The Year the West was Burning

Looking south from the Hilt overpass, July 5, 2018

My decision to cancel the 2018 Colestin Camp Out prompted me to finally post to this blog.  It has been a long time since I posted and much has happened in the interim. I quit my job at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Long story, I’ll tell you all about it sometime. I was unemployed for months, applied for at least 30 jobs and took a temporary position that ended badly.  I recently accepted a half time position with the City of Medford’s Fire-Rescue Department. I’ve been here for almost two months and like it a lot. The compensation is not great but the people are lovely and the work is interesting.

So, there’s much to tell, but that’s not why I’ve broken my silence.

July 5 marked the day I’ve been dreading for 21 years: I evacuated from my home in the Colestin in front of a major wildfire.

My brother-in-law Danny and nephew August were returning from Portland and planned to stay the night in the Colestin before pushing on to California in the morning. I planned to drive out there and meet them after work.  We had been communicating about dinner and at 3:30 he sent this message: “Grabbed food fire in hornbrook.” (Just like that with no punctuation or capitalization. I know, only a grammar nerd pays attention to such issues in a text message, but it took me a second to decipher exactly what that meant.)

What the fuck, says I. Not out loud, mind you; my days of swearing like a sailor at work are over. It’s not that kind of office.

I checked the news and discovered that an out-of-control fire had blown up in Hornbrook, about 5 miles south of Hilt, which is less than 5 miles from our house as the crow flies. Red flag fire conditions prevailed and the fire had exploded to 5,000 acres within hours of ignition. It was entirely uncontained. Hornbrook was under emergency evacuation and one civilian had been med-evac’d out with what we later learned were fatal injuries.

Authorities had just closed I-5 from Ashland to Yreka.  A Level 3 “Go” evacuation had just been announced for Hilt and the Colestin Valley.

Holy shit, says I in my head. This is not a drill.

Danny and August were heading to my house and their phones don’t have reception out there  The dog was awaiting them at home, roaming her indoor-outdoor enclosure. She can’t run away in an emergency. Sequoia was on the east coast visiting Arly. I was on my own.

I texted my neighbor Cathy to make sure she knew what was going on. She texted back that Danny and August had just stopped by her house on their way to my house.  They had heard about the fire at the liquor store in Hilt and stopped to make sure she knew. I messaged Danny that he should get the dog and get out, but I knew he couldn't receive my text. I didn’t hear back.

During my last hour of work in Medford, I kept checking the ODOT tripcheck cameras like I do when there is a winter storm and Siskiyou Summit pass can close at any minute for snow. Sure enough, just before I left work, I could see I-5 traffic was backed up to the South Ashland Exit 12.  I got on the freeway and planned to get off at the North Ashland Exit 19. Just after I passed the Talent exit 21, I got a text from Jimmy saying that the freeway was backing up and I should get off in Talent. It was too late, I was committed. Traffic was very heavy but moving and I made it off I-5 just a few yards from where it came to a complete stop. A few minutes later and I would have been stuck between exits, unable to get off the freeway.

I slipped through Ashland on side roads and headed out to Highway 66, a.k.a. the Greensprings Highway, which runs past Emigrant Lake, over the Greensprings Pass and out to Klamath Falls. At the south end of Emigrant Lake, Old Highway 99 turns off Highway 66 and runs parallel to I-5. It’s the old wagon route over the Siskiyou Summit that runs past Callahans Lodge and connects up to the Mt. Ashland Ski Road. Old Hwy 99 is steep, winding road that makes the Greensprings Hwy look like the interstate. My plan was to take Old 99 to Callahans where I could either a) jump on I-5, b) take Old 99 over the pass to Hilt, or c) take the Ski Road to the Colestin Road and follow it down 8 miles of switchbacks to our road.  After 20+ years of driving over that pass in the winter, I know every possible option. 

Traffic was heavy on the Hwy 66. Big rigs had bailed off of I-5 and were trying to take the Greensprings route to Klamath Falls. Hwy 66 is a narrow two lane highway that crawls up some crazy grades to cross the mountains.  There are length and weight limits for trucks traveling on Hwy 66, but there is no sign indicating the limits until well past the entrance to Emigrant Lake, several miles south of Ashland.  There is a purported “truck turnaround” just south of the entrance to Emigrant Lake, a dirt median barely wide enough for one truck and maybe long enough for 3 trucks.  When I drove by, there were at least 10 trucks in the turnaround and more trying to turn in. It was mayhem. Traffic came to a halt as we crept pass the mess of big rigs trying to turn around on a two-lane highway. After passing the truck turnaround snafu, traffic started moving again, but not for long. About ½ a mile before the Old Hwy 99 turn off, traffic came to a stop.

