Surviving the Almeda Fire

It is the night before the Almeda Drive fire, which will end up wiping out half of my neighborhood along with the town north of it, and I’m dreaming. In my dream, thick charcoal thunderheads spiral in the skies above. I watch them in a state of fascination and fear, and then suddenly, I am struck by a blinding bolt of lightning. I feel the energy of the blast jolt through my body and knock me violently to the ground. My legs catch fire, and I frantically beat on my shins and calves to put the flames out. I know I am badly hurt, so I use the last of my strength to roll towards a group of strangers in an attempt to signal I need help before I lose consciousness, hoping they will see me.

I sit up in my bed, my heart jackhammering in my chest. It’s midnight. As is my practice when I experience a powerful dream featuring natural elements or animals, I look up the dream symbolism of being struck by lightning on my iPhone. The first explanation I land on reads:

Lightning is a symbol of raw energy and power, which can be both generative and destructive. If you dream of lightning strikes in a storm, this indicates powerful energy letting loose in your life. Like any storm, this can be frightening and may involve the destruction of things you hold very dear.

Still feeling disturbed, but a bit calmer, I shake off the horror of the dream and eventually drop back into a restless sleep.

The sound of the wind startles me awake early the next morning. A large branch from the tree outside my bedroom window has cracked off and crashed to the ground. We’ve been warned for days about this windstorm, the dry conditions of the Rogue Valley, and the dangers of wildfire. I feel uneasy as I ready my small son for his first day at his outdoor childcare facility, but am soon distracted by the logistics of daily life.

I kiss him goodbye as a powerful gust of wind blasts our bodies, turn and head home, where I have been working remotely for the last several months. I’m able to get a lot of work done that I’ve been procrastinating through the holiday weekend. It is good to catch up. I feel productive in a way I haven’t for a long time.

After a few hours of sitting in front of my computer, I know I need to move my body. “I’m going for a walk,” I call to my husband.

“In this wind?” he replies.

“I like to walk in the wind,” I reply, and head outside. A few steps down my driveway stops me short in my tracks. An enormous, white plume of smoke is billowing behind our home. It looks close, very close, and appears to be emanating from the direction of my son’s childcare. I scream for my husband. He runs outside to see.

“Oh my God. That’s here,” he sputters after a moment. I run across the street and knock on the neighbor’s door. She has two small children, so I quietly point to the sky.

“I know,” she says. “It’s in Quiet Village.” We stare at each other for a moment. I will myself not to panic and tell her I need to get my boy. There’s a voicemail waiting for me on the phone, notifying me that the children have been evacuated to a parking lot a mile away. My husband has already ridden his bike to the edge of town to see what’s happening, and I call him to tell him I’m leaving to get our son.

“I’m going to ride my bike down and you can drive over to pick us up. I will call you when I have him. The fire is across the freeway, but it looks bad. Start packing…NOW.”

I turn in circles in my living room, frantically trying to force my brain into some semblance of linear thought. The only thing I can think to do is to call a dear friend who lost everything in the Santa Rosa fires a few years ago. Her family barely escaped with their lives.

“Lana, there’s a fire coming.” I try to keep my voice stable. “What should I pack? What do I do?”

Her voice, calm and quiet, begins delivering a steady stream of instructions. Pack the stuffed animals my son loves. Try to grab a few games or books to keep him distracted.

“Listen to me. Your job right now is to keep it together for your boy. He’s going to absorb every reaction you have, and if you panic, he’ll panic. Don’t worry about your clothes, you won’t care about them later. Just grab a couple outfits for everyone. Get your cell phone chargers, get the photo albums, anything you think you’ll miss.”

I thank her, we hang up, and I begin stuffing things into bags. I survey the beautiful altar I have spent years putting together, filled with large crystals I’ve collected from my travels or have been gifted from friends. Some are too heavy for me to carry. I will have to leave my prized crystal singing bowls I have only recently bought. In the end, I grab half a dozen altar items and put them in the car. Before leaving the house, I snatch our framed wedding photo off the wall. My phone rings as I open the car door.

Over my son’s frantic, high pitched wails, my husband explains that they are walking back. It will take forty five minutes, he says. I tell him I’m on my way. “Don’t bother. It’s gridlocked traffic and it will take you at least an hour. Just meet us in the Ray’s parking lot.”

