Jiving hip-to-hip with the French Broad River, Amboy Road was my favorite cross-cut through Asheville. A superb scenic route, it had the essentials: views of flowing water, panoramas of an expansive park, trails full of conversing groups, and curiously, an old Nascar short-track converted into an outdoor cycling velodrome. On harder days, ones where I hadn’t sold enough furniture, I’d turn onto Amboy, roll my windows down, and place my trust in the potential of tomorrow.
Then, last September, Hurricane Helene deluged Appalachia and submerged Amboy Road under 24 feet of surge water.
Amboy as a thoroughfare reopened six weeks later. Amboy as I remember it remains closed.
For months, perched precariously, an RV rested atop the grandstand entrance to the velodrome. Where I used to look into the woods for bears, I saw shipping containers. A quilt of massive tree skeletons hugged the riverbanks as if sewn perfectly by a giant beaver.
Infinitesimally, clean up has progressed, but when I’ve recently taken Amboy, my windows have been rolled up and my eyes have been on the road. Because if I look around, hopelessness descends swiftly. Clean-up seems impossible.
But yesterday, I got in my truck and the bloom of spring got me drunk. Rather recklessly, my eyes drifted toward the river.
I saw a barge trolling the French Broad’s banks with an attached excavator, removing trees, squashed shipping containers, lawn furniture, and whatever the hell else is in that river. I was awestruck. Hope mainlined into my soul. My eyes glistened.
Bad shit happens, but just because we can’t see the solution, doesn’t mean there is no solution. We control our hope. And when desperate, we can always place our trust in the potential of tomorrow.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
