The Detwiler wildfire has driven people in our neighboring communities from their homes, and it may come for us. Or not. First, let’s acknowledge that losing your home and livelihood (these are ranch lands) is devastating. For those of us on the sidelines, the disruption to our schedules irritates, but the unpredictability most unnerves us. When will it strike? Where will it go? How fast will it spread? How long will it choose to burn?
The Detwiler fire that threatened to eat up the historic town of Mariposa has now decided to bare its teeth at Groveland a week before we are supposed to visit family in Michigan to enjoy the Traverse City film festival. As seasoned mountain people, we know the drill. Gather necessities (meds, computers, clothes) and a few priceless treasures (art, jewelry, family photos). Arrange for pet care and prepare to go. In this case, we must decide whether to evacuate our stuff before we leave or take a chance.
Making peace with wildfire
A wildfire is not evil, it is a force of nature. A fire has a job to do. Fires clean up and restore the forest. It is we who have put ourselves in harm’s way. And we would do it again. I greatly admire the people I have met who understand this and do not take the disruption in their lives personally.
In truth, calamity often brings out the best in people. Kindness, compassion, prayerfulness, a can-do spirit, pulling together as a community–these attributes kick in despite how fractured our nation appears to be.
Catastrophe also reveals our weaknesses. Out of stubbornness or fear, some people refuse to leave their homes when the odds turn against them. Unknowingly, they endanger themselves as well as the firefighters and law enforcement trying to protect them.
What I learned from the Rim fire
- You can’t game a fire. It has its own inscrutable agenda. Best to watch, wait, hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and leave when you are advised to by people tasked with keeping you safe.
- Rumors run amok. Identify trusted sources of information and ignore all accounts that do not come from eyewitnesses.
- Firefighting is fascinating science. That we learned a lot from the Rim fire is evident in how cooperating agencies are managing the Detwiler fire. It appears that decisions have been made more quickly and appropriate resources commissioned earlier. Although the fire tax is controversial, I consider it a charitable contribution toward equipping the agencies that save our property and our lives.
Living in the forest
Knowing what we know, why are we still here? We ask ourselves that, and our kids challenge us on our choice to stay in the forest. When the sky turns urine yellow and sucks the oxygen from our lungs, we ask ourselves. But then the fire burns out and the skies clear. The sun glitters in the tree tops we view from our deck and the raptors soar gaily above our heads. A deer strolls up the hill trailed by spotted twin fauns. Wild turkey titter and peck and California quail pit-pit across our front yard.
It’s in my blood, these tender mountains of California. I can’t listen to California by the Kingston Trio without tearing up and reaching for a wine bottle. We have squandered our legacy but I must have been imprinted at birth by the beauty of the California coast, mountain ranges, and valleys, creativity, productivity, resilience, and hope. I don’t know a soul who has visited Yosemite and not been overcome by its majestic grandeur. Sheer beauty infuses us with the timeless nature of God, deep peace, and soaring joy.
The Warrior, A Tribute
In the Rim fire, I saw the spirit of some ancient being. I’ve seen it in the eyes of buffalo, who survive despite historic ravaging. I’ve heard it in the stories of homesteading pioneers and tribal Indians, who both attacked and defended to preserve their ways of life. My poem, The Warrior, A Tribute, was published by Manzanita Press in Out of the Fire, A Calaveras Anthology, a chronicle of the Butte fire that devastated mountain communities in Calaveras.
THE WARRIOR, A TRIBUTE
He jumps the canyon rim,
fist pumps the air, bellows belligerent smoke
and descends like a marauding tribe
to bully the dry forest
rooted and mute in his path.
We scamper from disturbed nests,
form columns, arm ourselves
with courage and technology.
He stomps through, keeps going.
His savage red face paints
across miles of sky.
Heart hot and black
pumped with stolen oxygen,
driven by a century-old hunger
he devours acres of brush,
picks his teeth with the tops of trees,
and pulls his dragon tail deftly
out of harm’s way.
We bring in reinforcements,
buzz his head, use our diplomacy,
invite him to go elsewhere.
He will go wherever he pleases.
His specter rises in clouds
open-mawed, empty-eyed,
an ancient soul named Legion.
He will go, but not before he has
scalped our forest,
seared our lungs,
and settled the score.
The post Wildfire and Other Distractions appeared first on Sydney Avey.