The Fires

The smoke will be with us for some time. The losses will be with us far longer.

My heart aches for those who have lost their homes. Many years ago, a colleague assured me that people who choose to live in the forest accept that this day might come, the day when fire takes it all away. [But, still ... ]

When the Tubbs Fire blew over the ridge into Santa Rosa a few years ago, I took a deep breath. That could have been my town, embers flying miles over the hills to land on our rooftops. When a nearby community was put on an evacuation watch, I decided it was prudent to gather a few things together, just in case. I stashed my sleeping bag and tent in the trunk of my car; I could think of a few friends who wouldn't mind having me camp in their backyards. [Socially distant.] An evacuee's RV has been tethered to a neighbor's house for several days.

The red splotches on Cal Fire's Incident Map are not abstract to me. I have biked the back roads through so many of them (annotated here with black lightning bolts).

As it happened, I chose to click on HamCam 1 just as flames crept into view on a ridge below Lick Observatory. I couldn't bear to watch. [Thanks to a heroic effort, only one unused building was lost.] The valley on the back side burned; it must look very different from this view, which I captured near the base of the fire lookout on my most recent visit.

There will still be a spectacular view of the Pacific from Meyers Grade.

But the landscape, I expect, no longer resembles what I pedaled through a few years ago.

The northern end of Swanton Road drops steeply down to Highway 1, not far past the intersection with Last Chance Road (where the fire tragically cost a man his life). I had no idea there was a community up that road; umarked, I'd always presumed it was private, perhaps leading to an out-of-sight ranch.

This intersection of Alba Road and Empire Grade, I believe, has been incinerated.

 

Did this quirky spot near Big Basin survive? [Doubtful.]

The park—California's first state park—has burned.

There are reports that this beloved tree survived. As you can see, this was not the first fire in its (long) lifetime.

We are so small. What have we wrought?

The Smoke

With the windows open, I could smell the smoke when I woke during the night. Closing them would wait until morning.

Not the best photo, but you get the picture. A smoky sunrise.

Fires are raging to the west, north, and east.

I stepped outside to water some plants. There have been other fires over the years, and enough smoke to warrant closing windows. But nothing like this. I wasn't sure I could stay out there, even briefly, to finish watering things down. This was the worst I'd experienced. Smoke was seeping through every gap in my leaky old house; I taped shut the edges of two doors.

Little bits of ash were drifting down from the sky. Some were recognizable fragments, ghostly tips from redwood branches that had been incinerated. Something jet-black caught my eye—a leaf. It disintegrated in my hand. The closest fire is 10 miles away.

Colleagues have been evacuated from their homes. At least two know people (friends, family) who have lost everything.

The Storm

We're in the midst of a heat wave, and it hasn't been cooling down at night. No breeze. No marine layer.

I woke up at 3 a.m. What was that light? I'd opted to sleep downstairs, where it was a tad cooler (88°F, instead of the 94°F in my bedroom). The display screen on my cordless phone was glowing (and blank); the power had just gone out. Maybe it would be cool enough upstairs, now.

Thunder was rumbling, with the occasional flash of lightning. It was windy, and I heard a smattering of big raindrops plopping down. And then, a rush of vehicles. Red and blue flashing lights. “Got a saw?” I overheard one officer remark.

I stepped outside for a peek at the action. Big branches had come down from a tree across the street. A chainsaw appeared, the road was cleared, and soon thereafter I was asleep again.

It wasn't the work of the wind. Evidently I woke up when lightning struck that tree and multiple branches exploded. The main strike blackened the sap where it split the largest branch from the trunk, but it did not ignite.

That bolt, or its kin, ripped the tops off two additional trees a couple of houses away.

One piece landed atop the utility pole; larger branches took out the traffic signal.

It had been an epic lightning storm for the Bay Area: thousands of strikes, which started hundreds of fires.

