Yesterday morning I awoke at sunrise with a heart-pounding mind-racing urgency. Instantly, I went from dreamy sleep to wide awake mentally triaging what to do first — just because a helicopter flew over my home. Aircraft rarely fly overhead. Because my home area isn’t on regular flight paths, months pass without the sight or sound of a plane. When I hear one, the most likely reasons are either (1) someone needs rescuing from the canyon, usually a drunk young man who stumbled off a trail; or (2) WILDFIRE!
Both rescues and wildfires are more common in dry season, which runs from June until November, roughly. Due to global warming, drought, and increased residential development (which means increased human carelessness), fire season has lengthened. I already knew it had begun, but yesterday morning was an actual wake-up call that shifted me into summer mode.
As birds change into breeding plumage and mammals put on winter coats, so do I put on my summer style. I’m not talking about swim suits, sandals, and sunscreen. Summer style means being ready for wildfires. Two small fires already have flanked my town, one downslope to the west in late May and one below me to the southeast earlier this week. During my decades in wildfire country, I’ve been through more fires than I can remember, evacuated three times, and been warned of potentially imminent evacuation twice. So far, my land has only burned up once, in 2008. I don’t live on that property any more, but still live in the same general area in the northern Sierra foothills.
Summer style doesn’t just mean being ready to evacuate, it means being warned to get ready. The first and most important step is knowing that a fire threat is happening. Sometimes I know because I hear a helicopter or a spotter plane. Those suggest a fire might be in the area. The worst is hearing a “bomber” that drops retardant because that means a fire is developed enough to bring in the fighter planes. In the past, aircraft told us a fire was in the area, unless the fire or smoke was visible. Now we have emergency texts, reverse 911, Amber-Alert like phone alarms, Twitter feeds. But those depend on infrastructure that fire can shut down. No technical system is perfectly reliable, as last October’s fires proved. Our most dependable alert system is still word of mouth.
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Fire season prep is emotional, mental, and physical. Physical prep is the easiest. I’ve had the tall grass mowed to limit flammable vegetation near my home. I reminded the owner about clearing dead pine needles and fallen branches off my roof and remembered to ask him about the location of the gas turn off valve. All outdoor faucets have hoses attached, ready to be used for windblown embers. The ladder needs to be near the house for easy roof access. My car’s gas tank is full and will be kept full all season. There are only 4 roads off this ridge and chances are at least one will be in the fire’s path. If everyone has to leave via the same two-lane winding hilly road, cars will be idling in a line of traffic. My cell phone’s ringer is never turned off, even at night, so I don’t miss an emergency notice. When I leave home for the day, a sign is on the door telling emergency workers to save the parrots. Their travel cages and instructions are available indoors.
Mental is the next easiest. I have a list of evacuation activities (such as turn off the gas, close all curtains and interior doors) and what to pack before leaving. The packing list is in order of importance. What to grab first if I’m in a hurry, moving through the less urgent items if I have more time. CalFire’s evacuation preparation guide lists the six P’s to grab in an urgent situation.
- People and Pets (that’s one P per their system);
- Papers, Phone numbers, important documents;
- Prescriptions;
- Pictures and irreplaceable memorabilia;
- Personal computer and data storage devices; and
- Plastic (credit cards etc).
My list is a bit different as I’ve already lost the pictures/memorabilia to flood during fire. Parrot food and toys are high on my list because hiding out from a wildfire is nerve-wracking and I don’t want to add bored hungry parrot tantrums. I’ve also learned to identify what to use for packing besides suitcases — easily moved containers that fit in my car, such as laundry hampers.
Emotional preparation is the toughest. Even with a to-do list, hyper-energetic dithering is still routine because every new fire threat reawakens heightened emotions from previous fires and adds to the drama of the moment. Summer Solstice 2018 will be the 10 year anniversary of the 37 lightning-strike wildfires that merged into the Butte Lightning Complex. These fires torched my mountain community, over 200 homes, and my property. My home was saved by the Disneyland Fire Department (!!) but the water that kept it from burning flooded through the heat-warped roof and ruined most of my fabrics, books, papers, photos, and art.
Two years prior to that fire, I experienced the most heart-pounding mind-scattering imminent evacuation. Thanks to Lyme insomnia, I was awake at 2am and saw a lightning strike set brush aflame in the forest about 1,000 feet distant. My daughter lived with me, but the only other person nearby was my brother who shared the land. His cabin was below me, reached by a quarter mile trail. My daughter sprinted off downhill to warn him. I grabbed my mobile phone, but cell coverage was sketchy, as usual. It took 10 minutes to find the one tiny spot where the phone connected so I could call in the fire. By then the fire had spread drastically.
Luckily, the nearest CalFire station was only a few miles away and they arrived quickly, roaring up the steep half-mile-long dirt driveway. Huge trucks brilliant with flashing lights maneuvered into the small parking area and men directed me where to move my vehicles for a fast exit — just in case. I watched firefighters wearing yellow Nomex flame resistant gear, hard hats, and huge backpacks hustle upslope carrying chainsaws, shovels, and giant rolls of fat fire hoses needed to move water from the trucks parked by my home through forest and brush to the fire. Walkie talkies crackled and men shouted orders. The photos below, taken at the recent wildfire southeast of me, are an example of the gear firefighters wear, even in 105oF heat.
We were told to be packed up and ready to go. I raced from one task to the next with no organized system. I loaded the five parrots in their separate cages into the car first, and tied the four dogs in the truck’s camper shell along with all their food and gear. If we had to GTFO instantly, the animals were ready. It was early May and I’d not begun my summer style yet. Everything was spread around, winter style. Loading the car and truck was a haphazard effort as my hyper-energized mind threw up random ideas of what to pack and I flitted around. The organized frenzy of the firefighters was reassuring — they were fast but methodical.
In the end, we didn’t have to evacuate. The progress of the fire towards us was stopped within two (long) hours and a perimeter of control was established that night. The fire was held to a few acres and the firefighters spent the next day keeping watch and putting out hot spots.
That small fire was a lesson for me. I now strive for organized frenzy and to be fast but methodical. I have a system, a summer style. When I’m awake and hear aircraft overhead, I (try to) remember to take deep calming breaths and focus on taking the next step. One step at a time. l have the Twitter feeds for local fire notices bookmarked. I’m signed up for the county’s emergency text system and am somewhat reassured because it worked, initially, during the October fire — until the cell service crapped out. Power lines had to be de-energized as the fire moved near them and this cut off power to the cell towers. Surprisingly, Comcast internet and my home power remained on.
But I know power outages can make such computer and mobile phone preparations useless. Old fashioned systems, however, still work. Police and volunteers drive through town using loudspeakers to warn people. (That’s a startling way to wake up, though!) I hope my neighbors, whom I barely know, will rouse other neighbors including me. During a fire last October (a time of multiple catastrophic fires across the state, including four in my county), residents of Bangor, a small foothill community, saw a fire nearby and called 911. Repeatedly, they were dismissed, told there was no fire near them. 911 dispatchers said they were seeing smoke and light from other, known fires. It took an hour and 45 minutes after the first 911 call before CalFire confirmed the LaPorte Fire indeed existed. During those 105 minutes, the fire burned 74 homes and most of Bangor was gone.
No one died in that fire because neighbors alerted and helped each other. During the North Bay wildfires at the same time last October, emergency phone alerts were not issued or did not reach everyone. Similar problems occurred during the Thomas Fire near Ventura in December. People escaped because of alert neighbors helping each other. That’s the safety net beneath technical emergency preparations. Twitter, texts, and 911 might fail. I depend on the kindness of neighbor strangers and promise to be dependably kind to them.
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