Dave Masters could no longer ignore the storm as trees cracked and the swollen river roared. It was dark outside, but through the window he could see his father’s house, usually 100 feet away from the Pigeon River, was surrounded by water. Masters, tall and slender, forded the frigid waist-deep water to wake up his father and convince the 63-year-old to evacuate.
From the son’s trailer on the hillside, the two watched the water rise as Hurricane Frances wreaked havoc on Western North Carolina in early September 2004. Within an hour, his father’s home floated up like a bobber on a fishing line and then sailed down the middle of the road before veering into a telephone pole and cracking in half. The two pieces finally stopped when they got caught
under a bridge downstream.
Just 10 days later, Hurricane Ivan dumped more rain in an unprecedented double whammy for the mountainous region far from the coast. Haywood County realized it needed to prevent further harm. It condemned several neighboring mobile homes along with a wood-frame house across the river.
Recognizing the threat of flooding, the county eventually bought out that house, making the land near the town of Clyde permanent open space under a federally funded program to reduce the risk of future loss of life and property damage. The state also paid to relocate Masters’ father and another family from the trailer park on Hyder Mountain Road out of the floodplain “to mitigate the possibility of future damage to life and property should subsequent events occur.”
But although federal floodplain maps showed that the land where the trailer park sat was at risk, the county didn’t buy out the mobile home park or stop the park’s owners from again renting out the lots where trailers were destroyed, including the one where Masters’ father had lived.
It was a decision that would have great consequence. In 2021, the Hyder Mountain Road park flooded again during Tropical Storm Fred, damaging five of the six trailers that fronted the river, including one on the plot where Masters’ father had lived. Despite the damage, all the trailers in that first row remained. Then, in 2024, flooding from Hurricane Helene swept one of those mobile homes into the river, driving it into the same bridge and killing a resident and three of her dogs.
The repeated losses at the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park are in part the result of a gap in disaster policy that allows mobile home residents to be put in harm’s way again and again.
The federal government’s programs to buy out disaster-prone buildings are “the cornerstone of the Nation’s system for emergency management,” according to the Federal Emergency Management Agency. But the program was developed with traditional homeowners in mind, and mobile homes, the country’s largest source of affordable housing, are often left out. Trailers, even when they become immovable and lifelong homes, aren’t typically considered real estate but instead personal property, like motorcycles and boats.
That still leaves people living on flood-prone land. For the state to actually buy that land, mobile home park owners have to take the buyout, and FEMA’s program offers little incentive for them to do so: They can’t collect from the government for lost rent or for the value of the mobile homes on top of the land.
Some park owners say the payouts are not high enough to allow them to relocate; others aren’t even aware of the buyout program. So park owners regularly allow new trailers to move into the vacant spots. Art and Lynne Heinmiller, who own the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park, did not respond to questions — which were emailed, texted and mailed via certified letter — about allowing trailers and campers to move back to where they’d washed away.
What to do about such properties is now a big question for counties and Renew NC, Gov. Josh Stein’s billion-dollar Hurricane Helene recovery program. Renew NC’s manual states that it can help relocate mobile-home owners whose damaged trailers face future flood risks. But the program doesn’t keep new families from moving onto lots with a record of flooding.
At the Hyder Mountain Road park, families now live in recreational campers on plots where mobile homes have twice washed away. The county knows it’s a problem. The mobile home park is one of the spots Wentfard Henson, chief of the Clyde Volunteer Fire Department, watches during storms. Twice ahead of Helene in 2024, his team visited the community, knocking on doors and telling people to evacuate.
“Where they’re at, it’s not if, it’s just when,” Henson said. “It’s going to flood again, there’s no doubt, because it flooded every time we’ve had a storm. It’s flooded four times.”
Asked why residents are again allowed to live by the river, Cody Grasty, Haywood County’s recovery officer, told The Assembly and ProPublica that until a neighboring county bought out a park decimated by Helene, he “did not know it was even possible” to buy out a mobile home park. Small counties like Haywood, which has 60,000 residents, often look to the state for direction.
North Carolina Emergency Management, which reviews buyout applications and often completes these transactions for local governments, said there is no specific guidance for mobile home park buyouts and that the process is no different than it is for commercial or residential properties. In a statement, Justin Graney, the agency’s spokesperson, said, “It is entirely the property owners and the local jurisdiction’s decision on whether or not they wish to participate in the program.”
Neither Haywood County nor the state of North Carolina maintain a list of high-risk properties where they believe mitigation is necessary for public health and safety, a standard practice in many states.
That disturbs Masters, an auto mechanic who moved out of the mobile home park before the 2021 floods.
“Without a doubt in my mind, it’s going to happen again,” Masters said. “They need to remove it.”