In the morning, I shuffled some containers from the freezer to the fridge to keep things cold, longer. I'd recently taken to filling containers with water and packing them into the freezer, to prepare ice for likely power outages in the coming months. This is why they recommend keeping your freezer full, for efficiency. 💡 [Duh.] 💡 Just like you'd pack your cooler with ice. I've been using quart-sized containers, which are easy to shift around and stack. Added bonus: In the event of an earthquake, there's some stored water.

My original plan for the day had been to hole up in my home office and run my portable air conditioner. My new plan involved taking a book to the local park, where I found ample shade under a tree near the lake, at a comfortable distance from other humans.

But, as it turned out, right next to a ground squirrel's burrow. The creature was nonplussed, though disappointed once it understood that I was not going to share any food. Busy enlarging its abode, it would dig with front paws and kick the dirt up and out with rear paws.

The invasive Canada geese also regarded me with indifference as they preened and took their afternoon naps. The tree cast enough shade for all of us.

My book finished, I zigzagged my way from one patch of shade to the next as I walked home. It was the hottest day so far: 103.6°F at my house (in the shade).

Shortly after I got home, power was restored. It had been off for 13.5 hours, but my cold food was still cold enough and my frozen food was still frozen enough.

Except for that container of Phish Food. [Dinner.]

Cool It

Third time's the charm!

Another hot day, this time without fog and early enough not to tangle with diverted, distracted drivers. We headed deep into the redwood forest, at last!

My guess is that Stetson was once a logging road; it's narrow and twisty and the pavement is in terrible shape. I suspect the residents prefer it that way, too. Who would want to drive it? One was happy to cheer us on, as we labored up a steepish-section before stopping at the local church to rest in the shade.

I persuaded my chief ride buddy that it was worth a little detour down a dead-end road to see a Really Big Tree. Which turned out to be not quite so big as I remembered it. It's all relative. Especially if you're not accustomed to being around redwoods, I imagine you're thinking “but, that is a big tree.”

Just off the road, however, we found a bigger (fallen) tree, and a huge old stump.

Back at the start, I continued my litter-pick-up tradition. Six cigarette butts, two AAA batteries, and one Starbucks cup (lid attached). I often wonder what sort of person throws their trash on the ground; now I know that one of them is named Bryan, and he likes a lot of caffeine, heavily sweetened. But he eschews sugar and doesn't much care about the environment.

We may have ridden only 26 miles, but with 2,430 feet of climbing it was a solid workout. And so beautiful, riding among those ancient, towering trees.

(Un)group Ride

A caution sign for motorists is often a harbinger of joy for cyclists. Translation: Tight curves and steep(ish) grades ahead.

Our club's calendar opened three weeks ago, for those wishing to lead (small) group rides, after a suitable update to our county's rules. To be safe, we remind people to stay home if they have any symptoms or known exposure to COVID-19, and we require social distancing and face coverings whenever stopped near other people.

To join a ride, or not? That was the question.

After mulling it over, I proposed to my chief ride buddy that we show up for today's ride. Listings on the calendar are few and far between; those who expected pent-up demand are likely disappointed.

For us, the routine would not be all that different. Because we're slow, we often roll out ahead of the group (and end up off the back). Today was no exception. With a head start of (at least) 15 minutes, the pack didn't materialize until we'd crested the second hill, almost 10 miles from the start. Whenever I'd pause for my ride buddy to catch up, I'd deliberately stop a good 10 or 20 yards away from where I knew the rest of the group would gather. At one such stop, our ride leader arrived to admonish them: “Social distancing, guys!”

I tuned out a guy who was holding forth with a scary tale of some road hazard, presumably on this road (“ ... rider couldn't avoid ... no guardrail ...”) Enough of that. I started my descent and kept a careful eye on the road, which was freshly paved. “That was almost fun,” another rider remarked at the bottom. (Almost? It was fun.)

We thought it would be hotter than it was, but we were determined to finish while it was still pleasant and mostly kept moving. I spotted a couple of deer and a small gang of turkeys. Cattle sheltered in whatever shade they could find, watching silly humans sweat in full sun. 44 miles, 1,140 feet of climbing for me.