Running From Wildfire

Los Angeles is burning

At this very moment, Los Angeles is burning.

The Santa Ana winds shriek outside, blowing patio furniture across broken tiles. Nothing good ever comes from these windstorms; California is so dry that it can’t even cry. Not even a misty lone teardrop to leave dew upon our brush.

Wildfires strike a chord, reverberating under my skin. Taking me back to the Woolsey Fire of 2018.

I lived in Agoura Hills, in a small canyon abutting the Calabasas border, framed by the Santa Monica Mountains and Malibu Creek State Park. Windows rattled from the wind, the sky a dark greyish-orange, and the familiar scent of smoke in the distance—a smell I’d experienced many times before.

The fire broke out near Simi Valley and headed south.

Fires in our area were nothing new. But this one was different. I was riveted by the local breaking news reports as the fire crept through each neighboring town. When it hit Thousand Oaks, we began to worry. But, still, you don’t think it will happen to you. I lived on the other side of the 101 Freeway. The fire can’t jump the freeway, right?

I called my ex-husband, who lived down the street. “Don’t worry,” he said when I asked if we should evacuate. Evacuations weren’t mandatory for our area of town, even when the fire encroached upon the northernmost point of Agoura Hills. He echoed that it wouldn’t cross the freeway. We’d be safe.

That evening, I stayed glued to the television while I packed “just in case” bags. As my teenage son and six-year-old daughter slept, I paced, not knowing what to do as the fire grew closer, raining ash. Midnight passed. I kept the television on as I tried to get some rest, lulled to sleep by frantic reporting and periodic emergency tones.

A couple of hours later, I was startled awake by a helicopter spotlight shining through my bedroom window and a booming voice urgently announcing immediate mandatory evacuations.

Yes. Fires can jump the freeway. And this one did, across from where I lived.

The megaphone announcements were terrifying, doubly so when the power suddenly went out. The darkened contrast striking without the hum of appliances or the flicker of lights. I quickly woke my kids and grabbed the dog. As we fled my townhouse, we were shocked by the fire before us, blanketing our hillside with a bright orange hue against the blackened night.

I handed my newly licensed teenager the keys to my old car and told him we would just drive until we could pull over somewhere and figure things out.

The area where I lived in Agoura Hills was called Liberty Canyon. One main road led to the neighborhoods within. It was a dead-end street that ended at the back of the park. There was only one way in and out. It would be so easy to be trapped in our little pocket of town with no escape.

So, in the middle of the night, along with my neighbors, we fled from the fire. It had crept so close that I felt its heat on my skin. I followed my son to the freeway, which was busy but not as packed as I thought it might be. My body shook but this was a matter of survival. I drove focusing on the little black Honda in front of me, leaving our home in the hands of fate and thinking about our next steps.

Seeing the fire on the hills around us left me breathless. I felt small.

We passed Woodland Hills and pulled off the 101 Freeway in Reseda—home of the Karate Kid. We parked our cars at a gas station to discuss our plans. My son did not want to come to Orange County with me, so we called his father, who was driving to the Bel Air Hotel, where he worked. I would follow my son there to make sure he arrived safely and continue to my destination with my daughter.

The next day, I sat on my boyfriend’s sofa watching the local news. I was frozen and sick. It made my stomach hard, but I couldn’t turn away. I was numb.

Liberty Canyon’s evacuation lasted longer than any other area of town—we were away for a week. Probably the longest week of my life. My ex-husband and son were able to get into the area to check on the status of our homes, which made it through the fire. The house across the street from where I lived was not so lucky—it was burned to the ground.

Walking in for the first time after our evacuation was lifted, the most noticeable thing was the smell of smoke that lingered on everything in our home and the ash that lined the floor and counters. The brush behind my patio was singed and burnt. My umbrella had small holes in it from the embers. It had come so close. We were lucky.

Fires make me freeze. I’ve always had a fear, courtesy of recurring childhood nightmares. Today, I’m still affected by the trauma of that fire and the very real fear it instilled.

At this moment, Los Angeles is burning.

The images bring tears to my eyes and I feel so very sad for all those who have lost their homes and the footprints of their lives.

---

“One of a Kind”

I was never anything special.

I was never the biggest, or the strongest, or even the most beautiful.

The friends I’ve made over the years have always said I’m one of a kind,
Expressing gratitude for the shade I'd provide
On their meandering treks through the Park.

I sit alone upon a peak overlooking, well, everything I can see.

One of a kind, indeed.

I haven’t received any visitors in quite some time. 
I have no cover to provide. 
No beauty to capture. 
I have no sturdy branches upon which to land or build a nest. 
No clean bark from which to feast.

The fire came in the deep of night.

Roaring wild.

The hills around me brightly tipped in orange. The cars below edging to leave. 
Soon, I too would be engulfed in flames—a beacon for those around me, 
Guiding them out and away toward safety.

One of a kind.

And now I wait. And wait. And wait.

The grass and flowers are showing signs of life. 
But not I.
One of a kind.
And when my friends spot my skeleton up on the hill, 
They'll remember how I faced the wilds on my lonely peak that night.

My heart burning bright.