by Diana Morley.
Fiery ash squalls around my car, whuffling grass, sizzling waxed paper cups on the road. Yellow-flamed paper curls to black clumps, rises up over the hood. I’m stuck in a long line on Highway 99, windows closed tight against sooty whirlwinds. But as leaves and ashes whip about, smoke slips in.
Asthma and claustrophobia justify my leaving the pleated blue mask on the dashboard. I don’t need distraction—a decision looms on which route to take. My body is hot-wired, going nowhere, only two blocks from home.
Wildfire races along my back alley opposite the highway to the county animal shelter. As orange flames shoot straight up behind the building, my breath cuts short before vans squeeze past our line and turn in to save animals. Lordy! Thank you!
Police cars flashing red and blue lights line the highway. Sirens whoop in spasmodic shreiks, then whine down as cars pull up. Officers stand directing traffic, sparks flying at their masked faces.
Just after noon, I find myself staring ahead memorizing the license plate on a pristine Lexus. A turning Ram pickup passes by, belongings piled in the truck bed, not tied down.
###
An hour earlier, I was pouring coffee into a white cup, flinching as dry leaves struck windows loud as grit.
Like last September, when those hot Santa Ana winds squalled through town, everyone’s on high alert. While celebrating my 82nd birthday, I’d followed town news for evacuations as wildfires burned in nearby towns.
My survivor instinct had me pack a suitcase and flight bag. Clothes, meds, insurance, credit card copies. All easy-grab from my bedroom closet. Under my bed hid shoes, flashlights, crowbar to break windows.
October’s rains brought jittery relief. But I left my stuff packed, just in case.
By last November, Sharon, longtime host of holiday potlucks, had the regulars over for Thanksgiving. As every year, after feasting we played Mexican Train Dominoes and knocked over table decorations in tipsy hysterics.
###
This morning the sky shows that bright promising blue of autumn. A day wide open for anything. Walk by the creek? Bake apple muffins?
Opening the fridge door, I’m stopped short when the kitchen falls under deep shadow—a shade yanked down. Turning, expecting to see a thick cumulous cloud out the window, I’m just plain stupid for a sec. Venomous black smoke sweeps past the window. Witch on a broomstick!
Shit, it’s happening—right now! For a moment I stand inhaling the shock. I feel light as my head empties, making space for new info. In a trance I sip my coffee, then gulp down the rest.
My survior instinct kicks in, takes over. In this zone, I shove old myself into a corner and morph into pure energy to do the job.
I’m affectionately seen as scattered by friends, but when zeroing in on a task, I attack with uncanny focus. Nothing else penetrates my consciousness as brain and body open stored energy for working hours on end.
I check the window again—solid black. A bonafide crisis. Time for full-out lunacy to save my ass.
I light a flame under a pot of water and set the stove timer for hard-boiling eggs while Ziplocking potato and spinach leftovers. Grabbing a carry-on, I stuff bread, utensils, a cup and plug-in pot. Unzipping an empty suitcase, I toss in clothes, towels and two decks of cards, just in case.
I’m so friggin’ good at this. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s the finesse of the heist—saving myself and my stuff. To escape—no fear, no hesitation.
I cart my stuff into the garage and pack the car.
Mom taught efficiency. Every move, every step counts. Sprinting from one room to the next—grab that cup and the mail on the table, drop the cup in the sink, drop the mail on the desk, pick up the cardboard box and drop it down the basement stairs for tomorrow’s trash.
Fast-packing CDs, I answer a call from across the street. ‘Can we take anything big for you? We have space in the RV. Leaving soon—you should too!’
‘No, Louise—thanks. How close is the fire?’
‘Blowing in from Ashland, close. Everyone’s leaving. You should get out now!’
The stove timer rings with new urgency. I dump ice cubes into a pot, let eggs thump in to crack. Peeling them recklessly while hot I drop the them into a fridge container.
I check the window again—still just smoke. So far so good.
