Following the first anniversary of Hurricane Helene, I found myself driving the same winding backroads I did last October, retracing the path of destruction with a different kind of weight in my chest. What once looked like chaos, the downed trees, caved-in roofs, and mangled bridges, has now settled into a strange stillness. But for those of us in Appalachia’s creative underground, the storm never really left. It just changed form.
Helene didn’t only knock out power or flood valleys. It shattered spaces that had taken years, sometimes lifetimes, to build. It interrupted lives mid-movement, mid-breath, mid-bead of molten glass. But what’s stayed with me most is not just the devastation, but the way the glassblowing community here rallied quietly, fiercely, and without waiting for permission.
This isn’t a sad story about loss; it’s a story about what happens after.
The Heart of the Flame
Walking into Level 42 Gallery in Asheville, North Carolina felt like stepping inside a living organism. Torches roaring, color rods stacked like firewood, artists moving through the space like a practiced dance. Built by best friends Yuri Federmen and Ben Ross, Level 42 wasn’t just one of the largest flame-working studios in the country; it became the beating heart of the Western North Carolina glass scene.
Level 42 had 28 torch stations and over 20 working artists at their peak, all together under one roof. The goal was to create a hub for everyone with retail, wholesale, and studio space combined. They intentionally built the structure a foot above the historic 2004 flood line… but it wasn’t enough.
When Helene hit, the river rose fast. They moved what they could to the second floor, thinking it would be safe. But one of the walls on the first floor completely gave out. Glass was ripped from shelves and showcases, buried in mud and debris. Yuri was remembering the events from last year and digging through it all afterward—pulling $50,000 pieces out of the rubble and mud and salvaging maybe half. No lives were lost, and that’s something to be endlessly grateful for, but the emotional cost? That’s harder to quantify.
Insurance wouldn’t cover flood damage. FEMA handed out a flat $750, just like everyone else received. The rest? Came from the community—GoFundMe, benefit auctions, private donations, and sheer will.
Yuri went back to what remained of the gallery on the one-year anniversary and sat quietly, just taking it in. Not mourning, exactly. Remembering. Honoring. “We don’t want people to only think of the sadness,” he told me. “This place was filled with joy, with laughter, with fire. That’s what we want to hold on to.”
They’ve kept the dream alive through live demos at festivals like Secret Dreams and are still hoping to put on their third Marbles in the Mountains soon. Online drops, private appointments—it’s not what it was, but it’s something. The gallery may have been lost, but the sense of community remained.
Between the Bees and the Bongs in High Country
In the days after the storm, one of the first people I saw actively organizing aid in the High Country was Brandon Simmons, better known as Blue Soldier Art. But Brandon’s more than just a glass artist. He’s a third-generation farmer, professional beekeeper, and an independent researcher focused on genetic preservation. His studio took on a few inches of water, but that was the least of it.
He lost 60% of his bee colonies, about 400 hives, after some drowned when Helene ripped the lids off. The mold, the cleanup, the sheer trauma of it all brought everything to a halt. With limited time and resources, he faced a choice: “Bongs or bees,” he told me. “And I chose bees.”
Friends and fellow beekeepers of Brandon’s lost their lives in Buncombe County during the storm. Instead of pushing drops, Brandon instinctively rallied with others in the community and loaded up ~10,000 pounds of apples and over a thousand pounds of pet food and drove them up the mountains to communities that had been completely cut off—places like Sparta, Lansing, and parts of Boone.
“It was humbling,” he said. “Seeing the death and despair… but then seeing the love. Seeing people show up.” The experience shook him so deeply it changed how he approached his art and his life. “It became more about creating things that reflect more in my soul. Not just making stuff for money. But creating because I’m still here to create.”
In Appalachia, we’re generationally used to holding grief in one hand and beauty in the other. We don’t have the luxury of choosing just one. Brandon Simmons is prevailing and back to blowing glass again while still taking care of the bees.
Lack of Oxygen in the Land of Sky
Kevin, who works under the name Karma Glass, was lying in bed with his family when he heard a loud bang, saw the sky above him, and realized a tree had fallen through his roof in the middle of the storm’s wrath directly above everyone important to him. He ran out in the middle of the rain and wind to mitigate what damage he could and to check on his neighbors. For days his neighbors checked on one another and once Kevin knew everyone was safe, he went back to the torch. Or, he tried to.
Most people don’t realize that when a state of emergency is declared, oxygen suppliers are required to prioritize hospitals and emergency responders. That meant for glassblowers, oxygen suddenly became gold. Kevin had just 3/4 of a tank left, which gave him about six days of work. After that, he was shut down for weeks unless he went somewhere else.
Welders, blowers—anyone who relied on that supply chain—were out of luck, even if their studios survived the storm. It took local suppliers nearly five weeks to finally have spare oxygen for non-emergency buyers. Kevin almost canceled his show, worried he couldn’t pull it off.
He even spent time digging through Level 42, where he hosted his first show, keeping himself busy with as much positive energy as one can in such an unexpectedly dire situation. But thankfully, friends and fellow glass artists Banjo and Salt Glass offered to host him and his show in Arkansas, and the community came through for Kevin again.
Instead of falling into despair, Kevin lit everything back up. 2025 turned out to be one of his best years yet. He focused on collaborations and on keeping his tribe’s spirits up, because art is sometimes all we have.
What We Carry Forward
Appalachia has never relied on outsiders to save it. We’ve been burned, flooded, stripped, and sold out for generations. And yet we’re still here. Still blowing glass. Still feeding bees. Still keeping the vibes high.
When I think about Level 42, I don’t think about the mud or the broken walls, I think about the creative space they provide for our community. When I think about Brandon Blue Soldier Art, I picture him buzzing amongst the new generations of bees. When I think about Kevin Karma Glass, I hear the torch flick on, defiant, steady.
We lost a lot in Hurricane Helene and some things can’t be rebuilt. But what did survive might just become stronger than ever. We are not what we lost. We are what we kept.
And we’re just getting started again.
This article is from an external, unpaid contributor. It does not represent High Times’ reporting and has not been edited for content or accuracy.
