10,000 beavers
Environmental Destruction on the French Broad River
An excavator drives down the French Broad River removing stream side vegetation and legacy wood.
10,000 Beavers
I lie awake at night tossing and turning…
In September of 2024 Hurricane Helene hit the Southern Appalachian mountains in Western North Carolina. In its aftermath our small corner of trees, fog, and rugged topography was suddenly front and center of the 24 hour news cycle. Talking heads describe the flooding as a “natural disaster.” Camera operators, news rooms, and anchors were a twitter over the latest tragedy to befall an area, and arrived in droves to report on the “Thousand Year” flood event that had just occurred in Western North Carolina (the last flood similar to this magnitude was in 1918). The city of Asheville was hard hit as were many mountain communities near creeks and rivers. There were numerous lives lost, entire cities were without running water for months—homes, communities, persons completely disappeared; never to be seen again—grocery stores were closed, cell and internet service was even more limited than usual, if it existed at all. Cars lined the roads in spots where a cell tower was still in operation as drivers pulled over to call loved ones and family members to let them know they were ok or in need. People in my own town suddenly found themselves homeless and surfing couches or sleeping on the street. Credit cards and bank cards were no longer valid forms of payment, transactions were wholly or mostly in cash, and the banks were closed. Rumors of armed militias and confrontations with government aid workers swirled and snowballed until the pundits finally took over from the news anchors, and politicized an already tense and volatile situation. After a few days, maybe a week, it’s hard to remember those days accurately; towns and businesses began to open back up as people sought some semblance of normalcy. I found myself out amongst the crowds looking at the glassy eyes of thousand yard stares. People were fully in shock. To say that lives, communities, economies, spirits and souls were disrupted would be an understatement.
THE RIVER
The French Broad River begins its journey to the Mississippi, and eventually the Gulf of Mexico, on the south facing slopes of the Balsam Mountains in the Pisgah National Forest. From my home in Pisgah Forest I can travel west to the towns of Brevard, Rosman, and Cedar Mountain along highway 64 and 276. This area is often referred to as the Headwaters of the French Broad. Near the town of Rosman multiple forks—The North, West, East and Middle—of the French Broad flow together to form the French Broad proper. Further downstream near the town of Brevard rivers and creeks with names such as Cathey’s and The Davidson join the main flow. From Brevard the big river makes a hard right and flows south towards Hendersonville and the small communities that surround it. Just before Hendersonville at the aptly named town of Horse Shoe the river makes a hard bend and turns north again on its way to Asheville. Leaving Brevard by road, rather than river, and heading east on US Highway 280 towards the city of Asheville one continues along the outskirts of Pisgah National Forest and through the Mills River drainage and its forks (the North and South), also major tributaries of the French Broad. If one took a quick left off 280 just after the unincorporated town of Pisgah Forest, wound their way to the back of the hollar, left the pavement at the cul-de-sac, and kicked their truck into 4WD before climbing the dirt road up a ridge of Tarkiln Mountain; they would find themselves dead ending at a modest home where I currently sit attempting to explain to you (the reader) a story that I (the author) still do not fully understand.
Further east on Highway 280, after the town of Mills River, the French Broad shows itself again to the travelers of the major Highways as it passes under 280 and by the Asheville airport. From here it flows adjacent to Highway 191 and Interstate I-26 before entering the Biltmore Estate. This area is an odd one for the traveler with a map. From the car window one could easily make the mistake of thinking they have left the boundless forests and wilderness of Pisgah, but consulting the map it would be obvious that one quick turn would find the traveler either on the Biltmore Estate (a large private undeveloped inholding within the city of Asheville) or back in Pisgah National Forest. Asheville is a sliver of modern civilization sandwiched between large tracts of mostly empty government and private lands. Just past the Asheville Mall the river slowly winds its way through multiple parks and greenways before passing through Asheville’s River Arts district (a former industrial area now quickly converting to green space and art studios). After the arts district the French Broad passes through its first run of the river dam at the Municipal Sewer District before flowing along the topography and adjacent to River Road on its way to the towns of Marshall, another run of the river dam, and eventually crossing the Tennessee line just after the town of Hot Springs. All along this way it has been gathering water from small, medium, and large creeks and a few major rivers. She is big and brawling below Asheville as the topography in the direction of Tennessee becomes steeper and more rocky.
