Since moving to the high desert, summer smoke has become a normal part of life. Not from fires in our immediate area, (it being a barren desert-scape), but from hundreds of miles away in California. Presently, there are two massive fires both north and south of the bigger town just west of here. Devastating fires are destroying beautiful areas as mature, dense forests are turned to ash. Prevailing winds blanket us with the smoke.
Fires I’ve experienced, vowing never again to live in an area prone to them. Forests are beautiful places to visit. But… When all your earthly good sit inside a little cabin or home, including your children, pets, and self, the risk of fire outweighs the peace of the pine-scented breeze.
In 2013, VST and I bought a little cabin. Quaint and A-framed, it was a postage-stamp-sized building with single walls. Without repairs for years on end, it was the definition of a “fixer-upper”. For five years, we did just that. Fix her up. Every waking moment at the cabin involved work of some kind or another. Rake the pine needles. Bag the leaves. Whip the weeds. Re-design. Replace. Refinish. Renew. Varnish. Sleep. Do everything again the next day. Having a cabin is a blast for those visitors, of which there were very few. Owning a cabin is hard work for the caretakers. In this case, VST and I.
Nestled on 1/3 of an acre, the owners before had done a great job with defensible space. That’s the cleared space needed to slow or stop the spread of wildfire, protecting your home from catching fire. This could occur from embers, flames or radiant heat, according to readyforwildfire.org. This involved clearing 100 feet around the entire structure. Many in our little neighborhood of cabins didn’t feel the need to do this, but instead, protected the manzanita bushes that rubbed up against their windows at night. Manzanita is a bush that is one of the hottest fuels around.
Cal Fire is one of the most amazing government agencies in existence. How they run so well is a puzzlement, but if Cal Fire is assigned a fire, it will be fought. Each year in the spring, notices arrive explaining needed improvements to bring your property into compliance. Through grumbles and mumbles, our property was always ready for the first spark. Inconvenient? At times. Especially when your wood pile needs to be moved 100 feet from your house. In deep snow, 100 feet might as well be in the next county.
On Saturday, September 14, 2014, we were enjoying time at our beautiful new home in Virginia City. We’d just purchased the house in May spending every weekend moving belongings from California to Nevada, with the final move the following summer. That afternoon, our phones rang with a fire alert for the cabin. With five hours between Virginia City and the cabin, we raced off, not knowing what we’d find.
Coming down the little hill towards Bass Lake, it was always a guessing game about the exact location of the lake and cabin. Not that day. Explosions of greasy black smoke shot high into the sky, one after the other. Above the tree tops, it was evident that cabins were burning, we just didn’t know which ones. Propane tanks exploded like bombs. Finally lakeside, a safe distance away, we found a picnic table and watched the fire burn to water’s edge by sunset. Freakishly surreal, we would not know for three days whether our cabin was ashes or one that survived. Thirty homes vaporized that day.
Lightning strike? Too simple and natural. No. A moron decided to light a deer carcass on fire. With gasoline. A Cal-i-for-nite city dweller. At the bottom of the hill, the winds that day carried the fire up the hill, through the neighborhood and back down to the water. The trees, September brittle, were fuel. The non-defensible vegetation, nestled between cabins providing sought after privacy, were the recipe for disaster. Our little neighborhood of Bass Lake Heights would never be the same.
For three days, the fate of neighbors and cabins was unknown. Finally, we returned by Sheriff car. Already dark, with proper documentation in hand, the kind officer drove us like perps in the back seat to see our little cabin. We weren’t allowed to use our own car due to downed power lines and debris. Driving through, the devastation was that of war footage on television. Cars sat burned out. Houses had been vaporized, with not even a hit of a dwelling left. Smoke drifted up in little tendrils while firefighters hosed hot spots.
And there, in the forest, in our little defended space, she stood proud. Not a singed branch. Not a burned leaf. Our little red cabin with white trim had been saved while cabins just hundred of feet away lay in ash.
Handing us a flashlight, the officer said, “I can’t let you get out. It’s the rules.” As he looked the other way, we hurried to the front door. Standing in our defensible space, through tears, we shared a hug of relief. There is no answer why our cabin survived while so many didn’t.
There were heroes that day. Our neighbor, Wynn, stayed throughout the fire. He helped get bedridden Harry out, carrying him, with the help of another man, to the fire perimeter because the ambulance couldn’t get any closer. Wynn spent hours hosing down houses until the community water system burned. He and a few other neighbors watched to protect against looting and gawkers. A true hero and someone we were proud to call neighbor.
In my china hutch sits a small piece of burnt bark. It was lying on our wooden deck, the only visible evidence the cabin had survived hell. After that experience, she was stripped of anything sentimental and sleeping there was never quite the same. The Courtney Fire had destroyed 30 structures, many vehicles, two cats, and a tranquil neighborhood in four hours. With only one road in and out, being trapped in a wildfire is something every mountain dweller fears.
The smoke in our area means something different to me. Fire fighters risking their lives. Destroyed beauty. Habitat destruction for humans and beasts. Scars, both psychological and physical upon people and land. Ugliness. Stench. Destruction. Devastation. Each time, something is lost that cannot be replaced, and surely, God must be weeping.
Desert fires are a different affair. Each summer, as predictable as the lightning that causes them, they come. Roaring across the plains, they burn hot and fast, whipped by winds. The difference is that by the next year, you can’t tell any difference. The sage and rabbit brush return, along with the peace of grazing mustangs under big blue skies. Natures way of controlling fuel.
Please send a prayer for those affected by the fires burning now. Send kind thoughts to the heavens that families are finding comfort from the angel caregivers of the Red Cross. If you are planning a trip to the mountains, be fire conscious. The forests are ours to love and protect.