My Home Still Stands: A Case for Compassion (Pt. 5)

Photographer Nathan DeHart capturing images of the Valley Fire, September 14, 2015.

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?

Nathan stopped to capture the helicopter action and I quickly turned into a reporter, tucking away details and visions that would later be called up at the appropriate time, while capturing this professional at work through the lens of my cell phone camera.

It was eerie driving through neighborhoods that once pulsed alive with people and ever changing shades of green. Now, it looked war-torn and ravaged. Places where the fire had passed looked like ancient ruin sites. Patches of red retardant played the role of the blood of the wounded earth.

Places where the fire had passed looked like ancient ruin sites. Patches of red retardant played the role of the blood of the wounded earth.

As we approached the village of Cobb, where reports at that time were that it was gone, it was almost too shocking to see it standing, unscathed, yet abandoned. I felt like the front line troops that are first on the scene after a bloody battle. Expecting and not expecting. Not knowing, for never have been. We continued on to my neighborhood in disbelief as the calm but bruised forest and neighborhoods continued to reveal themselves untouched.

My neighborhood has one of the oldest resorts on the mountain still in operation. Generations of families continue to book a week or two each summer, bringing friends and family to this rustic gem nestled in the forest. The road names reflect the trees making up the forest: dogwood, cedars, maples, pines and Douglas firs decorate the neighborhood that has year round open springs meandering through. The canopy of the forest is 60-80 feet tall, creating protection for the English ivy, lilacs and other shrubs. There are a few redwoods here and there. Whether remnants of old redwood forests or planted by early settlers, they fit right into the mixed conifer forest.

My belief has always been to live where you like the natural landscape. It's a pretty Taoist approach. One of least effort and one that suits my temperament. Rather than spending time and energy upholding things that don't thrive, I love the plants that are attracted to this area--even the cursed English ivy.

With surrounding forest intact, homes taken by the fire looked like ancient ruins.

As we rounded the corner of the highway that reveals the entrance road to the neighborhood, there it all stood, intact.  I can't remember my emotional reaction as we pulled into the driveway, but nothing was damaged. My hiking buddy's car was parked where she left it. Ash had rained everywhere, but nothing was harmed.

I got on a chat app and radioed my neighbor that everything was fine at home. She, having left the day before, rescuing Shyla's ashes and my mom's rings, could not believe my words. The maps being published showed all of Cobb in the hot spot. I assured her again, but she still couldn't believe it. She saw the reports. There was no way our neighborhood should have been left standing. I quickly took a picture of her front yard and house and sent it off. She was astounded. And grateful.

It turns out that the maps being distributed were infrared and reflected heat--not flames. So, as our little area glowed red, it was only that the temperatures in the area were high--some reports of upwards of 2,000 degrees farenheit. What was certain that it was HOT. As we drove we noticed there were no porcelain toilets left in any of the homes we surveyed. Porcelain melts at over 1,900 degrees Farenheit.

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There's a quaint little walk through our neighborhood that leads to an expansive overlook of the Middletown valley. The road continues on into privately owned forest lands that was a favorite hiking spot for my neighbor, her dogs and me. As Nathan and I slowly drove toward the lookout through the neighborhood, we were quickly stopped by smoldering trees and downed power lines. Only seven houses down from my home, my neighbors lost everything.

It was about this time that the flushing shame of survivor's guilt started its insidious path toward my heart. It was one thing to be privileged to have access to my home while others were left in bewilderment and unknowing. It was another to know my home still stood and people I knew lost theirs. My stomach sank.

The meandering walk through my neighborhood before the Valley Fire.

It was about this time that the flushing shame of survivor's guilt started its insidious path toward my heart. It was one thing to be privileged to have access to my home while others were left in bewilderment and unknowing. It was another to know my home still stood and people I knew lost theirs. My stomach sank.

(Cont.)