BACK TO THE TOP
The small creeks and even some of the larger streams and rivers that form the headwaters of the French Broad are trout waters. These rivers flow from 6,000 ft plus elevations and remain cold and clean enough to support native and non-native wild reproducing populations of Brown, Brook and Rainbow Trout as well as being home to the Eastern Hellbender. The Southern Appalachian Brook Trout is our only native species and is mostly relegated to the highest elevations and coldest creeks. These creeks and rivers flow mostly in the Pisgah National Forest and are protected from the usual suspects of enemies to wild and native creatures such as intensive logging, intensive farming, and intensive development; this is not so downstream of Pisgah. Once our rivers and creeks leave the forest and enter private lands they become subject to the wishes, desires, fantasies, and hubris of men. What is a high gradient cold trout stream suddenly spills out onto a massive river valley and the waiting maul of technology, industry, and idolatry. What should be a flood mitigating wetland of significant size has been mostly drained for pasture and farm land. The creeks that once meandered through these wetlands have now been straightened, their bends, turns, oxbows, character, and personality lobotomized into an expressionless, drooling, mouth-breathing straight line. These straight lines flow into another mostly straight line. The French Broad has been subject to the fantasies of men for generations (the river’s course was manipulated as early at the late 1800s in an effort to have the “Mountain Lilly”—a side wheeler steam boat—be the world's “highest boat line”), and the scars of our father’s folly were still evident before Helene and continue to this day. The French Broad has a history with industry, tourism, and development that extends back at least 200 years. Even the small creeks in Pisgah once ran warm and muddy during the logging boom. This is no wilderness river, virgin and untouched by the hands of man. Rather, she is an old and resilient body fighting for space and life under the burden of the insatiable desire of men to control, manipulate, possess, tame, and bring to bear a wild, powerful and recalcitrant spirit.
Below the rocky high relief mountains of Pisgah and on the valley floor she now flows slower and deeper, contained inside the eroding high banks of pasture and farmland. The trout have mostly given up here. The water is far too warm to support a reproductive population. For a short stretch the state dumps in their stockers and calls it a “trout fishery.” Occasionally a trout appearing to be of natural origins comes to hand. Beyond an area known as Island Ford even this industrial fishery supplanted by fisheries technologists and the marvels of modern science cannot be sustained. The water is too warm here for any trout, and becomes the haunt of Muskellunge or Musky, and in a few spots the endangered Appalachian Elk Toe Mussel. Native to the French Broad drainage, the musky were mostly extirpated post WWII due to poor land use practices (they need the inside bends of those straightened creeks to spawn) and due to pollution from now defunct industries such as paper mills. The state has gone to great lengths to try and restore this fishery through both stocking and working with local land conservancies to restore wetlands where purchase allows. Musky exist throughout the main stem of the river, but this valley floor section full of wood and deep holes (pre clean up efforts) was the section where they were most often caught and pursued. This is the area between Brevard and Hendersonville if you have been following along on the map.
After making the big northward turn at Horse Shoe the French Broad flows towards and through the city of Asheville. Directly behind the Asheville airport with winged travelers overhead the river changes character again. Musky are still around in sparse numbers, I have even caught an occasional winter “trout” in the middle of Asheville, but these rocky fast waters are home to the glory of the French Broad, the “gamiest fish that swims in freshwater,” and the authors favorite of all fly rod pursuits—the smallmouth bass. My youngest daughter’s favorite days with dad are floating the French Broad through the River Arts District where she can catch hard fighting smallmouth bass, and admire the work of the graffiti artists along the bridge pylons. She will turn 10 this September and I hope we are able to celebrate in this manner. From Asheville to Hot Springs the river drops significantly in elevation and becomes wide, fast, rocky, sometimes shallow, and loaded with smallmouth. These fish are both wild and native like our Southern Appalachian Brook Trout.They take a fly readily like our brook trout, they fight mightily and provide incredible sport like our brook trout. Unlike our Brook Trout they are not anguished over by sportsman/conservationist and unlike our Brook Trout they are an incredibly resilient species. This fishery continues downstream all the way to Redmond dam below Marshall where the character of the fishery changes yet again. The river below Redmond supports not only game fish such as Musky and Smallmouth but also many “non-game” fish historically native to the French Broad that cannot make it back upstream to the waters of their extirpated ancestors due to the dam at Redmond and MSD. These “non-game” fish and mussels are critically important to the overall health of the river as they are the mechanism by which our system moves fecundity and fertility from the lower reaches back up through the system and to the headwaters where the trout swim. Put simply, if you enjoy trout fishing in the creeks of Pisgah you need the fish (game and nongame) in the lower river to move the nutrient load upstream. Prior to Hurricane Helene biologists at North Carolina Wildlife Resources commission were involved in efforts to restore these fish to the river above Asheville.
