We received our phone call to evacuate at 5:30 Sunday morning. Of course, we weren’t prepared. Who is?
At that point, we assumed we had one hour to collect essential belongings and make our exit. Somehow, our brains filled with a list we’d heard before: contents of filing cabinets, photographs, one-of-a-kind artwork, family keepsakes. At least that much had stuck from hearing about other people’s emergency evacuations.
We don’t remember earlier lessons about how to handle the kids’ reactions. They were scared, sensing our fear. Our 8-year-old insisted on guarantees that the house wouldn’t burn down. My wife and I had already agreed we owed them honesty, so we shared what little we knew and the assumptions and predictions swirling in our heads. We spoke of the unpredictability of the wind but also the skills and dedication of the firefighters. Our 5-year-old collapsed in tears when he couldn’t find Pillow Bear. I immediately decided I’d sacrifice a whole basket of IRS records to let him save any precious stuffed animal he could collect.
We then entered the fog of fire. I’m not referring to the smoke, even though our neighborhood was enveloped by that point. I was reminded of a documentary, “The Fog of War,” which exposed the blur of information and ever-present uncertainty in wartime. With the High Park Fire, in spite of the best efforts of the authorities, the evacuees have little specific information. We were pointed to a website: www.inciweb.org/incident/2904. At the top of the page is a map showing the geographic boundaries of the fire at a point in time. The map is updated too infrequently, so we let our imaginations run. We consider the wind direction and its force and speculate on the answer to the biggest question: Has our house burned? If not, will it?
To understand the growing magnitude of this fire and its impact, one simply needs to see the crowds gathered at the briefings conducted by the Larimer County sheriff and the firefighters. Less than 100 people attended our first briefing on Sunday. By Monday afternoon, the numbers surely exceeded 1,000 and the gatherings had busted out the capacity of two previous facilities.
The expressions on the faces ranged from interest to worry to despair. Some had heard bad news, while many more had heard nothing definitive, we among them.
By Monday afternoon, the not knowing became unbearable. I found a road-accessible vantage point and took my dad’s binoculars. I elbowed my way through a crowd of looky-lou’s (the sheriff’s words) and perched on a rock next to a guy on a cell phone. He was telling his friends of the house ablaze across the reservoir and enjoying being the bearer of grim news.
It took a while and the haze was thick, but I finally found our house through the binoculars. It was still standing, but fires were burning to the left as well as the ridge above. That was Monday, and the road to the vantage point is no longer accessible.
I’ve long known in my head that our firefighters are heroes, but I now feel it in my heart, too. We entrust them with so much, and do so with confidence, comforted by the fact that our family is safe. Pillow Bear too.
