This is the story of how four families fought the killer Camille. Photo courtesy of Bill Whitehead. T he drought has gone on for two summers now. All along the Blue Ridge, stands of maple and sycamore, of ash and old man's beard sag in the thick August heat. Pastureland crunches underfoot, baked as dry as a snake's rattle.
Corn is stunted.
Hay won't grow. On the range's eastern face, the rust-red soil is parched hard, like concrete, and the streams that tumble from high on the ridges do nothing to slake it. The Tye's baring its bones. Davis Creek is so low the cows have given up on it. So low, in fact, that Tommy Huffman is praying for rain, and that might be the most telling measure of just how dry it is.