A few life rules: Don't read See Spot Run to a child whose dog has just died. Don't sing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" to a friend whose girlfriend just broke up with him. Don't watch Nacho Libre with a family who has recently been terrorized by a luchador.
And don't write a funny blog piece about wildfires in Colorado Springs.
One year ago, on June 26th, I started working on a blog about the wildfire which was then sweeping through the region. Few homes had yet been affected, and the entry is light-hearted and comical. A few hours later, the entry became unpublishable, as the fire destroyed over 300 homes. What had been amusing was now devastating, and the last thing a fire victim wants is a blogger making light of a heavy situation.
But a few weeks ago, I thought to myself, "Maybe enough time has passed, and I can pull that blog out of the archives as an anniversary piece."
Enter: Black Forest Wildfire. The night it began, I tried driving to a friend's house to help her evacuate, but was met by policemen guarding her neighborhood. Seeing the way blocked, I parked a half mile away and sprinted through backcountry to get to her house, barely able to breathe through all the smoke and my crippling lack of fitness.
In between loads to the car, I watched the fire grow in the distance and said, "I don't think this one will be as bad as last year's."
But my friend's cousin knew the truth. A tattooed sage, he gazed into the distance and exclaimed, "F-, this sh- is about to f-ing explode!"
The sage was right. The most devastating fire in Colorado History, the fire burned down 500 homes in my city. The most trivial result being, my light-hearted blog was once again unpublishable.
But you know what? Screw it. I'm posting it anyway.
Enjoy!
Fire! Brimstone!
The house smells of smoke (and has for days), and I can hear
planes overhead, rushing to dump water on the Waldo Canyon Fire, which just two
miles away has “literally erupted,” according to news reporters. I literally
have not heard so many uses of “literally” or “erupted” in my life.
It started on Saturday. I was swimming at a lake in Boulder
and relaxing on the beach (non-Coloradoans should probably imagine a pond with
a sandbox, but to us it’s a beach). When I returned to my phone, I had twelve
missed calls and a voicemail from my brother. Panting as if he’s sprinting
mere feet ahead of the fire, he yells: “Josh Skaggs, ANSWER YOUR PHONE! FIRE.
BRIMSTONE. We’re evacuating. We’ve tried to call you a million times. Answer
your phone. Bye.”
I called him back, and he relayed the news that a fire was burning near our
house, and our neighborhood was under “suggested evacuation.”
I took off my floaties and changed out of my Speedo. Time to
go home.
On the two-hour drive home, watching plumes of smoke smother the skies and wondering what to pack once we reached my house, John Mark, Kandilyn,
and I began to discuss related matters—namely, the apocalypse. Right now, smoke
towered above one mountain, but what would it be like when the very sun was
blotted out of the sky? And what would we grab from our houses? Water, food…
what else? Paper towels? An iPod?
John Mark, who had already considered this question, was
fully prepared with a list of packing items for when the last days began. I
mentally scolded myself as he reminded me of such items as knives, a
fire-starter kit, a tarp. He concluded by sharing his plan to break into the
local library and take its books on surviving in Colorado.
This is why John Mark and I are friends: when the end times
hit, and everyone’s busting up grocery stores and Best Buy, he’s going to loot the library.
Shortly after I arrived home, my grandparents pulled up in
front of my house with a trailer hitched to their SUV. I didn’t know whether to
roll my eyes or start hyperventilating. I was upstairs, and I heard the front
door open and then Grandma’s voice shakily calling: “Is there anyone in this
house? Is anyone HERE?”
I came down and helped them go through the house,
instructing them only to pack the most necessary items. During the next hour,
Grandma continually consulted me about such items as “these towels” and “a pile
of old shoes in Victor’s room,” to which I repeated, “Only what can’t be
replaced.”
Anna, my seven-year-old sister, could barely restrain her
excitement at the adventure of fleeing the house. As we scoured our home for
anything important, she directed us to what she considered to be valuable, at
one point handing me a quarter and two pennies and soberly telling me, “We
should probably take this.”
...And that's it. I never finished this blog entry, because that afternoon a fire came roaring down the mountain, and cops were suddenly patrolling my street, ordering everyone to evacuate. It was two days before I heard news that my home was safe. I let go a sigh of relief, one which was shortened by the news of a friend whose entire neighborhood had burned, just one mile away.
This year, just as I am settling into my normal state of complacency, good ol' Colorado reminds me that life can change in an instant, that even with all our technologies and the buffers we think keep us safe, we are at the Lord's mercy. How much time will pass before I forget again?
