Wildfire

Dear Mom:

I hope you and dad are well. I sit here in a large tent with five families contemplating my life and future. Sarah and the kids are somewhere out there, I hope. We are the victims of the new set of Oregon wildfires. It’s Tuesday morning and I still see particles of smoke in the air. My throat is tight, and my lungs burn. I spent most of the night trying to get to my house and contact Sarah, but I had no luck. Earlier this morning I was directed by someone from search and rescue to a large lot at the edge of the city. There were multiple tents and tables with fresh water and food. There was a long line of families at the tables. It was heartbreaking to see the little kids with pink or red backpacks and ragged dolls or toys being led by their bleary-eyed parents. Despite the heat many were wearing their winter coats and non-matching shoes. A few babies were crying in their mothers’ arms. I recognized Benny and Joy, my neighbors. Benny was wearing his red MAGA hat and Trump 2024 tee-shirt. Even during a disaster, he couldn’t resist. I had no desire or energy to engage him in our usual political arguments. It was just good to see him and his wife alive and safe. They lit up (excuse the bad pun) when they saw me, and we hugged. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to see each other. We all had a story and many tears to shed. Eventually, I was given a blanket and directed to the tent where I sit now. My body and mind are on high alert with an adrenaline rush. I couldn’t possibly sleep. How did we get here?

I was working at the pharmacy at noon when Sarah called. The town had put her on alert because of local fires. The air quality had been hazardous for weeks. It was one of the disadvantages living in a valley surrounded by trees. Smoke from fires many miles away settled here for weeks and even months. However, we have never experienced any major fires in our town until now. When I received the phone call, I decided I needed to explore. It was lunchtime and I told the staff I would return by one, As you know my pharmacy is on the north side of town and home is far south. There is one major road leading in and out of town and much to my frustration, the southbound lane was closed. Fortunately, because of years cycling the area, I knew some backways. First, I drove down to the closest freeway entrance, hoping I could reach the exit close to my house. It was backed up and barricaded. Then I thought I could outsmart everyone and drive through the orchards and down some side streets until I reached a little used artery that went south. As I turned onto the first side street, I encountered a blackout or eclipse penetrated by orange flames. I inched along the street with my brights on, but the flames seemed closer and closer and the heat in the car was becoming intolerable. Sensing imminent danger, I immediately turned around and called Sarah on the cellphone.

“Sarah, take the kids, the dog and the cat and drive north to the lake now!” I instructed her as calmly but firmly as I could. “The fire has reached the pear orchards and seems to be moving swiftly. Take the bare minimum and get out as fast you can. Our go bags are in the garage.” Mom, over the last few fire seasons, we have prepared go bags with bare necessities and clothes for the family and pets. That’s the world we live in now. It sucks but we had to be prepared.

Sarah had many questions, but I cut her short and told her- “just go!” I hoped she wouldn’t hesitate and felt awful I wasn’t there to help. Next, I called my friend Gavin, who had a physical therapy office midtown and told him to evacuate. He told me I was hysterical and felt safe. There was no arguing with Gavin.  When the conversation ended, my office manager called and told me that the staff was evacuating on the instruction of a city official. I could not return to my office and the main road was backed up bumper to bumper. My gas gauge flashed empty, I probably had about eleven miles worth of gas. I could only drive north and avoid the main street. Googling the closest gas stations, I found one that was five miles away and another that was eleven. They were both on my cycling routes and I knew I could reach them avoiding the main roads. Unfortunately, when I reached the first one, there was a line. One of the cars turned around and as he left the station, rolled down his window and told me that the station was out of gas. I panicked. Mom, you know me. I am usually calm in these situations but there was a surreal darkness and ash in the air, and I knew I was going to run out of gas. My only hope was the second gas station. I was getting hungry, my mouth was dry, and I was probably dehydrated. Fortunately, the next station on the Google list was off the beaten path and I was able to fill my tank and purchase water and snacks. I sat for a half an hour at the station, trying to get news of the fire and formulate a plan. My cell phone ran out of power, and I had not heard from Sarah. Mom, you always told me to be prepared for the unforeseen. Sarah and I discussed disaster, especially fire, safety and preparedness every year but I was at a loss. Where do I go? What do I do? The newscasters said the winds were blowing the fire south, so I was probably safe but what about my family and friends? I felt impotent. I needed to get home and speak to Sarah. Were my kids, Donny and Kimi safe? What about Ari, our Labradoodle or Cleo our Persian? My world was on fire.

I needed to act. I drove up every back route I knew but encountered barricades or fire. Literally, I was in darkness everywhere I turned. It was preternatural. My attempts to break through barricades were foiled by firemen or officials. At times I’d get out of my car and speak to the firemen. They were exhausted and horrified by what they had seen. They only added to my anxiety. One of them was kind enough to lend me his cell phone and I called Sarah but only got her voice mail. Mom, you can imagine how I felt. Still, I kept trying every route I could think of to get back home or to the lake. My only thoughts were of my family.