Files! Backups! I lay files and finance binders in a box, top with Scrabble. After I jam shoes, pillow and quilt into a duffle, I add MacBook and power chords. My toes tender from trauma, so box-toe shoes rate high.
Glancing about, I’m torn—a hefty collage, my own and others’ paintings and prints. My life. Can’t leave ’em, can’t take ’em. Too wieldy, too fragile.
I grab framed photos of Tom and me in our thirties, my poetry, my novel. Can’t leave Billy Collins—need humor wherever I’m going. I snatch a calligraphed Thank You, my sumi ink stone pad and brushes as spaceholders.
Car packed, I top with a back pillow and New Yorker magazines to catch up on. Back window clear for safety. My lunch box shares the passenger seat with handbag and road atlas.
An hour since I saw smoke. After a last sprint through rooms, I grab keys, step down into the garage and lock the door. I fall onto the driver’s seat, take a deep breath and pull the door shut with an aching finality So far, so good.
Opening the garage door I face even thicker smoke and wavy air distorted by heat. I press the ignition. It growls but doesn’t catch. Again. Growls but doesn’t catch. Again. This cannot happen now. The car has to start!
I wait ten seconds between attempts, not being pushy, for several minutes. Please! I just really want with my whole being—heart, soul, belly—like nothing ever before, to get the hell out of the damn garage.
When the ignition catches I shoot out over the concrete spur, loaded car bumping hard, into the alley. My heart pounds as I admit the terror of being trapped. I don’t think to close the garage door. I just go.
###
Cars now creeping forward, some drivers stopping to offer rides to backpacked walkers alongside. Lordy! Passing, I look straight ahead. Yes, all this stuff just for me. I’m so sorry.
Ashes drift down from black clouds. In the mirror I see an epic cloud of dirty white smoke billowing up. Good lord, is all of Ashland burning too? I turn for a sec to verify a sight I never imagined seeing.
Circling planes spread pink fire retardant along Bear Creek as the sheriff’s office sends out an alert: ‘Evacuate now!’ Chills run up to my neck as I grasp the magnitude of this fire.
At Medford. I’ll stay on 99, weave over to coastal 101, or take I-5 north. Everyone’s going west, so I go I-5. Heavy traffic keeps moving but the smoke doesn’t thin out.
After half an hour my daugher Jenn calls. ‘We saw reports of wildfires out of control in your area. You okay, Mama?’
‘I’m okay, honey. Taking I-5 since there won’t be any rooms on the coast. Still smoky. Jenn erupts. ‘No, Mama, go to the coast! There’s toxic smoke in Eugene. Don’t go there. I’ll find a motel!’
Whoa! Recalculating! What I thought I knew is pushed up and out.
I stop for gas at the intersection of Highway 40 South to the coast. As I inch through the line Sharon calls: ‘I’m in Medford. Cops won’t let me back into Talent to get Bubba. The whole neighborhood is gone. I mean, burned to the ground. Ashes.’
Her voice low, I picture her face contorting at losing her cat. ‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry—I don’t even know—I mean, can’t imagine…’ I push away images. ‘I can’t think. I’m driving, looking for a motel.’
‘Let’s talk later. I’m staying here in a motel.’
My house of 15 years gone? So what I have in the car is all I have. Simplifies all to hell what’s ahead in one way. But it feels far away. Too big to fit in my head right now.
As I’m heading west, yellow spots of fire ignite all along the northern hillside. Fire trucks line roads below. People clicking professional cameras stand beside parked vehicles. Traffic grinds along.
Jenn calls late afternoon as I approach the coast.
‘Nothing in Bandon. One room is left in Gold Beach. There’s nothing else. I gave your name, said you’d be there and show a credit card.’
‘Thanks Jenn, you rule!’ God, I’m exhausted. My knuckles are stiff from clenching the steering wheel hours on end. I keep stretching my fingers out, one hand at a time. My arthritis not happy. ‘Oh, really bad news—Sharon said the neighborhood is gone. Our homes are all burned to the ground. The town is ashes.’
