FIRE

Although we aren't really the last two people on earth, it sure has felt like it. Our little community of Bucktail is silent. Nobody is on the river. Not one occasional lost driver turning around in our driveway.

July 23rd the Carr Fire erupted into the history books by raging along Highway 299 and the north side of Whiskeytown Lake. Each day it grew with a hellish speed and erratic determination that left firefighters grappling to make sense of it. Redding residents have always been aware of threats of fire but rested secure in the knowledge wildland fires stay in the mountains.

This monster spun that knowledge into vapor when all emergency personnel--battalions of firefighters, Sheriff's deputies, BLM and Forest Service employees, California Highway Patrol officers and every single other agency--suspended their efforts of fighting the fire and managing their areas of purview and instead rushed to vacate residences throughout the region from Whiskeytown Lake well into the city limits of Redding. In mere hours hundreds of homes and several lives were wiped out of existence.

We don't watch TV so our news source was the internet and as long as we had power, we had news. The scenes were horrifying and weighed on us as the fire expanded its reach. Steph and I both have firefighting experience--he as a pro as well as a volunteer and I as a founding member of the Loma Mar VFD east of Pescadero in the redwoods and then in Lewiston. It doesn't make much sense to live in a remote and forested area without doing so. To be a volunteer firefighter in California requires a vast number of hours of training and a lot of that was studying the science of fire. There are some generalities one can apply to make sense of what appears to be without form and from that basis, you move forward in establishing how to fight it.

But with the Carr Fire we were introduced to new behavior, new terms--pyrocumulus, fire tornadoes--and new rules which distilled down to this: Nothing you once believed can be counted on and there is no such thing as being a safe distance from the threats because in a matter of hours or days the fire will find you and your only hope is the wind, that fickle and outrageously powerful element. You may survive or you may soon be ash. It all depends on the wind.

With these sobering thoughts, Steph and I decided not to evacuate as the fire closed ranks on the mountains flanking Lewiston to the east. It wasn't a decision made easily.

We already had one fire pump, a decent amount of brush line and an adjustable nozzle. Each summer it's set up with a hard line into the river and the hose snakes along the rosemary by what I laughingly refer to as our lawn. Our place has quite a reputation thanks to Steph's fondness for firing up the pump and drenching unsuspecting paddlers as they pass. One never gets used to how cold this river is, even in the middle of a very hot summer and this certainly has been the hottest we've ever experienced. I use the pump to do a large watering very fast. Right before a mandatory evacuation was ordered throughout a large swath of Trinity, we invested in a second pump.

Mandatory evacuations usually aren't as absolute as they sound. You can stay behind if you like but when the situation is deemed truly life-threatening the area is locked down. You can get out if fire doesn't engulf your exit road but you can't get back in. From then on a kind of martial law takes place. This has all been new for us and each day has presented a changing palette of rules.

Through Katie Quinn, whose husband Mel is the LVFD Chief, we've received community emails with updates. She's passed on information regarding air support to fight the fire because these mountains are so steep and heavily wooded that a land assault is next to impossible. You soon learn the sound of the various tankers, helos, spotter planes and the days when none flew were sickening. Inversions held smoke in and that grounded aircraft. On days when it sounded as though we were living through the Blitz, we took heart. But each day, the fire NE of us grew and came closer.

The power was off for hours at a time so we minimized opening the refrigerator or freezer and since no power meant no internet and that meant no news nor phones since our cell phones only operate over the internet here, we needed a generator. This was a purchase we debated for years but it was made clear we needed one so we did what anyone with a brain and the ability to heft their weight and then some would do. We stole one. That was our neighbor Carolyn's and she's a friend but Steph was anxious to let her know what we'd done. When she finally called he spilled the beans. That's fine he was told and he was relieved to hear it. Then he explained she'd have to buy it back from us when we're done.
"I just hope you give me a good price," she said.

One of the many things we couldn't do was send or receive mail or packages but we did order a generator of our own. Due 8/13 we hope it gets a chance to be introduced to its new home.

Some of our neighbors have beautiful yards and they take great pride in them. Our closest neighbor, Larry, is an organic gardener and he's turned a small parcel into a marvelous little farm complete with an orchard, raised beds with vegetables, lots and lots of potted plants and flowers, two pygmy goats and some chickens. A neighbor up the road was enlisted to feed the animals and we were instructed to let the goats loose if the fire got so close and fierce that we had to leave. I took on the watering and was delighted to find Larry planted heirloom tomatoes along with many other vegetables. They've augmented our diet nicely.