At this point I thought that my brother in law, nephew and dog were all at the house with no idea about the evacuation.  Luckily Cathy called and said that a member of the local volunteer fire department was stopping at all the houses, telling people to get out.  Shortly after that, I got a message from Danny saying that he was heading to Ashland with August and the dog.

The last time the Colestin burned in the 1970s, they didn’t even have landline phones in the valley. Now we have these space age devices in our pockets. What would we do without cell phones? I was grateful for mine.

I finally crawled up to the turnoff for Old Hwy 99.  Barriers blocked the entrance. A highway worker was stopping traffic on Hwy 66 and only letting 5 or 6 vehicles at a time start up toward the Greensprings pass.  I pulled up to the worker with my driver’s license in my hand, showing my Colestin Road address.  “I live on the Colestin Road! I have to get home to get my dog!”  (I slight prevarication; the dog was on her way to Ashland at that point. ) He glanced at my license and let me turn off Hwy 66 onto Old 99.

I hauled ass up Old 99 to Callahans and the I-5 interchange.  There were two cop cars blocking the intersection, making sure no one got onto I-5 or continued on Old 99. I showed my drivers license and the officer looked at it closely and looked at me. They wouldn’t let me onto I-5 but they let me continue on Old 99.  I’m sure they thought I was going to turn onto the Ski Road and head to the top of the Colestin Rd, but I took old highway over the pass and got back onto I-5 South just a mile above Hilt.  I got off in Hilt and saw fire trucks lining the overpass. Near the liquor store, a cop was stationed in the middle of the road, blocking the HIlt Road entrance into the valley. I had my driver’s license out in my hand and started talking before my window was all the way down.  “I live at the bottom of the Colestin Road, near the 8 mile marker.  I have to get home to get my dog.’ He looked at my license closely and asked me what kind of dog I had. Border collie mix says I, a little cow dog.  Alright, says he, but I expect to see you back through here soon.  Absolutely, says I, I just want to get my dog and get a couple of things and get out. If the fire is getting close I might go up the Colestin Road to the Ski Road.  You have time, he said, it won’t make it up that high forr awhile, it’s heading that direction. Don't wait, he said.

 Once I got through all the roadblocks, I started thinking about what the hell I was going to do.  I had rehearsed this scenario in my head so many times, but this was no rehearsal. What did I need to take, what could I leave behind? I drove the road to our house way too fast and finally pulled up to our dear red door.

I tore into the house and went straight to the pantry where we store the recycling in large plastic tubs. I dumped tubs of aluminum cans, tin cans and glass bottles onto the floor; three tubs to fill up.

First the boxes and boxes of family photos, Sequoia, the girls, me, my parents, his parents, our brothers, nephews, dear friends who were closer than family, the dead, the living, the forgotten. Actual photos, printed on paper, stored in cardboard shoe boxes.  Good lord.  Next, my mom’s trunk: handmade crafts passed down by three generations of women, including quilts my mother made for my kids. Handwritten letters from my grandmother who died before I was born. Information my dad wrote down about his service in WWII.  The album from my mother’s funeral, my father’s death notice. Thank you letters that my kids wrote to their grandmother and I found in her house after she died.  So many useless, priceless things, historical detritus, personal artifacts that I have curated into a history.

Then Sequoia’s trunk: Photos of Swedes in the old country, photos of Ginny at nightclubs in the 40s, a program from the Hollywood Canteen when she worked there, photos of Ken in his bomber jacket, photos of Sequoia's brother Grant who died long before the advent of digital photography.  Irreplaceable images of the dead.

Framed pictures, pulled from the wall. The contents of a couple of file drawers. An old hard drive and some very old CDs.

My best accordion, my mandolin, Sequoia’s good banjo, his second best guitar (Danny took the good one.) My mics and cords and bag of charts.  Boxes of Bathtub Gin Serenaders CDs.