‘No! I’m so sorry! God, Mama, I can’t even imagine how you must feel. So awful—but you’re tough. You’ll get through this. Get to the motel and sleep like hell. I’ll check in tomorrow. Love you!’
Highway 101 is nothing but curves, not well lit, but not backed up. Drivers slog down and around, down and around and around. It’s turning dark as I reach the shack-like motel.
Opening a worn wood door I step up into a closet-size space. A woman’s head appears in a square hole cut in the wall over the counter. ‘You have a reservation?’ I nod. ‘Fill out the form.’ As I’m filling out the form, a man opens the door and steps up behind me almost touching. I lean forward as a draft of cooling air slips in.
My room is tiny, humble but heated. Musty odor with Pinesol starts up my cough. Holding off the urge to eat, to lie down, I take valuables from the car, scatter them on the floor and try not to step on them. My insides letting go as I spoon out cold leftovers. Soon I’m hibernating on a skimpy mattress.
###
Next morning, breakfast is a cold egg, a bite of cheese. I make coffee with a pack of instant, extra cream to cover the phony taste. So far so good.
When I step out the door to breathe in fresh coastal air, my breakfast congeals. No way! Ashes waft down thick through a light fog. It’s the coast, for Christ’s sake! Do I have to drive to Canada for clean air?
I text Jenn, ‘Ashes coming down here. I have to leave.’
She texts back, Go inland. Just checked Bend, air looks good. Lots of motels.’
‘Lordy! Back up 101 and over? Fuck!’
‘Be sure to go through Roseburg, not Eugene. Shouldn’t be too bad.’
‘K.’
Online I find a room on the Deschutes River—a vacation spot. Whooee! Then heading back north. Up and around, up and around and around. Hillside fires still burning, photographers still posted.
###
I’d stayed in Roseburg before, for short getaways. Two years ago I drove to Toketee Falls where mountain water gushes out of a huge hole worn through rockface. Something spiritual, calming. Lay down your troubles.
Mesmerized, I heard a man come up to the viewing deck beside me. He stood looking straight ahead.
After a pause, he turned toward me. ’Stunning, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is! Are you local or visiting?’
‘Visiting, from Iceland. I’m a geologist—studying effects of climate change.’ Loved his accent!
‘What you’re doing is so important.’
‘Ya, it’s a mess. I study but no answers. We hope data will lead to ways of mitigating. I don’t know…’
We stood watching the falls, friendly strangers. Chance meetings always feel like gifts. I left feeling rich.
###
By noon I’m in Roseburg sitting in a new cafe. Within a few years, Roseburg has shape-shifted. Now a city with confusing parkways but also a vibrant commercial scene. Same thing everywhere. As a longtime friend said, Everything’s getting worse and worse, and at the same time, everything’s getting better and better,
After a sandwich and real coffee, I reset the GPS for Bend and take off. My mind slows on the way to safety. My packed car, my new life. Not another house, condo. Stay in Oregon? Drive to Florida near Jenn?
A few miles on the road, I realize I’m traveling toward Eugene, toward toxic smoke. Stunned, I brake, horns blaring behind.
What the fuck? I stop on the roadside. My car, driven by geological and cosmic forces beyond comprehension, is taking me to Eugene, and me with no tech savvy.
So I go. White smoke grows thick, forcing more coughs, burning in my throat. Soon I see: ROAD TO BEND CLOSED. FIRE. So I go on.
At Springfield I take the detour down a dirt road. We drive past farms evacuating people and animals in dark smoke. Slowing through one town, a strong manure odor joins smoke seeping into the car. On my phone I get shrieking local alarms that jolt me up off the seat.
Farmers hitch horse wagons, merge into our line, all bumping over ruts. Strangers strung together. So far, so good.
By the time I reach Bend at 6:30, the sun is slipping low, blinding me over the dash. Stepping out of the car at the motel after so many hours, I weave and stagger, nerves on edge. Weirdly quiet here under garish neon signs.