Now that you know this valley garden and the Angels who wander it (I am not one of them)—the trout, the musky, the smallmouth, the Eastern Hellbender, the Elk Toe Mussel, the good people of our towns, a precocious kid with an affinity for smallmouth and graffiti, and a host of non-game, but critically important to the health of the river, fish— allow me to introduce the serpent. For what would a southern story be, without the Devil.
THE SERPENT
“Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field” —Genesis 3:1
In the late 19th century and early 20th century the mountains of Southern Appalachia experienced the logging boom that had previously occurred in the North East and Upper MidWest. The logging industry brought jobs, increased economic activity, and severe environmental degradation, especially in creeks and rivers. Higher elevation waters warmed from the lack of canopy and became silt laden from the erosion occurring on the barren hillsides. In response to this environmental disaster sportsmen and conservationists alike pulled together to look forward to a day when the health of the land would return and fish would again swim in the cold clear creeks. They had a vision of forested hills and healthy watersheds to drink from and so Parks, National Forests, Wilderness areas and other manner of managed and protected and semi-protected lands found their ways into the hands of the public. This pattern of destruction from industry run amok followed by an awakening and restoration efforts from the public is one repeated numerous times. Being the creatures that we are—and burdened with the nature of the desire for quick fixes, brilliant ideas, an affinity for the works of our own hands—man jumped into action. In his most vulnerable state—the state that implores him to “do good’ and with all the false virtue, hubris, folly, and indifference he can muster— he went to work repairing and supplanting what was lost. If nature couldn’t repair herself in a timely fashion so as to be a comfort and respite to the man tortured by the realization of his greed and folly; then we shall do the work for her and speed the process along. The hand of man, beguiled by the serpent of industry, reached out to the tree of knowledge and began creating his own fish. In industrial facilities known as hatcheries they were raised, stocked, captured, and stripped of their eggs and milt. What once occurred along a clean river bottom between the interstitial spaces near the hyporheic, between two weary travelers from down river when finding one another suitable; now occurred under a fluorescent light in a five gallon bucket assisted by a gloved hand. The progeny of these man made trout were bred to be ever more convenient to the fair weather fisherman, lackadaisical guide, fascinated fish tech, and over burdened fisheries bureaucrat. They were stocked by the thousands of pounds into the degraded creeks and rivers and celebrated as the technological answer to a technological problem… with nature. It was in this way the subtle serpent of industry beguiled to the good but selfish nature of the sportsman-conservationist and this practice continues to this day. We are ever increasingly separated from the natural world, even when we attempt to engage with it. What good does it do a man to seek solace and connection with the natural world through rod, line, and hook if the end result is him connecting with a sterile rubber mechanized synthetic industrial fish?
Why ask these questions about stocked fish? What do they have to do with a “natural disaster” and a “clean up effort?” If you aren’t making the connection yet give me a few more moments of your time.