A Second Disaster
Joe Rogers was 38 and living less than a mile away on the other side of the Pigeon River when hurricanes Frances and Ivan struck in 2004. He walked down and saw the destroyed mobile homes at the Hyder Mountain Road park.
He didn’t expect that two years later, he’d move to the lot next to where Masters’ father once lived.
But Rogers’ own father, whose health was declining, gave him a single-wide trailer in 2006, intending to help him stay in the increasingly expensive Appalachian region where his family had lived for generations. The trailer’s roughly 900 square feet was enough space for Rogers to raise his son. And at $200 a month, renting the lot on the river was affordable on his wages as a Waffle House cook.
In the front yard, he and his high school crush, Sandra Justus, planted two peach trees for shade and a pink rose of Sharon for the birds, and they put up a fence so the dogs Justus was prone to rescuing could play outside.
Caring for others was at Justus’ core. In addition to raising her daughter, she often took in other children and animals in need. She was a wildlife rehabilitator and hair stylist who loved Renaissance fairs, rock ’n’ roll and Halloween.
Rogers’ lot was only 100 feet from the Pigeon River, but he’d heard that large floods should happen only once every 40 years and figured he’d have a few decades before he’d have to worry about that.
During heavy rainstorms, the Pigeon River would sometimes creep over Hyder Mountain Road 40 feet away. But the river spared their home for 15 years, until Tropical Storm Fred in August 2021. Water flooded all but one of the six trailers closest to the river. Inside the couple’s home, muddy water rose 3 inches, damaging the particleboard floors and the foundation — a burden made lighter when FEMA’s assistance paid for repairs.
The couple got married in 2022, and Sandra changed her last name to Rogers. Two years later, they were planning to move when, in September 2024, Helene hit Florida as a Category 4 hurricane and was spinning fiercely toward Western North Carolina. The county sheriff warned residents that “a catastrophic, life-threatening event” that could surpass the 2004 and 2021 storms was “about to befall Haywood County.”
But none of the park’s residents had been there during the 2004 storms, so they only had memories of the minor damage from Fred. So most residents of the Hyder Mountain Road park stayed, as did the couple, who wanted to look after their army of dogs and pet birds. “We thought that maybe it would be just like the last flood,” Joe said.
On the night of Sept. 26, 2024, the couple went to bed. Within hours, the river, usually about 5 feet deep, crested at a record 30 feet. It took less than an hour for the water in their home to go from ankle-deep to chest-high. They packed the birds into travel boxes and cages, and Joe moved two of their cars to higher ground, giving up on the third when its wheels spun in the waterlogged soil.
Sandra told Joe she thought they should leave but changed her mind when she found out she’d need to swim through water now above her head. Sandra sat on a wooden chair on top of their saturated foam mattress in the bedroom. In the living room, Joe dodged floating furniture, trying to figure out what to do, as the cold, murky water rose.
Suddenly, the water pulled the back door off the trailer. Joe watched several of the dogs make their way toward the opening, where they could swim toward higher ground.
The water had reached his neck when, for a moment, it seemed to recede. He thought the worst was over, only to realize it was because the home had been pushed off its foundation. The trailer lurched, thrusting Joe toward the ceiling. His fingers gripped the top of the bedroom door frame as he called into the darkness to his wife.
Thinking the only safe way to get Sandra out would be by breaking a window, Joe swam through the kitchen and escaped out the back doorway. He clung to a sharp metal gutter, fighting the raging water, and yelled for someone to call 911, hoping emergency responders would be able to reach Sandra by busting a hole through the roof.
A neighbor threw Joe a ratcheting strap. Several neighbors helped pull him to the hillside, where he watched the current sweep away his home with Sandra and three dogs still inside, crashing it into the bridge. Sandra’s body was found five days later, about 15 miles downriver.
Buyout Program’s Fatal Flaws
Most homeowners at the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park didn’t want to endure another flood after Helene, but they didn’t own the land underneath them so they couldn’t pursue a buyout. It was the park’s owners who would need to apply to the government and ask it to buy the land.
But that’s not what the owners of the mobile home park did. After Helene, Haywood County officials spoke with local mobile home park owners about “how they wanted to recover” and “based on those conversations, none of them seemed interested to be done” with running the mobile home communities, said Grasty, the county’s Helene recovery officer.
The buyouts he manages are voluntary, and the county will not consider condemning the land, Grasty said, noting the property owner could choose to not lease out the low-lying lots, to require homes to be elevated as part of lease agreements or to use the land for something else.
“It comes back to that property rights thing,” Grasty said. “We can work on solutions, but not until the property owner or homeowner even says, ‘I want to do this.’”
Pam Quinn, who owned the wood-frame home that Haywood County purchased across the Pigeon River in 2007, said she is baffled that the county still hasn’t bought out the neighboring mobile home park.