Once I was watering Larry's it seemed the next places down the road deserved it. Then the next. Then the next. The butterfly bushes were a priority since they feed so many creatures. Today I left at around 11 and finally rolled back in on my bike with my bucket of tools around 3. My tools deserve mention: I carried a crescent wrench because almost everyone here had leaky faucets. (All have crappy hoses. Those new soft hoses that Costco sold earlier in the summer are IT. I bought one and am a solid fan.) Some had decent nozzles while others didn't so I brought one of my beloved brass nozzles. I needed pruners for some plants; stuff like that. And a 38 caliber pistol. While that's not usually in my gardening tools, when I stopped at one of the houses a few days ago I heard loud banging upstairs even though the owner was long gone. Louder than a coon might make ransacking the place, it prompted me to knock and yell the owner's name for no good reason.

That was unnerving enough that I rode my bike back home to ask Steph to call 911. Several units rolled on the call and they were able to walk right in but found no one but a cat. She doesn't have a cat. So either someone was squatting up there, with or without a cat, or the place is haunted Big Time. Either way, I brought my gun because there is little that's more unsettling than knocking around deserted homes and hearing what you shouldn't be hearing.

Steph and I wet down our place each day as far as we could reach with the fire pumps. As I sprayed high into the way-too-high to reach tall oaks and evergreens I kept saying to myself, "Pissing up a slack rope." It was as good an effort as we could muster, especially soaking stacked wood piles and the lower vegetation. The pumps would definitely help against the embers that can travel miles from an active fire and ignite an entirely new area. We could eliminate them and we could present a considerable front for oncoming flames but for how long?

And what about our animals? Every time things got dicey we sequestered them inside. We discussed how to load the cats. Who would drive what. We'd loaded our motorcycles in the trailer and it was attached to the truck. Steph declared I'd leave with the truck and the animals first and he'd follow later. I quit arguing and figured I'd do whatever I needed to do. Then there was the Apache. I considered moving her to Weaverville before the lockdown but where do you leave a '57 Chevy pickup so she'll be safe? I figured I'd throw a bicycle in the Apache and run her several miles away and then ride back if there was a need and I had time. The Subaru had the rest of the essentials the truck didn't have and that would be Steph's escape. With all of this sort of decided, we resumed our routines.

This has been my summer to propagate. I have pots filled with jasmine, rosemary, crape myrtle and lavender cuttings. I worked with my worm farm and did my best to keep the frogs from infiltrating it. They remain tough competitors. While Steph worked around our place clearing the brush we've known needed to go but never quite had or made the time to get rid of it until now, I watered. We witnessed the Daily Afternoon Gut-Wrencher from our deck on the fireline closest to us. As afternoon winds grew and the smoke exploded and air fire power attacked it, we sat there taking pictures and quietly rehearsing steps to take should it come to it.

Scenes of Redding's carnage, the devastation around Whiskeytown Lake and other fires we've witnessed ran in a loop sometimes and I tried to see ways to fight and survive. I knew Steph was wrapped up in logistics a good deal of the time. Nothing spoken but I knew from his expression and the manner in which he walked around outside. Step One. Step Two. Step 2-B when 2 fails...

We had a good amount of food in the refrigerator and freezers but I run a constant inventory in my mind because I shop in Redding. Deciding what to cook, what needs to be eaten, how to make something last is a constant when one lives at sea on a boat and this has been pretty similar. The cabbage that has browning edges is trimmed and that's thrown into the salad to stretch the lettuce mix. Thank goodness we have an extra dried Parmesan and Romano because it adds to just about everything. Cut down on eggs? Stretch the tomatoes? (That was before I began to bring home the harvest falling off the neighbors' plants.)

Often guests leave food behind. Sometimes it goes to the dogs, sometimes to the neighbors and if we can't decide it might end up in a freezer. Thanks to this combination we had some very eclectic breakfasts. An omelet featured goat cheese with herbs left behind by women about to hike into the Alps. It was the same with strawberries, but a whole box of corn dogs remains frozen and untouched. We'd probably have hit them right before eating pine cones but think they would be better served going to a corn dog aficionado.

