Smoke

As I write this, it seems that there are wildfires everywhere in northern California.

Everything has its price. If you own a beachfront home in Florida or Maui, a hurricane might take it out. Opt for the lower real estate prices in the Midwest, and you might lose your home to a tornado.

We live in the woods. Tornadoes are rare in this part of the country, and those in the know say we have no major earthquake faults in our area. But we have fires.

The Jones Fire of 1999 started just five miles from our home. According to the California Department of Forestry, it burned 26,000 acres and 954 structures. I was away at work, and Rhonda evacuated our home with two dogs and a cat in the truck with her, as well as five llamas in a trailer behind. The Jones Fire reached within a quarter mile of our home.

I watched the Bear Fire of 2004 as it began, in roughly the same area as the Jones Fire. Strangely, it happened in the month of March, well before fire season. A record snowfall had toppled many trees and branches in the area, which provided ample fuel for the wildfire. The Bear Fire burned 10,000 acres, and destroyed 110 structures.

Dylan was three and a half then. We were both home, while Rhonda was working. From our home, I could see down the canyon, and I could see that the fire was close to the Dry Creek watershed. Dry Creek runs through the bottom of our property. If the fire crossed Dry Creek Road, the canyon would likely funnel the fire to our home.

I turned on the TV to a cartoon for Dylan, and I tried to subtly gather some belongings. I wasn't subtle enough. Dylan asked, "Daddy, what are you doing?"

I sat down next to him. "Punkin', there's a forest fire in the hills a few miles from us. It probably won't reach our house, but we need to be ready to leave just in case."

Dylan looked scared. Damn. I was hoping to avoid alarming him. That was hard to do while in the hurry mode. I told him that I'd gather up a few things, and that we'd then wait. "The fire probably won't get here, Dylan, but we need to be ready just in case."

I scurried around gathering things. Dylan sat watching TV. "Daddy?" "Yeah Punkin'?" "Would you hold me?"

Oh my God. I was so concerned with things that I'd failed to notice how scared my little three year-old was. I picked him up and held him. "It's going to be okay, Dylan." "Will the fire get our house, Daddy?" I took a breath. What should I say? "Probably not. But we have to be ready to leave just in case." Tears started pouring from Dylan's eyes. "I don't want our house to burn, Daddy." "I know, Punkin'. It probably won't. But we need to be ready."

I carried Dylan up the driveway to the llamas' area. Holding Dylan in one arm, I was able to halter the llamas and lead them to the catch pen, where I could quickly load them into the trailer if necessary. The llamas seemed to make it easy for me, as if they knew that it was important to cooperate.

For the next two hours, I held Dylan. I forgot about things. We spent most of the time out on the deck, with a clear view up the Dry Creek drainage. Dylan felt better when he watched the aerial tankers and helicopters fighting the fire. Me too.