It takes me twenty minutes to inch my car only two blocks from home. Finally, I give up and pull my car into the Talent police station, next to a sign that says NO PARKING. Cops whiz in and out of the lot. I expect to be told to move my car, but they barely glance at me. I wish one would talk to me. Tell me what to do.

A woman approaches and asks me to roll down my window. “Where should we go?” she asks me. “The roads are blocked and there’s no way out.” I tell her I don’t know, there’s no information online and I’m just as confused as she is.

The acrid smell of smoke fills my car and stings my eyes. “I have to roll up my window now,” I say. She nods and walks away. I remember I still have an N95 mask in my glove compartment from the last bad fire season in Southern Oregon and put it on.

For what seems like hours, I wait for my family, texting worried loved ones to keep them updated on the situation. Then I see my child rounding the corner and leap out of the car. My little boy’s beautiful, dark eyes are frantically searching for me above the smoke mask my husband remembered to grab for him. He sees me, speeds down the sidewalk toward me. “Mama!” he screams as he leaps into my arms. His sixty pounds feels oddly light as I hold him tightly. “I’m scared.”

“All is well, dear one,” I whisper in his ear, rubbing his back as he sobs. “We are together. All is well.” I carry him back to the car.

It only takes a few seconds to drive home because we are moving against the surge of evacuees heading north. My husband catches up on his bike a few minutes later. He tells me the fire has jumped the freeway and is now heading toward our neighborhood. He begins filling every water bottle he can find. I knock on my elderly neighbors’ doors to alert them to the latest news. I tell them we are about to leave.

“Get in the truck,” says my husband. “We need to stay together, so just get the bags and put them in the truck.”

“What about the cats?”

“We can’t take them, sweetie. They’re outdoor cats. They’ll run and hide, they’ll know what to do. We can’t catch them right now anyway.”

My son loudly protests as we tell him to turn off the television.

“I don’t want to leave!” he shrieks. “This is our home!”

“All is well, my love!” I chirp in the sing-song cadence his Waldorf teachers use with him as I hustle him towards the truck, aware of how hollow and false my voice sounds. I remember my friend Lana’s words. “All is well, we will be fine. It’s important to listen to our Papa, especially right now. He knows what to do. He’ll keep us safe. Ok? Can you be so brave and do that for me?”

He nods, trying not to cry.

Our bodies wedged together in the seat of the Toyota, I finally regain a sense of security. My husband puts the truck in gear. “We’re going to my parents, right?” I ask. They live in Eagle Point. I have no idea about the South Obenchain fire that will be heading towards their town in just a few hour’s time.

“No f — ing way we’re doing that. Do you see that smoke and traffic? The 99 and the 5 are on fire and we’re not getting in the middle of that.” He pulls into the empty parking lot behind the baseball diamonds in the park behind our neighborhood. “We have to wait it out here. There’s nothing around here that can burn, it’s all green grass. This is the safest place right now.”

I want to shriek, “Are you INSANE?” at him, but force my voice to be calm. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. There are trees here. What if the smoke overtakes us?”

“Then we’ll roll up the windows. There’s nothing around us that will burn here. This is the best place. Please trust me.” His face is grim, worried.

For the next several hours, we watch the billowing white smoke change into a dark, hateful black. We hear explosions, propane tanks giving way in the flames. I watch one blast hundreds of feet into the sky. The smoke inches nearer as the hot winds gust around us. Helicopters fly overhead, carrying buckets of water. The drops spray us as they pass by.

“All is well,” I keep repeating to my son, not believing my own words. I have packed his Lite Brite toy, a recent birthday gift. We play with it together in the truck. I busy myself, creating star shapes out of the tiny plastic pieces. My son looks up occasionally at the approaching wall of smoke and whimpers.

“Look, I made a boat! Want me to try a kitty cat?” The distraction works, but only for a few minutes. My husband, who has ridden the Hoverboard we gave our son for his birthday back to our house to fetch my car, returns.

