Where There's Fire There's Smoke

(Before beginning this post, I want to express how heartbroken I am for all the people in Oregon who have lost their homes because of the fires. My heart is especially heavy for those who live in Ashland, Talent, Phoenix, and Medford, and for all the businesses that have suffered loss as well.)

    In the pall of smoke descending on my house from the Slater and Devil's fires, burning only a few miles away, I have lost track of the days. Did the fires start a week ago? More? How long have I been ensconced here on the mountain, imprisoned by the hazardous air outside? How long has it been since I have seen the sky or known any weather? Has it been hot? Have clouds been gathering? I hear it might rain in the next few days, though you couldn't tell by looking out the window. 

I used to see a mountain outside my window. That's smoke, not clouds.

    Actually, the smoke is better today. Twice there was a reddish spotlight glare, which I assume was the sun, not flames. Today I can see the trees beyond the garden, though Humpy Mountain, of course, is completely obscured.  You would never know I had a mountain view. 

    The smoke is bad everywhere in Oregon because the fires have been bad everywhere, but Williams, eight miles down the mountain, has had the worst air in the state, according to AQI levels. In fact, it has been the worst air in the country, if I'm reading the chart right. Is it worse up here on the mountain? Or better?

    When I first learned of the fire, my neighbors told me they were packing their cars in case of evacuation and putting sprinklers on their roofs. That was scary! I don't have the capacity for putting sprinklers on my roof. I felt alone, isolated, and very much at the end of the road. Maybe the fire chief who came knocking on doors wouldn't know I was here. Maybe I would miss the evacuation notice. Maybe I should pack my car for evacuation. But with what? What are "important papers"? When I looked around the house, nothing seemed important, really, except my computer, or else everything seemed important. What would I take? I was worried, confused, directionless. When a friend told me she would be feeling the same way except that her son was visiting and could function as her brain, I realized that what I needed was a brain. 

    I called my son.

    It was like a breath of fresh air. Ela gave me sensible directions for evacuation and told me that, if I did have to leave, I should go straight to his house, on Vashon Island in Washington. 

    Now I felt directed and could move into action. Following Ela's advice, I made a list of priorities of things to take. To my surprise, I easily found my important papers (deed to the house, will, marriage certificate, etc., though I guess the marriage certificate is only important sentimentally now). I packed a bag of clothes and my camping gear. I made clear decisions about what was irreplaceable (computer; phone; shoes, including hiking boots and ski boots, because my feet are so hard to fit, and if I took the boots, I might as well take the skis, too, so they went into the "irreplaceable" pile; cords and chargers for the computer and phone). I packed a suitcase with clothes. Then I thought about what I would want if my house burned and I had to start all over again, and I took some things people had made for me, including a stained-glass gift from Mike. I took a few photos I had hanging on the wall. I put everything in the car. If I have to evacuate, I am ready.

    Then I put on my N94 mask and raked dry leaves away from the house and the woodshed and swept the deck clean. If the fire does come here and it's a ground fire, there's a good chance my house will survive. If it's not a ground fire, it's lost, anyway. 

    I found that all that preparation helped me be psychologically ready, too. I can't remain in perpetual anxiety about danger I can't do anything about, so, except that I stay indoors, I follow normal life. Because I don't have an air filter in the house, I avoid strenuous exercise even indoors. My hiking muscles are atrophying. Political news, coronavirus news, family news from the east coast—it all seems like another world. In this tunnel of smoke, I sit in my house, read daily updates on the fire, and wait, hoping I won't be joining the crowds of fire refugees all over Oregon.