THE CLEAN UP
In January of 2025, a few short months after the hurricane I saw an advertisement for volunteer efforts to help clean up debris along the French Broad. The post from a local conservation group showed volunteers in rubber boots removing trash and debris from banks and trees along the river. I looked at my schedule and found a time where I could be a part of the next clean up event. I was due for a major orthopedic surgery in February and knew that this may be my last chance to put boots on the ground in the grass roots efforts to help the river. On a cold Saturday morning I and a large group of eclectic folks met on the banks of the French Broad at the town of Barnard between Marshall and Hot Springs. We pulled and yanked PVC piping from trees, we picked up various forms of plastic from water bottles to shed roofs. Pieces of civilization were scattered along the banks and we placed them into contractor bags and carried them to large metal dumpsters. Eventually we filled an entire dumpster and large trailer with remnants of the storm. We had made a small dent in an overwhelming project. It was obvious to me then that equipment would eventually be needed. In March I watched the box trucks roll into town. We were told help was on the way, money had been appropriated, restoration and clean up efforts would proceed. What happened next was a full on gold rush level effort to move as many cubic yards of “debris” (debris was apparently defined as anything that fits inside an excavator claw) from the river as possible before a June 1st deadline.
Environmental Destruction on the French Broad River
A barge is used to remove vegetation along the stream bank on the French Broad River.
The area I described for you in previous paragraphs lies within a few counties; Transylvania, Henderson, Buncombe, and Madison. I am a resident of Transylvania where the French Broad begins its journey. I live near or at its headwaters depending on your definition of “local;” which is always a contentiously debated word in an insular southern tourist town. According to our local paper, the Transylvania County Times, the original estimate of the amount of “debris” that needed to be removed was 5,000 cubic yards, with a contract cap of around 65.5 million dollars for debris removal, in just our county. The latest estimate of actual removed “debris” (as of June 11) was 123,949 cubic yards, significantly more than the original estimate by a factor of almost 25. Early in the timeline of the cleanup efforts, when I was restricted to convalescing from surgery on the couch, I would receive videos and images from friends of large pieces of heavy equipment using the river as a highway. In the short clips, excavators were rolling along the river bottom on their tracks; reaching down into the water, or towards the banks to remove sunken logs, root balls, and even live trees. They would then place these into dump trucks with large balloon-like tires that would use the river to haul the load to waiting box trucks at what was once a boat ramp. Frustrated by what I was seeing and my current physical state I made every effort to get back on the river as soon as possible and see what was happening for myself. When I was finally able to shove the boat off at a private or a public access, what I saw left me dazed and confused. On the upper river near the town of Rosman what was once a modestly sized river that wound its way between a small southern town and the farms a fields around it; flanked on both sizes by Sycamore trees, river cane, green briar, rhododendron and birch now looked like a power line right of way. The Sycamore hole—aptly named due to the large iconic Sycamore that sat on a small peninsula jutting out into the river, that peninsula maintained by the roots of the tree that occupied it—was now just a quickly eroding clump of dirt with a stump. Further down river the story was much the same and deeper spots that once held a rocky bottom and fish now covered in sand produced tangles of small limbs. The legacy wood that once shored up the banks and provided a resting spot for fish was now gone and the river ran with a dirty tinge.
A few days later I decided to head further downstream, this time in Buncombe County. The river here is bigger and smallmouth habitat. Along the banks were track marks left from the entry and exit of excavators, and a few sparse green trees were left amidst rows of stumps. . It was the same on the islands in the middle of the river. Again, legacy wood had been removed and along with it nutrition for the base of the food web, and habitat for fish seeking respite from the current. Further down river I encountered the contractors themselves cutting and removing live trees, pulling stumps and root balls from banks, pulling wood from the bottom of the river both by barge and by driving equipment up and down the river bottom. Above the river's surface shade and the food source of beetles, cicadas, and Dobson flies that fall from their canopies had been removed. Below the surface legacy wood providing habitat had been ripped from the bottom and freshwater mussels responsible for the unenviable task of cleaning and clearing the water had been crushed under the weight of 50 ton excavators and a rush to grab as much revenue producing volume as possible.