A week’s worth of work clothes for Sequoia and me. My good clogs. A toothbrush. A small jewelry box.  A jar of Sequoia’s bud that he grew last year. Dog food and a leash.

Two five gallon gas cans full of gas (because I didn’t want to leave them by the house.)

A rosary. Some magickal tools.

Two paintings by Basil Johns.

Finally, the contents of two file drawers (the deed to the houses, tons of paperwork about the land and the Oak Street house) and a bunch of random mail from the top of my desk that I hadn’t filed yet.

What I intended to take but forgot:

The homeowners policy.  

Our birth certificates.

My sandals.

What I considered and left behind.

My PA, mic stands and mixer.  

Boxes and boxes of Sequoia’s family stuff that are in the top of one closet

Two tubs, one full of Kiva’s school stuff, the other full of Arly’s school stuff.  They don’t want them but I haven’t had the heart to burn them yet.

A tub of old journals and yearbooks and letters that I really intend to burn someday.

Books, books, and more books. Art. Clothes. Food. Dishes, pots and pans, Ginny’s plate silverware (not very valuable, but nice.) Sequoia’s grandmother’s tea cups. The tole painting Ginny made.  My favorite embroideries made by my mom (they’re hanging on the wall, I forgot them.) Generations of memorabilia, personal expression, history. So much history that I haven’t written it down and probably never will. 

All I have is this stuff to remind me where I’ve been, where I came from, who my people were and what they meant to me.  

I turned off the propane. Thought about turning on a hose to wet down the ground around the house, but decided I shouldn’t drain the water tanks.  Left a note on the door that explained where the water tanks are, where the well is, where the propane tanks are.  I’ve registered all of that information with the Hilt-Colestine Volunteer Fire Department’s Community Emergency Response Team, but you never know who will come to the door. The note said that the propane was off, there was no other fuel on the premises and no firearms. It told them that everyone was out. It said thank you.

Then I left.

I didn’t cry until I got to Hilt and saw live flames leaping up along the freeway, jumping from spot to spot.

A crowd of local ranchers were stationed out in front of Rookers ranch at the hairpin turn.  Another crowd was lined along the Hilt overpass with their horse trailers.  They were going to wait until the last possible minute before taking their animals out of the valley. Not me.  I stopped, took pictures, told everyone to stay safe and I drove the hell out of there.

The fire came to within one mile of the Hilt Church.  The wind shifted when the sun went down and allowed firefighters to make their stand and keep the fire out of the valley. If the fire had started an hour earlier, it would have gotten into the valley before the wind shifted. If it had gotten into the valley, it would have been catastrophic. The valley is narrow and steep, all rough terrain and bone dry fuel. There would have been no stopping it. The entire valley would have burned and there would have been nothing anyone could have done.

I’m very lucky.  I had my own place in town to stay at during the evacuation.  I had cash, credit cards. I was surrounded by so much love and positive energy. But, I won’t forget this; it left a mark.

We live on borrowed time in the Colestin, I know this.  Eventually, our land will burn.  The landscape is designed to burn and it hasn’t in a long time. Thanks to global warming, the summers are longer, hotter, dryer, and fire season comes earlier each year. I’ve accepted this reality, but I’m not willing to hasten it.

I love the Camp Out. I love gathering with my friends and family in that beautiful space.  But it only takes one stray ember from a cigarette, one hot car parked on dry grass, to start a conflagration.  When I think about trying to evacuate dozens of cars out our narrow road, the only way in and out of our property, I panic.  The idea of being responsible for a fire that destroys property and potentially takes lives makes me nauseous. I just don’t have the same tolerance for risk that I used to have; at least, not this kind of risk. There is a huge fire in Redding that has killed at least 6 people. There is a fire near Ashland, another threatening Ezra’s ranch up near Grants Pass. We are surrounded by fire on all sides.  The air is choked with smoke and hazardous to breathe. I can’t do it this year, campers. I have reached my limit.

I’m sorry it took me so long to announce the cancellation. I know I have disappointed quite a few people who made plans based on my invitation. Sequoia is completely opposed to this cancellation and we had many long, hard discussions before I finally put my foot down.

It is what it is, campers. We live in perilous times.

And so, dear friends, I am thinking of you, missing you, wishing you well. Let us meet again after the rains come, and may they come soon.