THE WEATHER WAS a phenomenon in the summer of 2009. Every morning broke on a clear sky, and it seemed as if the air hadn’t moved since spring busted up the winter clouds. The grass was brown and tinder dry. We never got a break from the heat. Even the birds were too hot to sing by mid-afternoon, and the stillness was eerie.
Summer has changed even in the four years we’ve lived in the mountains. The change is visible in the forests ravaged by the mountain pine beetle, the tussock moth and the spruce beetle, as well as the depleted population of shore birds. Our well runs lower because of the lack of rain. The level of the lake has dropped so severely that we have to paddle the boat out beyond the reeds to find sufficient depth to drop the motor. The undergrowth in the woods is stunted and dry. There’s less moss than there used to be, and it’s harder to find wild mushrooms.
It’s worrisome, this global warming. When I looked at the forest that summer of 2009, I couldn’t help but see fuel for fires. As the temperature rose into the high 30s, we all became wary. We were glued to our radios and TVs, fearing the lightning strike or the careless camper that would turn things into an inferno. People a short drive away were being evacuated. We could see the smoke from those fires drifting above the lakes.
People tried not to show how nervous they were. We grinned and waved at each other and fanned away at the clouds of dust from the gravel road. But you could tell the threat of a blaze rested heavy one veryone’s minds. There wasn’t a community anywhere in British Columbia that wasn’t edgy and anxious.
When a fire broke out on a nearby mountain, our own community went on high alert. It was only six years since horrendous fires had swept through this part of the Interior, and nobody had forgotten that. When lightning struck our mountain and tell-tale spirals of smoke began to curl up, people drove down to the lakefront and planted themselves on their docks to keep an eye on the situation. We watched the choppers fill up their huge dangling buckets. We prayed silently as the spumes of water washed down over the stricken forest. A plane dumped retardant, and a chopper set down a small fire-fighting crew. We waited.
There were reports of other blazes on nearby hills. Cars and pickup trucks rumbled down the road to investigate, and people exchanged the bits of news that came back. The tension in the air crackled like the lick of flames. But no one spoke their worst fears aloud. Instead, we all got down to the business of being prepared to evacuate.
For Deb and I, those were difficult hours. The idea of losing the house we love so much to fire was hard. We’d painted the cabin a vibrant shade of red that spring, adding blue shutters and attractive tan accents. Viewed from out on the lake, our house seemed to shine on its slope between the trees. But we had to be practical, so we decided to pack emergency bags and leave them by the door in case the call came. We went through the house to gather the things we would absolutely need to survive or to start over somewhere else. We moved quietly, silenced by the gravity of the situation. I spent a lot of time just touching objects, as though I could commit them to memory through my skin.
First, we stashed the title deed, our marriage certificate, bank papers, tax stuff and working papers we could not do without. Then we saved our computer files to disk. We packed photographs and the little notes and letters we’d sent to each other. Deb put in the poems I’d written her, and I remembered the photo of her I keep in front of my computer monitor when I write. Then I took some photos of the house for insurance purposes. Debra packed a suitcase with clothes and toiletries.
Our house is filled with stuff: furniture, a stereo, the music collection that is my pride and joy, a television, artwork, books, a guitar, a keyboard and the other usual accoutrements of life. But the number of things we deemed elemental to our survival was small. They all fit into a backpack. That said something important to us.
Luckily, the fire never caught in our neck of the woods. Heavy rain arrived as if in answer to our prayers. We woke the next morning to a fresh, beautiful and familiar world. But when I noticed the bags beside the door, I offered thanks for the lesson. The world around us may alter in a thousand worrisome ways, it may threaten us with the loss of everything we own, but the elements that truly sustain us cannot be taken away. A how.