Where There's Smoke

The Catlins have been visiting New England for the latter half of June, leaving Bob and me with the full responsibilities and rewards of the property: bed and breakfast, garden, barn-in-progress, cats, and pool.  With the overabundance of interesting goings-on in and around Mariposa, I've been looking forward to the opportunity to get really heimisch for a couple of weeks, focusing deeply on the plants, animals and guests at One Light.

As usual, the universe had other ideas.  We bid farewell to a dear friend that first Sunday afternoon after a lovely 5-day visit, and I lay down for a nap while Bob tinkered away in the barn.  When I awoke, the wind was moving the trees and a strange light illuminated their tops.  Half of the blue sky was covered by a gray-orange haze.  The air felt strange, and I assumed a storm was passing over us on its way to the mountains.  I greeted our new B&B arrivals, and began cooking dinner.  Then Bob came into the house with news from friends in our old neighborhood on Triangle Road: an enormous wildfire had everyone on the northeast part of Triangle on pre-evacuation notice. 

Smokey haze over the setting sun bathes the back yard in golden light.

A number of different thoughts flashed through my mind in rapid succession.  What about our friends' pets and livestock?  Their homes?  What would happen if the fire came our way over the ridge?  What things should we try to take out with us?  Where would I sent the B&B guests?  What about the Catlins' home and their treasures?  The garden?

Orangey-grey smoke to the north and blue sky to the south.

Happily, the combined efforts of the weather and 2,200 firemen got the fire contained, and all evacuees were able to return home just a few days later.  1,700 acres burned in the Carstens Fire, but no structures were touched.  Apart from a few days of smoky air and one B&B cancellation, nothing in our lives was disrupted.  But there was a fair amount of self-knowledge to gain from the situation. 

Ash and blackened leaves rained down on us from the fire site.

First, I learned that I am terrified of wildfire (and probably all natural disasters).  This wasn't really a surprise, because I'd always tried to imagine how upsetting it would be to have to gather up your essentials and flee your home.  But secondly, I gained a new gratitude for the wonderful house on wheels that Bob built for us, and the lifestyle that we've chosen.  Over the past few months we've mostly focused on things we need to improve on the motorhome, or things we wish we'd done differently.  But when faced with a worst-case scenario, I realized that in spite of its shortcomings, this house is adaptable to sudden change.  There's no need to have an emergency kit ready by the door; we can fairly easily pull up stakes and drive away with our own (too short) bed, (one-cook) kitchen, (slightly less-than-optimal) bathroom, (too large) music collection, (seasonal) clothing, toothbrushes, and cat. 

I love this land, and would mourn deeply the loss of its trees, garden, outbuildings, etc.  And Bob is still itching to build a permanent structure that would expand our indoor space.  But I have no sense of urgency about growing out of the motorhome.  For now, I'm enjoying the paradoxical feeling of security in transience; of carrying our house on our back; of making the outdoors as much my home as the indoors is.

Lastly, we had more reasons than ever this week to appreciate the community that we've found here.  I called friends on Triangle to offer them a place to stay, and within minutes another friend further east called me to make sure we were all right and offer his help.  The Chois' eldest son emailed from the grazing site down in southern California to see how we were faring.  A group that we volunteer with, Mariposa Open Arms, fed and hosted evacuees.  The Mariposa Bed and Breakfast Association called to see if we had rooms available for evacuated guests.  After the worst was over, big hand-painted signs sprung up along Hwy 49 thanking the firefighters.

It seems that the best gift we could give back to this place would be to teach the most fireproof form of building construction that we know--strawbale walls coated with earth-plaster, covered by a metal roof.  Mariposa County has a lot of building codes related to fire resistance, but no amount of asphalt shingles or chemically-treated lumber can compare with metal, sand, clay and earth.  Neither Bob nor I have much experience doing "informational outreach" (that is to say, marketing).  But history is full of people who were called to perform duties far outside their comfort zones, not to speak of their job descriptions.  And if it takes a team to spread the truth about truly sustainable construction, then I believe that this team will manifest.  But first we need to pull our heads out of our daily tasks and start developing our thesis.