Finally, I got to the edge of the city and this parking lot. It was midnight but you could still see the flames in the distance. I was exhausted but tried to help the volunteers who had their own sad stories. I must have reached my tent by two a.m. and lay on the blanket awake for hours until now. I am hoping that the fire is under control, and I can finally return home and find my family. I will continue this letter later in the day and hopefully give you good news.

Wednesday 5 pm

Mom, I continue this letter horrified and depressed. The fires died down this morning and I was able to drive to my office and find a power cord to charge my cell phone. Fortunately, the north side of the town was unscathed. I tried to call Sarah but continued to reach her voicemail. It put me in a state of high anxiety. I was determined to reach my house and the lake. Orange cones were and temporary wood barriers were blocking the main drag. I had to brush the ash off my car windows. The air was still thick with smoke, and I couldn’t see the mountains that surrounded the town. I wore special N-95 masks I obtained at the pharmacy but still had trouble breathing. Once again, I took my old cycling route through the pear orchards. What I saw horrified me. The landscape on either side had been transformed into a nuclear winter. Everything was gray and levelled. Trees were either smoldering stumps or bent and grayish and ashes replaced grass and vegetation. Remnants of charcoaled pears were on the ground. I got out of the car and walked through the orchards. The thick gray air made me feel like I was entering an enchanted forest in a horror movie. I expected some monster to appear from the mist. I was able to drive within a mile of my street and decided to walk the rest of the way.

Mom, I’m glad you weren’t here to witness the devastation and human suffering. Houses were smoldering shells surrounded by rubble. Occasionally, I could recognize the twisted outline of a desk or a bicycle. Everything was black or gray, no color. As I reached my street, I was becoming more and more despondent. A few neighbors had managed to get through the barriers as well. I saw Benny and Joy standing by the rubble that was once their two-story house. Joy was crying and Benny was picking through the debris. He looked up when he saw me.

“Why did this happen to us? The city council with all of its woke policies and artsy fartsy projects could have been more prepared.” He was angry but I couldn’t engage. What was once my house sat next to his. Steam rose from the rubble. I found the twisted frames of my bicycles in what was once my garage. Nothing else was recognizable or salvageable. It was all ash. I called Sarah again but no answer. I had to get to the lake. I hugged Joy, nodded at Benny and drove through what I can only describe as a nuclear holocaust. Occasionally, I’d see grieving families standing by the remnants of their property. After bypassing several barriers, I reached the lake and found the burnt-out shell of Sarah’s Subaru. My heart pounded as I approached the shell in anticipation of what I’d find. It was windowless. Thank God there was no evidence of the kids or Sarah except for a fragment of Kimi’s red jacket. Where were they? Were they safe? Why isn’t Sarah answering her phone? Has she run out of power. She always carried a charger but maybe she had no power source.

I walked around the lake calling Sarah, Kimi’s and Donny’s names but heard no response. There was ash everywhere and the surrounding vegetation had been reduced to cinders. A smoky mist hovered over the lake and a red sun shone above it. I was becoming lightheaded walking while wearing my mask. When I removed it, I wheezed immediately and had to put it back on. My heart continued to pound. I saw a stray dog walking aimlessly around the lake searching for something or someone. Its orange fur was singed and red collar was burnt. I had seen a few cats and dogs walking the streets, looking lost as I drove to the lake. There were no birds in the sky and the usual hum of insects and croaks of frogs were eerily absent. Maybe it was end of days. You know I’m not religious Mom, but I began to pray. I prayed for my family and the world. I felt despondent. At least my pharmacy was still standing but I was nothing without my family. Everything else could be replaced. Where could I turn? Who could I turn to?

There was a missing person booth at my new home parking lot. That was a start. So, I headed back there, stopping occasionally to lend a hand to people in need along the way. There were people wearing orange vests assisting families as they surveyed their lost properties. Steam still rose from the rubble. Occasionally, I would see orange flames shoot in the air from broken gas mains. I prayed it was not the start of new fires.

Trucks loaded with supplies and water preceded me to the parking lot. Hundreds of volunteers were assisting their neighbors and offering their homes. I witnessed the best of mankind. Benny was back at the tent and arguing with someone about the consequences of climate change. He insisted that it had nothing to do with these fires. I wanted nothing to do with that argument. The volunteer at the booth wrote down my family’s names and assured me that not all was lost. Hundreds of people had been transported to an aids station in the town just north of us. Contact was very spotty. Cell service was down in many areas. He renewed my hope. Fortunately, I had contacted all my staff and they were safe. We would open in a few days and offer aid and supplies. I could sleep in the back room of the pharmacy. I kept a few sets of clothes and toiletries there. We had the foresight of including a shower when we built the building. As long as my family is safe, all will be right in my world.

Mom, excuse the tear stains on this letter. I cry for my family and the world. I hope heaven where you live is a better place. If you have the ear of God, tell him or her or it or them that its too early to take Sarah and the kids. Spare them for the time being. They are innocents. Love to Dad and Uncle Jimmy.

Special love to you