fire, no ice

So there we were, gathering our belongings, getting the trailer all set, food planned, prepared, staged for four lovely, beachy days around the campfire. We'd scored four days at Beverly Beach, our favorite campsite on the coast. Its alot like the redwoods, only the big trees aren't redwoods. Reservations are rare these days unless you go online in january, early in the morning, like one a.m. But if you're me, january just isn't the time for camping plans. Imma flybytheseatofmypants kinda gal. So, Kurt got on his phone, went to the recreation.gov site and told me, "I'm gonna get us some days at BBeach." "No, you're not," I replied, always the supportive spouse. When he was successful, I didn't believe it. Saw the reciept--still didn't believe it. But it was true. We had reservations. Four days at the beach. Couldn't wait. So there we were. Were. Driving toward the coast, trailer in tow, happily ready to camp, sickeningly entitled to take a moment at the end of summer, covid notwithstanding, and enjoy our lives, the sky thickened, turning orange in the distance. It worsened. And worsened. And by the time we made it to Depot Bay I asked, "Do you think we've made an error in judgement, going camping right now? How bad are these fires, anyway? Where are they?" By the time we arrived at the campsite, the ranger told us we could stay and camp, but most folks were electing to take the refund and go on home. One look around the camp and it was evident nobody was having any fun, trying to breath and all. I tried to pretend it was fog. I love fog. But even my imagination, accustomed to denial and outright pretense, couldn't hang. After a very brief discussion, we left. We called Joyce in Port Orford thinking maybe we could continue south and camp down there. "Oh, god no! Don't come here. The smoke is worse,and its ninety degrees. Its this bad on Vashon Island on the sound. There's nowhere to go." Joyce's tone verged on anxiety and she is not an anxious woman. That's when the phone calls started coming in: Kurt's mom was evacuating her place in Phoenix. Fifteen foot flames as she made it out with her 83 year old life. The whole town was on fire. Talent, the tiny town between Ashland and Phoenix where I used to live, was on fire. I tried to get ahold of my son. He lives in a tinderbox at the base of Table Rock. As we reviewed maps, reality began to set in. I got a text from the always erudite Annie Garwood. "Did you go camping? I only ask because Oregon is on fire." It appears that somebody (there's an investigation and a body and a burned out car) at the north end of Ashland started the whole thing and a swift east wind blew it up the I-5 corridor like it was Marilyn Monroe's white dress. And just like that, my past was in flames. I personalize it because it feels that way. I lived the first fifty years of my life in that valley, and while I remember little of the years between 13 and 33, I still know that landscape by heart. Social media alternately blames antifa or the proud boys, neither of which is true, but an interesting topic for a future post. By the time we got home from the shortest camping trip ever, our facebook feeds were lit up like Christmas trees with posts from friends and family displaced by fire. I finally reached Marky and happily, not only was he fine, but fully prepared to evacuate with his dog Riley. It always surprises me when he knows how to do things. "Who raised you," I asked. "How do you know this shit?" And running to conspiracy theories as he does, it is his contention that scumbag bums (homeless folks) are setting these fires intentionally. Oddly, there may be some truth to that. A few, four so far I think, arsonists have been arrested. The fires did spread oddly and disparately. I was reminded of the fires in '87, when I was living in Central Point. End of summer, every evening when I drove home from the AA meeting, the Rogue Valley was literally ringed by fires, the smoldering sky hanging heavy above us, ashes to ashes. Now it is the entire west coast. It feels so apocalyptic. This is how deserts are made. Years of little rain, coupled with lightning, encouraged by wind. It feels like the physical outworking of my emotional/political/biological world. I am fried. We are toast. Expecting locusts any moment, now.