I instinctively knew not to get too close to the crippled buck--concerned eyes shone through his protective furrowed brow. If we got too close, feeling  threatened, he would flee--possibly injuring himself further.

As Nathan captured images of a large ashened concrete and brick fish pond, I tended to a half ajar gate leading down to a small earthen pond. Surely the buck would need water and ensuring an easy path seemed the most important thing I could do to increase his likelihood of survival.

The burnt-orange and speckled black koi swam slowly around the rectangular pond--they had survived. We cleared debris off partially submerged fencing used to keep koi predators at bay. Broken chunks of large ceramic and concrete figurines lay strewn about the brick lip of the pond. Obviously a once precisely designed and carefully tended garden space, it now looked quite aged, as if from some ancient civilization. I imagined the owners a well-travel elder gay couple who who returned many times from the Orient, bringing home rare, one-of-a-kind and garishly ornate treasures.

Enroute to our friend's home, undertaking a wellness check as canine companions were left at home on what began as a typical summer Saturday in Lake County, I couldn't help but notice for the first time the haphazard randomness of the fire--homes demolished down to brick, concrete or dirt  surrounded by blackened tree sticks juxtaposed with unscathed homes, tucked and hemmed in with still-thriving green conifers, solemn oaks and thirsty bushes.

How does the human mind make sense of all the seeming randomness--the chaos? Lives in a moments notice forever changed--a small community thrust and scattered into oblivion, never landing in the same configuration again; never to feel the tediousness of day to day life together again; never to experience the security of stable community with each other again.

[Note: This entry was drafted on the Saturday evening of the breakout of the #ValleyFire when I was camping the Lost Coast with some girlfriends. We heard about the fire through a text received when cresting the 2,000 ft. elevation gain on our grueling 6 hour hike. Out of concern, my friend, Vicki Crystal, texted: "How close is the fire to you? Praying big time."

Each of us on the hike had something in harms way of the fire, whether it was our home or our vehicle or both. We each exhaustedly tossed and turned that night from our remote campsite with no reception.

A hot dry wind blew through the camp around 1:00AM. We were some 150 miles northwest of the fire, but the eeriness didn't go unnoticed.]

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Of course! Of course this sacred spot was spared.

I suddenly felt closer to Walter and Shyla as I exerted myself up the steep hill back to the trail. Each step seemed to carry with it hundreds of memories. How many times had I walked this path? Ten years, though, not every day. The first few years, maybe three or four times a week. The latter years, five to seven.

The cabin where I lived for 10+ years with Shyla burned to the ground in the notorious #RockyFire in Northern California. The fire has consumed over 70,000 acres of wild land and another fire, #JerusalemFire, is adjacent to it, multiplying in size by the minute.

When I saw on the perimeter map of the Rocky Fire that the old cabin may have burned down, and when Walter's family told me they had been notified by the Sheriff's department that they had lost three structures, I still had hopes in my mind that it somehow survived. It was tucked up the hill away from the main structures on the property, on the crest of a knoll in the oak woodlands. And though it was surrounded by small oaks that provided much needed shade in the dry hot summers, I thought there may be enough distance from the swath of chaparral behind it and the other oaks in the area to render it safe.

I drove out the first day they reopened State Hwy 20 only to find that the road to the property was still barricaded off. My thirst to know was strong, and, even though smoke was in the area, I parked the car...