Breath of Fire

“At least our weather doesn’t kill you.”

I was deciding whether to leave California for Upstate New York, where I knew virtually no one and the winters sounded terrifying. But the man trying to convince me to accept a job opportunity across the country had a point. With that one statement, my fears about becoming a hermit during snowstorms or crying from the cold became moot.

Slipping on a patch of ice wouldn’t kill me. I never forgot that.

Soon after that conversation, I threw my little soul-dog (RIP) in the car and drove from coast to coast, deep in thought about the most recent wildfire that had come too close.

We weren’t supposed to leave our homes because the air was too thick with smoke, but I had to walk Jax. Outside, he cried. As my eyes watered, I marveled at the red Mars-like atmosphere. After we hurriedly made it back to the house, Jax did his little doggie shake, and ash flew everywhere. That night, my bed smelled like a campfire. Again with the ash—it billowed up from my sheets every time I tossed and turned.

I barely slept. The danger was palpable. I couldn’t stop worrying about the people farther north, right in the literal breath of fire. The drought had created an unbelievable amount of flammable tinder; the dry wind felt sinister as it pushed the flames.

Could our weather kill us? Would it?

In the end, 85 people died in that Camp Fire. My upstairs neighbor lost her childhood home that was still in the family, burned to the ground with her memories. A work contact I’d known for years was in Europe on vacation and relieved that she and her family was far away and safe—her home, as it turned out, was not. The winemaker at my favorite winery I visited often lost his home, but bravely fought the flames at the vineyard to save his life’s work.

So much grieving, so much loss.

And now, a few years later, I’m glued to the screen watching this Palisades fire. My friends who live there have all told me they are safe. One of the high schools burned to the ground though—one less shelter for those who can’t go home. As you can imagine, hotels in surrounding safe zones filled up fast.

It’s always surreal when every other word seems to be “apocalyptic” yet it doesn’t feel overused. Two people have died so far. Others are grateful to be alive, but soon the devastation of losing your home, family photos, the knick-knacks that remind you of life’s precious moments…will hit. So many have abandoned their cars in the traffic and are walking to safety, but don’t know where they’re going. In all, the wild look in their eyes is something I recognize all too well.

The 80mph winds continue to wreak havoc as they fuel the flames. Tens of thousands have fled from their homes. More than 3,000 acres have burned so far in this one fire alone. There are three others.

Pray for them.