their own expertise to contribute and maximize the group’s effectiveness. What a beautiful symphony to watch in action!
Less smile-inducing was the evolution of information throughout the week. A steady drumbeat of misinformation emanated through social media, straining relief efforts and muddying reality. I was surprised to receive a message from an old friend, who was eager for me to comment on how “FEMA and the FAA were blocking private relief efforts!!”; this was quite a surprise for me to learn, a private relief effort provider who had literally completed a flight moments earlier having coordinated with the FAA’s air traffic controllers throughout. The incessant rumor mills of governments stealing citizens’ land, companies conspiring to usurp lithium and quartz resources, illegal shutdowns of airports, and more were an exhausting and disappointing distraction from the reality on the ground. No government is perfect, and I suspect there were greater than zero incidents throughout the week, but those isolated occurrences pale in comparison to the overwhelming good done by the private and public sectors alike. In times of high stress and low information, may we err on the side of optimism, labor to validate and understand nuance, and resist the urge to disseminate falsities.
I did not initially intend for my week to turn into one of service, but when the stars aligned in a serendipitous way that presented opportunities to help, it was hard to prioritize myself over others. A call for trained pilots, a wife who graciously encouraged and supported me every step of the way and a boss at work who validated such participation, built a foundation that enabled me to focus on helping. The legion of volunteers across the Southeast were inspiring to meet and work alongside, each contributing their time and expertise in the service of strangers. Governor Cooper has often described the situation as, “an unprecedent tragedy requiring an unprecedented response,” which feels apt to me, a random guy who happened to know how to fly a plane but for the first time was able to leverage that ability for the better of others in close collaboration with like-minded helpers. I will cherish these experiences and memories forever and hope to again one day be a cog of assistance in the wheel of communal response in times of tragedy.