“It’s coming up Talent Avenue,” he tells me quietly. That’s across the street from the park. Across from the street where we live. I get out of the truck and walk several yards away, out of earshot. I let my knees fold to the ground, cover my face and wail. There is no denying it now: my town is burning. When I finally look up, I can see flames licking the sky several hundred feet away. Planes are dumping blood red streaks of fire retardant right in front of us. The sound of their jets hurts my ears. It feels as though a hundred pound weight is resting on my chest, threatening to crush and shatter my ribcage.

My husband gathers me in his strong arms. I want to break. He knows I need to break, but he asks me not to. “I need you to hold it together. We need to stay calm in front of him,” he reminds me, nodding toward our son. I know he is right. I am furious with him for saying it, but he is right. I swallow my tears.

A house across the street from the park goes up in flames. We hear a heavy rain of ammunition exploding, popping like the fireworks we light on the Fourth of July. “Jesus Christ, it sounds like a gun fight!” my husband says. “This is a disaster,” he keeps repeating. “This is such a disaster.”

My mother texts me.

“Are you out?”

“We can’t get out,” I tell her. I battle myself, not wanting to worry her, and then I finally tell the truth. “I am so scared, Mommy.” I haven’t called her that since I was a child.

She texts back immediately. “I know. Pray.”

By this time, some of our neighbors who evacuated hours ago have returned to our same spot, telling us the roads are all blocked.

“See?” my husband says. I want to argue with him. Every fiber in my body is shrieking in alarm, telling me to get as far away from the fire as possible. I even imagine running on foot up the hill behind us. It is filled with dead grass. A railroad track cuts off our road access. I feel like a rat trapped in a cage, waiting to die. My elderly neighbor gets out of her car, tears streaking down her face. I ask her if I can hug her, wanting to respect the rules of social distancing. She falls into my arms and we cry together.

Another man, who has been in his truck in the same spot as us all day, approaches. He tells us he is an electrician and warns that when the fire reaches us and the power lines fall, to stay far away because they will still be active and dangerous. He reminds me that the sun is setting and when it does, the winds will calm and make the fire fighting easier. He points out a small, separate plume of smoke in the distance and the helicopters rushing towards it. “That’s the one they really need to get,” he tells me. “That’s the one that will come towards where we are. And look, it’s working! It’s going out. There goes another plane towards it. See, it’s about to dump fire retardant. Wow! Look at it go!” He begins to sound like a sports commentator. I find it oddly reassuring.

Twilight descends. Above us, stars blink open in the darkening sky. In front of us is a solid line of destruction. There is a towering wall of flame in our direct line of vision. It is getting closer. I watch a house I have passed every day for years explode into flame.

“I’m hungry, Mama,” my son calls from my car. In the flurry of grabbing essential and sentimental items, I have completely forgotten to bring a scrap of food.

“I need to go back to the house and get him something to eat,” I tell my husband. He tells me to take the Hoverboard and hurry. As I cut through the park towards my neighborhood, I see my neighbors, two young men packing their car. I warn them the roads have been blocked and tell them we’re riding it out in the open field behind the park.

“Go NOW,” one tells me. “Seriously — look. It’s here.” I don’t argue, instead nodding grimly and pointing the Hoverboard towards my house, speeding as fast as I dare.

The house is dark as I unlock the door. It feels strange, almost dead to me. Memories flood me of Thanksgiving feasts, all the dinner parties we’ve thrown, the peals of laughter that have rung through our kitchen. So many joyful moments, possibly gone forever.

I peer through the gloom of the house, jerking open the dark refrigerator to pack a bag of cold cuts, string cheese, a jar of peanut butter. I roll a blanket up and stuff it under one arm, grab a new loaf of bread and rush out of the house. As I look down the street, I can see the mobile homes down the road burning. The beautiful grove of tall trees that turn a brilliant golden yellow I’ve admired every autumn are all in flames. It is horrifying, but beautiful, in its own terrible way.

I know if the wind changes direction we are lost. I realize this may be the last time I ever stand in the walkway of my own home, and pause to gently touch the front door after locking it. “Goodbye,” I say to it. “Thank you for being such a good home to my family.” Tears blurring my vision, I race back to my husband and child. I feed my son and wrap the blanket I brought from home around his small body, then give him my iPad and tell him he can watch any show he wants.

“I thought you said no screen time this week.”

“Today, it is ok.”