I squint at a young clerk in the dazzling reception area. ‘Hi, I reserved for…well, I don’t know how long…evacuating from the fire?’
’Yes, I heard. Hope it’ll be okay.’ Putting the room keys into the coder, he adds, ‘You’re just on the second floor.’
‘Great. And the elevator?’
‘Sorry ma’am. None here. There’s dinner at the restaurant till 9 p.m.’
‘Thanks.’ I manage a little laugh. If I stop, I won’t be able to climb stairs. Why on earth didn’t I think to ask?
‘Nothing on the first floor?’
‘Sorry, booked solid—you got the last room.’
My survivor mode now a step below sci-fi, I walk stiff-legged as Tin Man to the car.
But breathing in the crisp air, I will unload the car.
Stumbly carpeted stairs, so I imagine each step has a tripwire. The landing gives a moment of gratitude.
An hour later everything is upstairs in a large room. Tossing suitcases toward a closet, I dump the rest around on the floor. Tomorrow.
After eating a warmed egg, melted cheese on bread, I’m in deep sleep on a magnificent mattress.
###
Light filters through drapes next morning. I roll over under a cozy quilt and take in the room, the day, the days before. My room smells clean, chemical-free.
I got here by god. I’ll figure out what to do. Oh, right—but my house, the town gone.
Poking my feet into slippers, I try to stand. Second try works. This body is not the one I started out with. Biceps, forearms and fingers balk at stretching out. I curse my old hip joints, carefully bend around at the waist. Coffee! I start digging.
Everyone remembers things differently—words, images. My brain’s visual. Looking at a suitcase or paper bag I recall what’s in it. Serendipidous today, given all my stuff strewn about.
Breakfast is coffee, melted cheese on bread. Not another damn boiled egg! Today, lunch at the restaurant. I feel light as a puffball—will go easy.
At last I shower. Standing with warm water pouring over, I feel tight dry skin soothing, pores opening, taking in. My sooty hair and itchy scalp give way to apple shampoo and pulsing water. Despite lingering a good while, the hot water doesn’t give out.
Downstairs, I walk by a blue concrete pool. Smelling pungent air from nearby ponderosa pines, I inhale fully, over and over. Feels like bees leaving my head. My joints begin to ease up.
Back in my room, I start organizing my stuff. It goes beautifully, raising my spirits. So far so good.
While admiring my work, I get a text from Susan, Talent neighbor. ‘Your whole block burned to the ground, but your house and Deb’s next door are untouched.’
‘No way, Susan. I already heard everything’s gone.’
‘No, I’m serious. A friend sent photos. I’ll send them. You were blessed!’
‘Current photos? Thanks a lot!’ Probably not…
My hand shakes as I stare at the photo. My sage green house stands, coral roses blooming by the door—only ashes covering the ground next door and onward.
Fiery winds had shot up and over my house and Deb’s, then dive-bombed all else. Photos around and behind my house show only an iron gate, metal chair frames, a ceramic urn sticking up through ashes. Photos of war zones look like this.
###
I simply break. My whole body shudders and falls loose, shaking so violently I can’t hold the phone. I drop it and myself onto the bed and sob. Lacking any control, I feel my body could shake apart. My release is the spring that began winding tight with the sight of black smoke, now unwinding. For about an hour I let my body go full riot till I fall asleep.
When I can hold the phone, I call Jenn. I get the words out. ‘My house didn’t burn—I saw photos! Everything around burned to the ground, but not my house or Deb’s.’
‘Oh my god, Mama, that’s incredible!’
‘Sorry, I can’t talk now. I’m exhausted. Had a total meltdown when I saw.’
No way I’m going to walk into the restaurant with these swollen red eyelids. I should get to bed, but there’s that big TV screen and I have this edgy feeling—evening news.