A few weeks later I found myself in a small board room, surrounded by other concerned river users, conservation groups, and friends; across a large glassy wooden table from a sitting US Congressman, trying to explain in spoken words what I am trying to explain here with the written. I had earlier been complaining to a friend, and he had suggested and been instrumental in helping to arrange this meeting. I told the Congressman that rivers are not golf courses or power line right of ways. They aren’t roads or highways. They are natural, ever changing, complex ecosystems; and they are messy. It’s one thing to bring in an excavator in a section to remove a semi-truck that was washed in during the flood, or a log jam from a bridge. It's another matter entirely to lose an army of these excavators to travel up and down the river corridor, in the water, in a break neck effort to grab as much material as possible so that it might be turned in for revenue from an ever decreasing pile of funds, set to expire at an ever nearing date. I explained to the Congressman how our community is within a few hours drive of three different major metropolitan areas. That these areas all have their own industries that contribute heavily to their economy while at the same time denuding their environment. Those places have money, but the waters are dirty, the air is hot and difficult , and life is hurried and distracted. Those folk who live in those places and work those jobs seek respite and restoration from it the same as a fish does from the current and predators. They visit our area for clean water, fresh air, and a chance to relax. When they visit they tend to bring that money with them. Like big fish from the bigger water downstream they travel up the road and bring resources here. If we destroy their preferred habitat they will not return. We have to get the equipment out of the river, we have to stop removing live vegetation. We have to stop crushing mussels. We have to stop pulling legacy wood from the river. We have to do this for both the sake of the river and our own economy which is heavily dependent on tourism. On May 2nd a temporary pause was put into place to reevaluate the work and tracked and wheeled equipment were restricted from entering the rivers. Work from the banks and from barges continued. A few days later it was determined that working from the banks only was far too unproductive and on May 7 restrictions on vehicles in the river were lifted and work resumed. The original 5000 cubic yard estimate from the fall of 24 was updated to an estimate of 82,000 cubic yards in need of removal.
I was disappointed by the sudden reversal of policy and resumption of equipment in the rivers, but not surprised. There were a great many forces at move here and everyone from politicians in Raleigh needing to be seen as effective, to contractors in the river wanting to get paid were in a hurry to get back at it. What I did find surprising was the low number of outspoken critics of this work from the local guide and outfitter community. I was more taken aback when I found out that the owner of a local fly fishing outfitters was one of the most outspoken supporters of this work, and had been actively campaigning for the work to continue while I was engaged in efforts to stop, slow, or reevaluate. This same outfitter is also a tubing operation and a canoe livery. I could understand why a business centered around moving as many tourists as possible in a day up and down a river via tube or canoe would want the rivers cleared of any wood that was either currently creating hazards, such as strainers, or could possibly in the future create such hazards. A business or person who only interacts with the river superficially would have every motivation to clear and remove as much in stream wood as possible. A business or person involved in what happens under the water would understand that wood is the life source of our rivers. Wood feeds the ecosystem, wood creates the habitat, without the wood the river simply becomes a ditch full of rocks to float or paddle down with a cooler full of beer and a mind full of bliss. For those of us who operate below the surface there is no such bliss. The question of why local fishing outfitters were not more outspoken or were supportive of this grift of government funds in the name of “recovery” continued to eat at me until I considered the business model of most of the fly fishing outfitters in our area.