He rewards me with a wide, happy grin. “Thank you, Mama,” he says, and is instantly glued to his show. His contentment brings a small measure of relief. I latch onto it gratefully.

I stare at the trees a dozen yards away from our vehicles, mentally preparing myself for what it will look like when they finally catch fire, any moment now, I think. I wonder, for the hundredth time that day, if we are going to die. I wonder how long it will take if the worst happens. I try to push the thoughts from my mind but they creep back in, as steadily as the plume of smoke consuming our sweet little town. Staring at my beautiful child, I begin to silently pray to all that is good to keep him safe and unharmed.

My mind flashes, as it still often does, to the day he was born. He was an astonishing baby, with huge, dark eyes that locked curiously on all who came close. I couldn’t take my gaze off of him. “What a gorgeous baby! He is an old soul,” said the nurses as I cuddled him close to my chest. “I know,” I said back, smiling and flooded with pride and wonder that this amazing being had finally come into my life. I remembered lying in the hospital bed and holding his tiny, soft-as-satin feet in my hands while promising I would always do whatever I could to keep him safe. Had I failed him? Had we just made the worst mistake of our lives? Of his life? The notion is too terrible to bear, and yet I cannot stop myself from thinking it. It consumes my mind, as dark as the night that has fallen over the field I am standing in.

Flashing blue and red lights snap me out of my reverie. A police car pulls into the parking lot, where over half a dozen cars have gathered. My neighbors are huddled together with the rest of the people like a herd of frightened animals. “It’s time to go,” the officer shouts. “This is not safe anymore.”

“Good!” I call to him. “Please tell us how to get out!” He tells us they have opened up an exit point to get us to Ashland and barks directions at us. I buckle my son in the seat and jump in. My husband pulls the truck in front and tells me to follow him.

To the left of us is a tall, thick row of flames. I can feel the heat when I touch my window. I tell my son to keep watching his show. He looks up and sees the fire, begins to cry. I try to cover his eyes with my hand and he snaps at me that he can’t see his screen. One of my best friends calls. I tell her we are getting out. “Oh thank God,” I keep repeating. All of the adrenaline I have been holding suddenly bottoms out, my nervous system collapses, and I begin to hyperventilate and sob. I feel a small hand on my arm.

“It’s ok, Mama. I don’t want you to worry. Please don’t cry. All is well,” my son says softly. I feel deeply ashamed that my baby has to comfort me and force myself to calm down. As we move away from our town, I can see trees still burning in the distance, far away from the road. Little fires everywhere, dotting the night deep into the trees with their deadly amber glows.

What has seemed for hours like an impossible journey takes mere minutes to complete before we are safe in familiar, downtown Ashland. I park in front of stores I have shopped in for decades. The street lights are glowing orange in the night. Everything looks normal, as though it’s just another Tuesday evening in Southern Oregon. We plan our next move. Food. The thought of it makes me want to laugh. While I wait for my husband to fetch dinner, I answer texts and update my Facebook to reassure my alarmed friends and family that we are finally safe.

I know I need to find my child a warm bed to sleep in, and we make our way to a friend’s house on Mt. Ashland after determining the 5 South has been reopened. When we arrive, I look up into the darkness of the clear night sky. The Milky Way stretches its icy white bands across the heavens. The forest is silent. I wonder if my home is burning by now. I accept that it probably is. I find that in the moment, I don’t really care. We are safe. That is all that matters. We are finally safe, and we are together.

Hours pass, and suddenly it’s 2 am. My family is asleep. I am glued to my phone. A neighbor I don’t know stayed behind and has posted a Facebook live video of his bike ride in our local town forum.

As I begin to take in the extent of the destruction, I cannot stop crying. I can already tell the losses will be far greater than I could have possibly imagined. So many lives destroyed, every possession lost. Then I realize he is close to my street. I ask him if our home is still standing.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Everything this side of Talent Avenue is ok.” The footage he is taking will soon be on the national news, but I have no way of knowing this yet.

I thank him profusely, turn off my phone. As I finally close my eyes, I remember my dream before this living nightmare. I remember its meaning.

And then I fall into a brief, but blessedly dreamless, sleep.

If you would like to donate to the victims of the Almeda fire, please consider doing so here: https://www.roguecu.org/community/donate