Where there's smoke, there's fire

An eerie orange light pours in through our bedroom window as the smoke from the Grizzly Creek Fire continues to waft up valley, filling our skies with a thick haze that creates the same surreal effect as some of the filters I use to edit my photos (and erase my wrinkles) on Instagram.  

the seven castles, looking even more ominous under smoke-filled skies from the grizzly creek fire in nearby glenwood springs.

As helicopters buzz overhead and reports are issued for acres burned, percent of containment, and evacuation notices for the surrounding residential areas, I flashback to when the Lake Christine Fire raged in our own backyard in 2018. It feels like yesterday when we came from a Fourth of July parade in Redstone to discover Basalt Mountain engulfed in flames, the fire threatening to take out our quaint historic downtown like some kind of ravenous monster. Ashes rained down on us as we packed all our valuables into our cars and fled.

By the time we crammed every belonging we thought we could not live without into Ryan’s truck, it looked like someone had robbed our house, walls suddenly bare with nails sticking out where the art used to be, drawers half open and disheveled, everything slightly askew. We said goodbye to our house and beelined for my parent’s place in Steamboat like someone was chasing us, taking both cars.

As if the pandemic weren’t bad enough, it seems like one crisis after another swirls around us as if we as a society, are literally going down the drain.

That initial panic faded as the days turned into weeks, and that immediate adrenaline rush and fight/flight response turned into dread, disbelief, and a sort of numb fatigue as the fire continued to burn, not engulfing our house in an instant the way I’d initially feared, but creeping toward us at a tortuously slow pace as ground crews fought relentlessly to keep it from encroaching on any actual structures. It would be weeks until we were put on pre-evacuation notice and a temporary fire station would be erected a mile from our house with crews from all over and hoses piped into the Frying Pan River. Fire fighters canvassed our neighborhood to find out where our well was located and how many inhabitants were living in our house.

I wasn’t about to wait for a knock on the door in the middle of the night, so we packed our bags—just the essentials this time—and moved into a friend’s vacation rental in Aspen. We did touristy things like ride the gondola to the top of Aspen Mountain, climb on the Rocks at the John Denver Memorial, and take family bike rides on the Rio Grande Trail. We played in Wagner Park, rode the glass elevator at the Aspen Art Museum, and got takeout from Bamboo Bear. We watched the fire from a comfortable distance, from where it looked exotic, like a Hawaiian volcano or a faraway storm, not a raging wildfire that was still despairingly close to our house.

“Oh, is that fire still going on?” Aspenites would ask in a casual tone, as if they were pondering where they should go out for dinner.  

I’d make frequent trips to check on our house, leaving the bubble of Aspen to discover a Basalt that felt war torn, air thick with smoke that billowed high into the sky as military style helicopters flew overhead, their rotors echoing loudly through the valley like an oncoming train. It was hot, dry, and windy with no rain forecasted for the foreseeable future.

The fire burned for months, the smell of smoke and the constant thrum of helicopters eventually turning into the background noise of our lives. The firefighters were able to spare all but three structures, an amazing feat and an unrelenting effort that baffles me to this day. Who are these people that risk their own lives and put themselves into these miserable conditions day after day? What makes you wake up and say, “I’m going to fight forest fires!” It has to be some kind of calling, angels among us dressed in rubber clothes and goofy hats.

We still live with the burn scars to this day, mountainsides surrounding our little town that were once green and verdant with vegetation are now bare as naked skin and littered with the burnt remnants of trees like my husband’s 3-day stubble. For months, I’d do a double-take every time I saw a cloud to make sure it wasn’t smoke billowing over a hillside. After a blissfully rainy summer in 2019, those fears began to fade.

But as I watch the smoke fill the valley today, like a curtain call on these mountains that make me feel safe, I can’t help but feel a sense of impending doom. As if the pandemic weren’t bad enough, it seems like one crisis after another swirls around us as if we as a society, are literally going down the drain. Hey, at least wearing your mask probably feels kind of good now, right? Maybe you didn’t think about Covid-19 once today.

When I take the dogs for their evening walk through the neighborhood, I find myself stopping every few feet to take in the other-worldly glow cast by the sun as it sets behind a veil of smoke, burning bright in shades of pink and red fuchsia, magenta, orange, and red. I’m captivated by the strange beauty of this filtered light and the way it alters my perception of my own backyard, as if I’m seeing it for the first time.

Maybe it is the first time I’m beginning to understand the fragility of life. Perhaps this comes with age, or with crisis, or even simple gratitude. The world might be spinning out of control, but the earth beneath my feet is firm, my heart is full of love for close friends and family, and our funky little 1970 A-Frame is still standing. Between wildfires and this god damned pandemic, I have never been more aware of the simple act of filling my lungs with air.

How sweet it is.

With coconut milk ice cream, a bubble bath, and a good book,