After the Flames

Two weeks ago, the Carr Fire ripped through my small, Northern California community. It started as a plume of smoke on the horizon Monday morning. Something to talk about at work: “Hey did you see that smoke? Must be a fire out there.” Nothing more. Tuesday and Wednesday passed with the same pencil line of smoke trailing into the sky. Thursday morning we woke up to ash falling from the sky like snow and an eerie orange glow in the air instead of watery sunshine. Overnight, the fire had tripled in size and was burning furiously toward our town. My parents live on the western edge of town, less than a mile from the fire. In a panic and choking on hot smoke, I helped them rake up as much dry debris (dead leaves, pine needles, etc.) as possible and then we doused the house with water. We carried out everything important, like old photos and birth certificates, and piled it in their car and then we drove away with the fire on our heels—not knowing if we’d ever see that house again.

We sat and watched the news all day. Firefighters were working 24-hour shifts to put this blaze out. It was wildly out of control. One person had died. Many homes had already been lost. My parent’s neighborhood and all the surrounding neighborhoods were evacuated and everything was chaos. Planes and helicopters were flying overhead, sirens were blaring down the highway by my house, and our neighborhood slowly filled up with cars as friends from the other side of town fled to us. When the sun set, we drove out into town to see what was going on and if we could get any information. The roads were full of panicked people and the gas stations were jammed as everyone was hurrying to get out of town. We drove past the madness and up onto the hill near the middle of town. Hundreds of other people had parked in fields and on the sides of the road and were standing and watching.

The hills were on fire all around us. Bright orange flames casting a smoky red glow against the black night sky. While we watched, our mouths hanging open in wonder and terror (mostly terror), the fire swelled and then calmed and then flamed higher and then exploded onto a neighboring hill. It was alive — a living, breathing monster ravenously consuming the earth. And it was heading right for my parent's house.

There are truly no words to describe that feeling. The feeling of eminent, inescapable loss. The helplessness of watching it happen while you cannot do anything to stop it. The realization that life will never be the same and that many things that defined your life, that held so many precious memories, will soon be gone forever. And when you next go to your parent's house, it will be a pile of burned rocks and ashes. It makes your heart ache and your legs numb.

My parents watched in silence, their arms wrapped around each other for comfort. I could hear my mom crying quietly.

We went home (to my house) that night, sick to our stomachs with the firm believe we’d just lost everything. And after a sleepless, miserable night, we woke up and checked the fire map...and their neighborhood was still ok. I was floored. The fire was right there; it should’ve burned their house to a crisp! But somehow it didn’t. To say we were thankful and amazed and nearly giddy with relief — that would be an understatement!

The next night was much the same. The firefighters were able to beat the flames back during the day, but at night the fire raged and gained more ground. We held our breaths and hoped and prayed the house would survive another night.

It did.

Their house is still standing and their entire neighborhood is completely fine, but just across the street it looks like an apocalyptic wasteland. Something right out of Fallout.

It is truly incredible how close my parents came to losing everything in the fire. And while I am beyond thankful my family survived without losing anything, I am well aware of the fact many people did not. Many people are now homeless, many people have lost their pets. Eight families (so far) have lost loved ones. So while my heart is full of relief and gratitude, it also aches for those in the community who are suffering right now. It could so easily have been my family seeking shelter in a church or community center, trying to figure out how to begin picking up the pieces of our lives once this was over.

Other stories from my community are coming to light from this Carr fire: on the Thursday the fire exploded, while I was at my parent’s house scrambling to get important things packed and then soak the property with water, there was a literal fire tornado burning with wind speeds over 140 miles per hour barreling towards us just over the ridge. One man left his house to run to the store and while he was gone, his grandson called him and said, “Grandpa, you need to come home. The fire is coming.” And even though he raced home, he wasn’t fast enough. The fire had already swept through his neighborhood and killed his wife and two grandchildren. Another woman walked out to her backyard and saw the flames at her fence and yelled at her husband that they needed to leave immediately. They lived in a gated community, however, and the fire had blocked off the entrance, so this woman and her husband had to climb the fence and run nearly four miles through the woods to find help. She said she just kept running the direction all the mice, rabbits, and deer were running. One firefighter died when the fire tornado picked up his firetruck and flung him 100 feet into the air.

This fire has devastated my town. So many good people have lost everything. But I think this fire has also done something very unexpectedly wonderful, too— it has brought the city of Redding closer together as a community. People are helping each other. People are more kind and more patient with one another. We have all been through something horrible together, and there is a kinship amongst us now that wasn’t there before. There is a strength, too. We will rebuild from this fire, I know we will, but I also hope we will continue to look at each other with the same human kindness and compassion I have witnessed these last two weeks. Because that would mean everything this fire took from us was not in vain because we gained something beautiful in return.