I cave. The wildfire is in full color. The news anchor, his face that awful TV bright red, spills out our story with aerial footage. Deb’s and my house are light gray squares. Two towns ravaged, gutted. More than 2,400 buildings disappeared. Shelter animals were saved, but many pets were not. I climb into bed.
In the morning I check for progress getting utilities back in my town. Like every morning, I see: Alert: Boil water. No gas service. Electricity soon.
I go to the restaurant for dinner every night. In the dining room I smile at the vaulted ceilings, the dark wood walls. You guys! Making like it’s a castle hall, like a knight might come galloping in on trusty steed for a cold beer.
No knights. I face the backs of big guys in gray tees on barstools guzzling down beers. Cubbies fill in with power-meeting suits. Cocktails are served by Amelia, who says she’s working her second job.
Every night I order a glass of Pinot Gris, broiled salmon, roasted red potatoes, greens. Amelia makes a nice smile.
Sitting here sipping wine, I wear a dinner face. I feel like I’m in a movie. If Bogart stepped up to the piano and played ‘As time goes by’ I’d just listen and hum along.
I imagine Tom sitting beside me as I tell him about the fire, the evacuation. He always packed the car for our vacations, held up the other end of carried furniture. I sure as hell could have used his help this week.
Twelve days after I’ve left home, electricity is back. Water to be boiled for another week. Still no gas, but it’ll have to do. I pay the motel bill, pack up for my four-hour trip home.
After driving down Highway 62, past Crater Lake, I take 99 into Talent. Vertical landmarks—homes, restaurants, bookstores—are gone. Nothing but layers of ash along the highway. Trees are charred stick skeletons.
Turning onto my street, my breath falls out heavy. Ceramic cups, bowls, a Budddha statue among ashes by the curb. Stopping in front of my house, I’m looking at the photo image. Impossible.
I drive around to the back alley and into the open garage, stirring up layers of blown-in litter and ash.
In the laundry room, I feel for the light switch then tiptoe into the hall. The bathroom is door open, hairbrush on the rug. So far, so good. I peek into the large open space —office, living room, kitchen. Beyond quiet.
My desk, oak table, artwork hangings—all just as I left them. Standing by my desk, I realize I don’t even smell smoke. My body is lightweight—almost bobbing. I’ve time-traveled away and back. This me is not who I was when I left.
Opening the shades to the back hits me hard. My neighbors have nothing. Nothing. My luck was pure chance.
Walking out back I see the manzanita bush started from a sprout I’d dug up in the woods. It’s green, ready to bloom bunches of pink bells next spring. Only the top branches are singed on my maple tree. I hug the tree, my pandemic friend, with tears. I’d deep-watered her the day before the fire. The red hummingbird feeder hangs from the trellis, now leaning a bit more.
As I stand watering the maple, my thoughts bump together. I’m lucky, but my life is complicated. So much more complicated.
I walk next door—a layer of burnt dirt. The neighbor’s motorcycle was always parked by our fence. A piece of melted aluminum remains, which I pick up as memento. Smelling something like dead animal, I search but find nothing.
###
Ta-da! My first night home. I unpack basics and boil water. Glad I brought back gallons. When a chill starts to settle indoors, I crawl up onto my mattress and pull the thick comforter over. Mama bear time.
Next morning, no trouble finding food. Spoiled food in the fridge but my big pantry is always full of backups, just in case.
I catch up with friends in motels whose homes burned, pushing down guilt. Of 164 manufactured homes, Tia’s and 20 others survived.
After boiling water for a week, my biggest thrill—gas service! I can cook, shower, heat the house on the 21st—my 83rd birthday. Internet much later.
Next day I’m startled to see Bubba on my back porch looking in my glass doors. But as I approach, he darts off. I call Sharon. ‘I’m sure it’s Bubba. I tried to see which direction he went, but lost him.’
Sharon hesitates. I get it. ’Really! I really thought he was gone!’ Residents working to get lost pets to owners trap Bubba after a week—traumatized, but back with her.
