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.

The next morning I found myself riding alongside my client, friend and photographer, Nathan DeHart. He was on assignment which afforded him access to the cordoned off area. I was hoping to get to my home--to see if it still stood--as well as retrieve the necessities. As soon as we embarked, though, I knew that the opportunity existed to share information--immediately with friends and neighbors living in the area, as well as in the long term, whether through blogs, articles, talks or what, I didn't know.

The ride up Bottle Rock Road, which was close to the ignition point of the tremendous blaze, but the least affected traffic arteries into the area, showed signs of immediate destruction--power poles downed, wires strewn about the roads; helicopters flying overhead dangling their load of water, swaying gently across the hazed sky; patches of scorched earth interspersed with surviving foliage. The choking haze reminded me of  sci-fi movies. Particularly those scenes of landscapes devoid of life due to lethal gases. Were those same lethal gases now choking our lungs, choking our eyes?

The hike back to the car was quick--a mere three hours when the trek in took 6+. We stopped, resting and snacking while sitting on the old redwood bench that was deep enough to fit us and our packs. The view was the quintessential north coast on a mostly clear day.

Most of the conversation is still lost to me--I remember attempting to go slow down the steep ravines, but found myself almost trotting, passing up my hike mates. I worked to practice mindfulness--opening my senses to capture the sights, smells, and sensations in the body--but it was a fierce competition with the thoughts roiling around my brain.

Tree Falls
by JoAnn Saccato


Tree falls
Earth rumbles
Heart swells
Tear falls

Chainsaw purrs
Tree falls
Earth rumbles
Heart swells
Tear falls


(c) 2015

[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.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.