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A FISHING GUIDE
Being a fishing guide is more than just tying on flies and netting fish. It’s one of those rare professions where you are engaged with the customer for hours on end. You struggle and suffer through slow fishing, you celebrate the high points of the day, dodge thunderstorms, deal with ineptitude or laziness. You must be a coach, a counselor, a priest, a psychiatrist, and maintain a positive and encouraging attitude through it all. Being a fishing guide is not about fish at all, it’s about people. A good guide has a great day with his clients and the clients are happy regardless of what the fish are doing. Other professions rarely have this much engagement with the customer, and with such little control over the environment in which they operate. The client/guide relationship (if done properly) often evolves into an awkward friendship where money is exchanged. Perhaps a high end escort service would be comparable, but I can think of few other comparable professions. There is a reason most businesses don’t engage with the customer to this level and it’s the same reason that a lot of guides “burn out.” It’s FUCKING HARD! It is also not made easier by local politicians and business owners who seek to either destroy or cheapen the experience by destroying or altering the natural environment. What is convenient for business is often not what is best for fish and wildlife. I promised earlier to connect the dots between the stocked fisheries and the indifference towards the health of rivers and here I have. The reason the local fly fishing community was so quiet when it came to this work and the reason one outfitters in particular supported this work is very simple— it doesn’t matter to them. These outfits and businesses have no vested interest in the health of the rivers. They have no vested interest in the health of the rivers because they operate predominantly on rivers filled to the brim with stocked fish from either a state or private hatchery. During the early season they are happy to accept the state subsidy in the form of easily fooled and caught stocked fish, and when the time limit runs out on these waters and they become put and take in the summer; these guide and outfitters switch over to “private waters” (a whole other ball of wax in NC) where the outfit pays a lease on land and pays a private hatchery to bring in gullible, fresh, fat, grotesque rainbow trout for the clients to catch. Stocked trout do not need habitat and structure as they will likely be dead in a few weeks to a month and quickly replaced. In fact, habitat and structure (if they knew how to use it) would make them less vulnerable and so harder to catch. Stocked trout do not need the food web and the bug life in the river. They arrive plenty fat enough to last a while and if they should need some supplemental food there is always the lowest guide on the rung that can be sent out, in the evening after all the sports have left, with a five gallon bucket full of fish food to share amongst the monsters of Dr. Frankenstein that hover in the current of the denuded river. Most of the guides who guide over these fish are much the same as a guy with a mullet and a cigarette hanging from his mouth running the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. The job is much the same as the college kid handing out bright pink rubber tubes to drunk tourists. These guides are not required to engage with or entertain their clients. The fish do that for them. If you can keep the client occupied with hooking and landing fish, you don’t have to talk to him or her. If the fish are doing the entertaining the guide can mindlessly tie on new flies, net fish, think about the cute girl back at the shop, worry about a sports bet, scroll through social media or pornography on their phone, pop in another chew and wait on a fat tip. I admit that my depiction of stocked trout guides is a bit harsh and may seem unfair…but I'm describing me. I was a stocked trout guide for many years. I did the thing. I have blood on my hands. I am not without sin, and I speak from experience. I left that world some time ago when I recognized that what I had become was not what I had in mind when I quit another career to “be a fishing guide.”
The reason there was so little outcry from the guide community, and the reason why an outfitter supported the abject destruction of a river is because in the end it doesn’t really matter. The river can always be restocked; nice manicured banks, easy to access, easy to navigate, easy fish to catch. It’s not a real experience. It’s a manufactured one. It’s an industrial one. It does not require people skills, or fishing skills—and unfortunately for the river, it does not require a loving relationship. The relationship our local outfitters and guide community have with the rivers here is one sided. It’s patriarchal. Our relationship with nature is idolatrous. Beguiled by the industrial serpent we have committed the original sin of eating of the tree of knowledge as we wish to be our own gods, to control and manipulate our environment, to be subject not to nature and its boom and busts of population dynamics; but to be subject only to our avarice and greed.
NO MAN CAN SERVE TWO MASTERS
No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.-Matthew 6:24
We cannot love and serve both nature and industry. There is no area for compromise in our hearts. If we are to be devoted to the health of the place in which we live we cannot ask it to be under our control. While we must all live and exist within the world as it is, we do not have to be part of it. If you, like me, chose the life of a fishing guide then you made that decision long ago. Put away the dreams of financial security, a new boat and truck every few years, the hope for status and adoration amongst the local chamber of commerce. Turn your eyes back to the folly of your youth when you believed in something, when you sought to make a difference. Remember when you realized you yourself were different and motivated by a life of service. Derive your happiness from your clients, the fish, the beauty that surrounds you and the life you make instead of “a living.” Embrace your borderline poverty and celebrate the hard work and sacrifice. Turn from your industrial fishing and learn to love what Mother Nature has given you. Put aside your cynicism and nihilism and believe in something. There is a river out there and it needs your help.
I lie awake at night tossing and turning; haunted by the sins of my fathers, my neighbors and my own. The tossing and turning leads to restless sleep. In my dreams there is an army marching up the valley towards my home and the waters that surround it. The little creatures by the thousands belly crawl low to the ground gnashing their orange teeth. I dream of 10,000 beavers.