Walking daily through neighborhood ruins I photograph the worst scenes and the little pieces—exposed cables, broken glass—holding beauty in the details.
Under hard blue skies, I’m struck by the absolute silence. My mind echoes voices not talking, lawn sprinklers not spraying, cars not driving down the street.
Nothing moves in my house but me. Tom died seven years ago, our dog the year before.
I draft a book of photos and poems. Kristan, my neighbor, shares her photos, Betty LaDuke shares artwork, local poets share poems. Dropping into my luny zone, I work all hours doing what I’ve never done. But mid-January, I publish Oregon’s Almeda Fire. Donations for the book go to the fire fund.
Still the pandemic. Jenn and Chris came for Christmas every year. Not this one. Not going to potlucks, not playing games, not laughing. I’m drinking too much wine. I set up Scrabble, play against the board for hours on end—tip the board just so to drop tiles back into the bag.
Jenn and I talk, but our conversations barely get me through emotionally. We argue when the wine spills through the line. What can I say? My house still, silent. I, robot.
Backhoes arrive at dawn every morning next spring to scrape up debris. Noise, ashes and dust trash the area. Not quiet anymore!
Starting late spring and for the next year during rebuilding, I wake before each dawn to huge headlights on trucks glaring in my windows. Then hammering, stapling, tossing 4x8s. Gears grind and workers yell back and forth. Marco! Polo!
In the fall of 2021, when rain comes, I leave two suitcases packed. News anchors describe heat domes, increasing wildfires and flooding.
Gusts blowing litter against the house startle me these autumn months. Nights especially. I water my trees often. Last year’s wildfires led to improved response times, but we get smoke again. My lungs aren’t going to get better. Might not be so lucky next time.
For Christmas neighbors meet for an elegant restaurant buffet—a great reunion. Our dinner warms me so much, I relax. That night I decide to move to North Carolina, where Jenn and Chris now live—happy to leave Florida after increased heat and hurricanes.
Jenn comes out to help me pack it all up. Peter, an artist who came to poetry readings, stops by to say goodbye. A reminder of rich years—our Sunday brunches, great conversations. Shaking his warm hand symbolizes the many warm relations and experiences I’m leaving.
###
I touch down in Asheville on April 1, 2022, for real.
Living in a small town in Appalachia this past year seems an important culmination of all earlier years. I look back charitably at my former self. It’s been a lot.
Yellow leaves fall outside my condo, night temperatures slip. So far so good.
Today the sky holds that bright promising blue of autumn. The day wide open for anything. Everything’s getting worse and worse, and at the same time everything’s getting better and better.
[Editor’s note: After she wrote this, we all know what happened in Asheville. Asked for an ending that took that into account, this is what Diana said:]
The ending of Wildfire seems to me to be as appropriate as ever—things are getting worse and worse and yet also getting better and better. We have greater challenges than ever, but we also rise to meet them better however we can.
The Western North Carolina catastrophe took more lives and homes than the wildfire, but it brought out the best in most people, as it did in Oregon. Everyone helps everyone else.
The loss for people who lost everything is the same here as it was in Oregon. Total loss.
With Climate Chaos (a more appropriate term) we will face more loss. How we respond will determine everyone’s lives in years to come.
We were without water and power for over a week. My daughter and son in law living two miles away had their basement apartment flooded, trees fallen across their entire yard and blocking the driveway. But they volunteered in Asheville where some still lack water.
I’d spent the night of the hurricane with them, but Jenn found a neighbor with a chainsaw so that I was able to get to my condo next day. As with the wildfire, destruction all around me, but my condo untouched. Survivor’s guilt again.
We went through a few weeks of numbness, then as in the Wizard of Oz film, I began writing again and felt I was living back in Technicolor.
Helene is another story—I feel it would be fine to publish Wildfire, and appreciate your checking with me. The only difference is water v. fire, and the numbers of people affected. The tragedy for many, the same. The warning, increased.
Warmly,
Diana