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The Assembly is putting storm coverage outside of our paywall and making it free to republish in any local or regional outlet.
Hurricane or no, Lisa Frady was determined to get to work on Friday morning, September 27. Despite Hurricane Helene bearing down on Western North Carolina, the 112th Cherokee Indian Fair, scheduled to start October 1, was at the top of her mind. This was her first time as sole supervisor of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians’ largest annual event, and she wanted it to be a success.
“If you know me and my work ethic, I know what this means to people, so I’ve got to make it happen,” she said.
From her home in Big Cove, a tribal community within the town of Cherokee that abuts Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the road didn’t look that bad. She delayed her team’s start time from 9 to 10 a.m. so the winds would have time to die down, and then she started to drive. She crossed a few minor puddles, then began driving in the left lane as the right filled with water. The situation deteriorated quickly.
“I went around a curve, and the whole road was like a raging river,” she said. “So I sat there, and I thought, ‘Should I do it? Should I not?’ And something in my gut said, ‘You better turn around and go back home.’ So I turned around, went back home.”
Helene wiped out phone and internet services across Western North Carolina, so it wasn’t until days later that Frady and her fellow tribal members learned of the devastation the storm had caused across the Southern Appalachians—and the extent to which Cherokee had been spared. Big Cove saw the worst of the flooding on tribal lands, but even there, nobody lost their life or their home. The tribe’s water and wastewater treatment systems remained intact.
“We were spared, by the grace of God,” said Anthony Sequoyah, the tribe’s secretary of operations.
That’s not to say tribal lands weren’t impacted. Many people lost power, and some riverside properties flooded. The KOA Campground spent 12 days closed for cleanup during what is typically the busiest time of the year. The storm “wiped out” tribal trout hatcheries, which lost about 23,000 pounds of fish, and caused road damage in Big Cove, Sequoyah said. But tribal members and their leaders know they’re lucky.
“We just have to be thankful and make sure we’re reaching out and using our resources to help these other people, because they lost it all,” said Richard French, who represents Big Cove on Tribal Council, EBCI’s legislative body, as he walked around the fairgrounds Saturday. “I mean, we’ve got enrolled members that live in some of these counties that lost everything that we’re helping. We’re making sure we’re doing our part.”
Immediately after the storm hit, the tribal government set up food and water distribution centers for Cherokee people affected by the floods. But as of last week, the main focus has been supporting the emergency response in the state’s most-affected counties, Sequoyah said. Each day, he said, the tribe is sending at least 20 trucks and trailers full of supplies from their territory on the Qualla Boundary into the surrounding region. Many of these supplies were donated by other federally recognized tribes, fruits of relationships that tribal officials have built over many years.
“Everybody’s helping because everybody knows it could have been us, just as easy as it was them,” said French. “You always want to make sure you take care of people because it could happen to you too, and you would expect people to do the same for you.”
In addition to supplies, the tribe is also sending first responders to help with the rescue and recovery operations unfolding across Western North Carolina. Emergency response teams are “fully mobilized and prepared to assist” any communities that need them, said Principal Chief Michell Hicks in a video message on October 6, assuring Western North Carolina counties that “the road to recovery will be difficult, but you do not have to walk it alone.”
Following Helene, about 230 people have been confirmed dead in six states, around half of them in North Carolina. Amid such tragedy, tribal officials considered whether to cancel this year’s fair. But they decided the circumstances made it important to offer “a chance for our people to support one another and lean on the strength of our community,” Hicks said in a statement.
Jeanne Wachacha, 67, was at the fair with her extended family on Saturday, the last of a five-day event that in a normal year draws both tourists and Cherokee people from across the country. It includes ubiquitous fair pastimes like carnival rides and kettle corn alongside events showcasing Cherokee heritage—a blowgun contest, stickball games, and a frybread competition.
Wachacha said that while survivors’ guilt is real, so is the need for normalcy—especially when it comes to children. And in the wake of the flood, the fair has served another important purpose as well.
“People get together and make connections to help and to find out what they can do,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of that.”
Throughout Western North Carolina, entire communities lie decimated, the damage so severe that recovery feels impossible to contemplate. But Cherokee people know something about surviving near-impossible odds.
Just down the road from the fairgrounds, two groups of shirtless boys—one wearing red shorts and other in green and orange—are proof of that. They’ve gathered to play stickball, “anetso” in the Cherokee language. It’s an ancient and intensely physical game whose roots are both spiritual and political. Later that day, the boys’ older brothers, fathers, and uncles will take their place on the field for the teen and men’s games that many fairgoers count as their favorite part of the week. LeChay Arch, 40, whose five boys have all played stickball, describes it as a mixture of lacrosse and football. Nicknamed “the little brother of war,” stickball was often played to settle intertribal disputes instead of battles.
Over the past 200 years, the Trail of Tears, the Indian boarding school movement, and the influence of Western culture in Native communities have threatened to erase all manner of long-standing indigenous cultural knowledge. Stickball could have been one such casualty—but today, it’s a thriving tradition on the Eastern Band’s lands. Every year brings more teams, more players, and more widespread enthusiasm for the games.
“It was never lost altogether, and it will always come back around,” Arch said as she watched her 4-year-old son run around the field. “Some things might slow down, but they’ll always be there.”
Holly Kays was previously a reporter for The Smoky Mountain News. She is the author of two books, most recently Trailblazers and Traditionalists: Modern-day Smoky Mountain People, a collection of 33 pieces profiling the diverse people who call the Smoky Mountain region home.
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