My mind is filled with fire today. Actual fire. Wildfire. I just finished reading Fire in Paradise: An American Tragedy, which is about the blaze that destroyed the town of Paradise, California in 2018. Authors Alistair Gee and Dani Anguiano have done an amazing job of weaving together research and interviews to take us right into the fire.
Imagine being trapped in an endless line of unmoving cars while flames rise only a few feet or maybe inches away. Imagine the car doors are scorching and the tires are melting. It’s morning but black as night. There’s nowhere to go that isn’t on fire.
Searchers found charred bodies sitting in their cars or their living rooms or on their front porches, caught before they could get out. Eighty-five people died in the Paradise fire, and thousands lost everything they had. The town had an emergency plan, but the fire was too big for it to work.
As temperatures rise, wildfires, always a part of nature, are becoming more frequent and more disastrous. We used to think the coast was safe. It’s so damp, we said. But lately, it has been warmer and drier. We got a taste of fire in the north end of Lincoln County where the 2020 Echo Mountain wildfire struck the town of Otis and part of Lincoln City. In all, 1,241 structures were destroyed. Homes, business, churches, everything was wiped out.
Every year, fires burn throughout the west. There are some going now, including a huge one in Curry County.
For those who say, well, that couldn’t happen here, look around. It could. Wherever you are. Whether you live in a forest like me or in a city. This year, fireworks sparked a beach-side blaze in Waldport—just 11 miles down the road from me—that could have been disastrous. Luckily firefighters stopped it before it reached any homes, but residents were evacuated and Highway 101 was closed for hours. It definitely put the fear of God in everybody around there.
It doesn’t take much to start a fire in dry, windy conditions. Fireworks, a debris fire gone out of control, a cigarette, or a spark from a vehicle that falls on brittle leaves and pine needles. The Paradise fire was blamed on malfunctioning power equipment. Pacific Gas and Electric, which provides electricity to that area, was sued for millions of dollars, but they can’t keep up with maintaining all their lines and connections and the trees and shrubs that surround them. The best they can do is shut off the power when conditions are ripe for fire. People have been left without electricity for days, and that’s not a good solution.
Fire has always been a natural part of woodland life, but there didn’t used to be people and buildings in the way. Where my brother lives near Yosemite, he and his family have been ordered to evacuate twice. One time, fire came right to the gate of his housing development. The area all around was scorched. Several years later, it still has that sepia-toned look that comes over burnt land. My brother has cleared all plant life away from the house, a massive but necessary job when fire is so much a part of the landscape. As one fire expert said recently on NPR, they have five seasons now: winter, spring, summer, fall, and fire.
I look out my office window at spruce and alder trees, laurel, sword ferns, and blackberry vines. It’s green and beautiful but vulnerable. When the dog came in a while ago soaking wet from a brief rain shower, I was grateful. We haven’t seen rain in a while, and it was getting awfully dry.
Why am I obsessing over fire lately? It’s research. I’m working hard on the third book of the Up Beaver Creek series about PD and her friends, and a fire is just one of the challenges they face in this book. I can’t tell you any more yet, but the book is coming. If you haven’t read Up Beaver Creek and its sequel Seal Rock Sound, well, why not?
Meanwhile, if I was told to evacuate, I’d grab Annie, a guitar, my laptop, and my purse, along with the pills, clothing, and snacks already in my “go bag.” Have you got a bag packed? What would you take if there was no time to think about it?
Let us know in the comments.
Unleashed in Oregon 