“It’s right across the river. It’s so close, but they got treated so differently,” Quinn said.
The Assembly and ProPublica reached out to the current and former owners of the Hyder Mountain Road mobile home park on multiple occasions. They briefly spoke to a reporter in person but declined to be interviewed. Terry McCracken owned the property with her husband, who died in 2013, before selling it in 2019. McCracken told a reporter outside her home that she thought the 2004 floods were “once in 100 years” and she didn’t know if her husband ever considered a buyout.
The park’s current owners, the Heinmillers, have experienced two floods in the seven years they have owned the park. From behind a screen door, Lynne told a reporter that she was not offered an application for a buyout and would need to confer with her husband as to whether the couple would consider one now. Neither Heinmiller returned follow-up calls.
A buyout is often a financial loss for park owners, said John Richardson, who until this year owned a small mobile home park in neighboring Buncombe County. With a housing shortage, even decades-old mobile homes will bring in at least $1,000 a month in rent, and a lot to park one on yields upward of $300 monthly, he said.
“The cash flow is so good once you’re established in it that there isn’t an incentive to take a buyout,” Richardson said.
Still, after the Swannanoa River washed seven of the nine homes in his park off their foundations during Helene, Richardson decided to pursue a buyout. He didn’t want other families to face similar destruction, and, unable to pay his mortgage without the rental income, he felt he had no other choice.
Foreseeing future disasters, local governments in at least 11 states have fully funded buyouts and relocation assistance for mobile home parks, benefiting the park owners and residents of the mobile homes.
Central Pennsylvania’s Greene Township bought out the property owner and paid to relocate residents of a 54-home park after excessive rainfall rendered all but four homes uninhabitable in 2006. In Harris County, Texas, the owner of a mobile home park that endured severe, repetitive flooding received a multimillion-dollar sum for the lot while homeowners were offered up to $210,000 to purchase a home outside of the floodplain and renters received up to 42 months of assistance.
North Carolina attempted to implement its own solution after Hurricane Floyd struck the Cape Fear region in 1999. The state legislature funded a Crisis Housing Assistance Fund that paid to repair homes or relocate families that didn’t qualify for federal programs, like homeowners in mobile home parks. It also provided funding for families whose buyout did not cover a comparable home.
A lot of the families the program assisted were in mobile homes, said Yolanda Abram, the retired director of the North Carolina Redevelopment Center, which oversaw the program. In almost every circumstance, the program would not allow new homes to go back in the floodplain and paid to help families relocate.
The program got additional state funding in 2005 to relocate homeowners in flood and landslide zones impacted by the past season’s hurricanes. Roughly 40 Haywood County families participated, including Masters’ father.
But the program did nothing to prevent new families from moving to the same lots.
“I Watch the River”
As homeowners started to rebuild after the devastation wrought by Helene, Haywood County required homes in the floodplain to be elevated and securely anchored into the ground to limit catastrophic damages.
At the Hyder Mountain Road park, that means new mobile homes along the river would need to be raised at least 8 feet off the ground. So far, only staircases leading to raised electrical boxes have been added, but no mobile homes have returned to those lots as the elevation costs could reach tens of thousands of dollars.
But the rule doesn’t apply to campers.
Recreational vehicles can be in the floodplain, so long as they can be driven or towed away in case of a storm. After the floods, the county issued permits for five campers to occupy the same lots the formerly flooded homes did.
But at least here, those campers have become year-round homes, their undercarriages wrapped in insulation. The county approved them for water, sewer and electric hookups. Yet without elevation and anchoring, fast-moving waters could easily sweep them downstream.
The image of homes going back in where others have repeatedly washed away astonished Abram, whose team helped relocate past residents of the park.
“It continues to happen where homes are being placed in floodplains, and maybe that shouldn’t be happening now,” Abram said.
K.K. Bautista, a single mother, lives in one of the campers in the same row where Masters’ father and Rogers lived. She never wanted to be this close to the water again. The Pigeon River tore through her trailer at another mobile home park during Helene, ripping off the siding so passersby could see through her entire house.
Bautista lost almost everything except her car. A nonprofit gave her a small Jayco Eagle travel trailer, and the lot at Hyder Mountain Road was the only place she could afford. She knew the river had also surged there during Helene but felt she had no other choice.
“When it rains, I don’t sleep and I watch the river,” Bautista said, clutching a cup of McDonald’s coffee, her eyes jumping between the river, her 2-year-old daughter and the road.
Mollie Simon contributed research.
Ren Larson is an investigative reporter for The Assembly. She previously worked at The Texas Tribune and ProPublica. Her work has won the national Murrow, Philip Meyer, and MIT McElheny awards.
This article originally appeared on Asheville Citizen Times: Why NC's mobile homes keep ending up in harm's way
