Fire in the sky produces the best of times and the worst of times

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I drove by the wheat fields the other day and was reminded of the “amber waves of grain” from America the Beautiful.
I couldn’t help but enjoy the moment of complete satisfaction and gratitude. America is 250 years old and I couldn’t be happier, prouder, or more grateful to be here at this time and in this place.
And yet plumes of hot smoke remind me that a blazing mega-fire is devouring the land that I call home. There is fire in the sky. The land that I love is under siege.
This mega-fire is bringing about a “grief that can’t be spoken.” I feel like I am going through the five stages of grief. Denial and anger were my first reactions. “Surely this fire won’t be very big. That smoke is long way off.”
Anger quickly crept in. I wondered just who is in charge of these kinds of things. Like a scared hurt animal, I was ready to lash out at anybody, so I made my list:
The federal agencies, the environmentalists, the apathetic public, and the new U.S. Wild Land Fire Service. I even stopped to look in the mirror and wonder how I have contributed to the current situation.
The frequent mega-fires in the west warrant a robust conversation. It’s not just drought, heat, fuel loading, and decades of suppression activities or agencies tied up in legal challenges, or radical environmentalists loyal to a cause at any expense.
There are hundreds of pictures of the destruction and the places laid to waste. I hurt; it is the kind of “grief that can’t be spoken.” There have only been five structures destroyed.
Compare that to many other places that have far less acreage, but hundreds of structures destroyed. Five structures is a testimony of just how remote, rough, rugged, and difficult the landscape is.
But those five structures are etched in the heart of many residents who hiked, slept, or visited them with family and friends. Locals loved these old cabins, not because they were big and grand, but because each one had a story to remind us about who we are and where we came from.
There were stories of rough characters, determined cowboys, hopeful miners, and determined pioneers who built these small structures because of necessity. These were not millionaire starter castles set on mountain tops as monuments to rich city people looking for a getaway.
I attend the informational meetings the agencies hold. They amuse and confuse the locals by miscalling the names of roads and landmarks. I had to look on the maps to see what road they were talking about.
What we call the Hart’s Draw Road or the Pipeline Road they call a precise but clinical number. To their credit, eventually they got it right. What they call a structure we call the King Edward Mine Cabin which provided important shelter for prospectors in the 1900s.
These small cabins were used by people who worked with the land. The names are as familiar and loved as the Horsehead, Blue Creek Cabin, or Scorup’s Cabin.
Scorup’s Cabin, located in an area now known as the Dark Canyon Wilderness, was built in the 1930s by J.A. Scorup and was used by the Scorup-Somerville Cattle Company. It was a summer camp for cowhands who ran cattle in an area larger than New Jersey.
Black smoke is choking me even as I try to go for my morning walk. Honestly, I haven’t breathed this much secondhand smoke since I was a passenger in my dad’s truck.
I am slipping into the third stage of grief – depression. The smoke in the air has made spectacular pictures of sunsets but there is a sadness each evening as I sit on the deck and look west to the mountain.
One former resident with family ties back to the dinosaurs just texted me. “It is so sad. It is awful. I can’t believe it. I love that mountain.”
But as I said at the beginning, “it was the best of times” too. True to the character of the good people of San Juan County, people in our communities who love this land have been grateful for the firefighters who leave the comfort and security of their homes and come run towards the burning flames to help save our homes and our lands.
It makes my heart swell with pride and I am touched that each evening there are people and signs thanking the firefighters.
There are impromptu welcoming parades with kids and parents cheering and thanking the firefighters as they come back to town after twelve hours in the hot sun.
These firefighters are smoky, dirty, sweaty, and exhausted. Their faces are often black with soot, ash, and charcoal. Their smiles look like an out of place white picket fence. They are doing what they love. It’s not fighting fire . . . it is helping people.
These brave souls have been well trained and come to love fire and respect it. Many have stared at fifty-foot flames or heard the rush of a fire breathing dragon screaming like a locomotive. Almost all know, worked with, or spent time with someone whose life was cut short.
Firefighters are a small community. They learn to trust one another as if their life depends on it. And it does, so they have firefighting brothers and sisters everywhere they go.
All great adversity gives the human race a chance to showcase the worst in us and the very best in what we as humans can aspire to be.
When we sacrifice for others, when we help those who cannot repay us, when we give heartfelt gratitude because a nameless brave soul answers the call to their fellowman with, “Here am I, send me.” The Babylon Fire has nearly 1,500 firefighters who grab their 50-pound pack and Pulaski and march into the belly of the dragon, confident that they can make a difference.
Sometimes – like the three firefighters who died in the Snyder Fire – they don’t come home to their family, they don’t get the welcoming parade, and they don’t hear the shout of gratitude from impromptu crowds lining the street.
To see the spontaneous outpowering of love and gratitude in our community reminds me that as much as I live here because of the beautiful lands that surround me, I am here because there are good people all around me.
I finally reach the last two steps in the grieving process. I tried to bargain and called upon higher powers to spare our land and I made ridiculous promises.
I have come to accept that the land will be different, but it will still be home. We will sift through the charred debris and rebuild. We will dare to hope again.
This will always be our home. We are working on the next 250 years when our greatgrandkids will find the resilience to face their adversity by how we handled ours.