We're much like Brits. Stiff upper lip. We'll weather this storm. But not without our toddies. We stocked up before the lockdown so the Afternoon Gut Wrenchers became cocktail time. I considered this medicinal and frequently thought of my mother and our great old friend Ardie. Both would have just lost it at the news we decided to stick it out and so in this regard I suppose it's good they are gone.

We set up our firefighting clothing within easy reach. Over the many days, we didn't speak a whole lot. No room for extraneous words mostly, but every once in a while Steph would remind me of solid fire fighting advice.
"If you have to use a fog [spray pattern] to get out, you've waited too long."
"Remember to watch your line." Brush fire hose isn't jacketed like structure hose which is the only reason we can haul a couple of hundred feet of charged line but it is vulnerable.
"Make sure your shirt under the canvas one is cotton. No synthetic." In high heat synthetics melt.

So does mascara. In the 70s I was on the nozzle on a propane tank fire drill at CDF in Belmont not far from Hillcrest Juvenile Hall. (I still consider it a miracle I never ended up in Hillcrest, as did my parents.) Two hose teams brought in overlapping fogs. The goal was to push back the deafening fire that was thundering against a cinder block wall and back toward us. Once we were past the valve the chief could turn the gas off. He jumped the gun, reached through the fog and the flames erupted through the opening and around us before they cut the supply line. Being the only woman to go through the training back then no one had thought to warn me about makeup.

Four nights ago, we went to bed after having watched bombers carpet the forested ridge to the NE with red retardant. That was the first time the sky glowed a fierce orange but still no visible flames. When I went to bed I rested my head on the pillow and realized I had a perfect little view through the bedroom and open bathroom window of the most active fire spot we'd been watching from the deck for all that time. And it was then that I saw the first flames.

We learned later fire crews put down a 20,000 foot hose lay to get up that mountain. As far as we know, this is nothing anyone on the multiple-state crew had ever done before and it was only possible by augmenting the flow with engines interspersed along the way. The basic principle of hydraulics is the farther you are from the pump and the higher you go, the more pressure you lose. Yes, it's nearly impossible to fight a fire such as this on the ground and yet ground crews have toiled in conditions that are dreadful to contemplate. Almost every day has been well over 100 degrees and many--far too many--were over 110. Dozer operators clawed a wide track up there that looks as though an interstate highway miraculously appeared.

Thinking about it, many miracles on miracles occurred throughout the two weeks and just today the threat to Lewiston has lessened considerably. This is especially beneficial since the Mendocino Complex Fires have become California's largest wildfire in history and much of the air support we benefited from has flown to the south. And this evening as I sat writing, we learned the evacuation order for the Lewiston area has been rescinded. People can come home. They have homes waiting for them. Some of them even have ripe tomatoes.

We have vast appreciation for all of the agencies' personnel who took part and are still taking part in this battle. And for our friend Taylor Santo who provided the best fire intel via sites I might have drowned in before getting to the pertinent links. She also has given us up to date back-channel information thanks to her firefighting background, equipment and computer brilliance.

And then there is Travis Finch who owns Velocity Technology, our ISP up here. What began as his high school project now provides internet, TV service and is launching a vast fiber optic system for Trinity County. Without his tireless efforts to keep the internet functioning we'd have been the dark in more ways than one.

And finally, the friends and family who have reached out have been heartwarming and delightful. I finally discovered a good use for Facebook which allowed me to post pictures and updates for many in an instant. That was so cool. We've heard from folks all the way back to our days at Neah Bay fighting the gray whale hunt. People who stayed with us 10 years ago; many from our whale watching days. And a select few who have lived through similar experiences and whose counsel was grounding: You'll get through this. It will get better. I have said before the guests we've had this summer (before we had to send them packing) have been so remarkable that we have the beginnings of deep bonds with many and they've been in close contact throughout.

All of these people have made a tough time better and we smile in thinking of them but our biggest thanks of all go to the wind . For any number of reasons or no reason at all, you let us remain safe. Thank You.

And now it's time to write checks and sort clothing and household items to donate to those who didn't fare as well. We mourn the people, animals, homes and so much more lost and our best way to go forward is to clear defensible spaces, help one another, be open and question everything.
It's the right way to live and as long as we're here, we might as well do it right.