Wildfire
By Dana Grae Kane
For the TODAY
That used to be just the name of a catchy popular song and innumerable spirited horses. That changed Wednesday morning, September 9, 2020. The Echo Mountain Fire, centered in the nearby settlement of Otis, hideously feeding on homes the way blood-thirsty Moloch devoured sacrificial babies, encroached on Lincoln City, turning the sky into poison tomato paste, and choking us with smoke and ash. The coastal seafaring wisdom of “red sky in the morning, sailor's warning” leaped to mind. Police megaphones announced Level 2, meaning be ready to go instantly when further advised. The power being already off with no reprieve in sight, a good friend, who lives in the apartment above mine, and I thought it was best to get the hell out of Dodge immediately. Both of us had long before prepared bug-out bags with important papers and essential supplies in accordance with the fire department's readiness instructions for possible earthquake, subduction and tsunami. The reason now was different, but the preparation was priceless. In addition, my friend had a car with a full tank and I had a Visa with an empty statement, making us the perfect team.
We conferred with our immediate neighbors, one of whom had managed to force into carriers five of the several rescue cats for which her kind heart makes her responsible. Her reward, of course, was being scratched to bloody bits by outraged felines, unaware of her life-saving intentions. First ascertaining that she and everyone else had transportation, we headed south on Highway 101 toward Newport moments later, by no means alone on the road, but while traffic was still moving smoothly. Covid-19 concerns rode along with us, but definitely took a backseat, in every sense of the word. We might well have applied to fire Samuel Johnson's comment about hanging, that the imminent threat of it “concentrates the mind wonderfully.”
Upon reaching Newport, 26 miles south, we pulled into the Fred Meyer parking lot, not yet full, and stocked up on ready-to-eat food, water and chilled coffee. (The glaring flaw in our preparedness kit was the lack of a cooler.) We quickly reviewed all available cell-phone evacuation information, amazed the towers had not gone down. Judging by the thickening layer of acrid smoke along the coast, we thought it best to drive inland, away from 101, which would surely soon come to a standstill, and led only to what would likely be a vastly overcrowded evacuation center. We headed east toward Corvallis, hoping we could find a motel room — any motel room. It was our good fortune that friends with the same idea had already arrived in Corvallis, secured a room at the Super 8 Motel, and alerted the management that we were on the way, asking them to please hold their remaining room. We were able to reserve the precious room by phone from the car moments later, precluding what would likely have been a nightmarish camp-out in the parking lot, with heaven knows what bathroom facilities, if any.
Our gratitude to our friends and the Corvallis Super 8 Motel personnel is boundless. We could not have been better treated at Hotel George V in Paris. The Super 8 management and staff expended superhuman effort to make a huge influx of frightened, confused, exhausted people feel safe, comfortable and welcome. While Super 8 was already restricted from serving food in accordance with covid-19 precautions, the day and night shifts graciously supplied us with paper plates for our oddball edibles, endless pots of fresh, hot coffee, and directions to the few nearby places where a sit-down meal could be had. They also kindly and patiently listened to and empathized with a constant barrage of poignant evacuation tales. We checked in, had a thankfully normal lunch at the nearby Spaghetti Factory, then collapsed on our beds and tuned in the constant TV fire updates until repetitive reports with no new news made us switch it all off and hide in sleep. While I neither saw or heard the commotion somewhere in the building during the night, I learned that the police had apprehended a raving, knife-wielding naked man after he stabbed his companion, who was taken to the hospital. Surreal, like all of life lately.
With morning came the news that access to Lincoln City was blocked and, with the fire still raging, we knew we certainly should not return home even if the highway had been open. Friends from Oregon City and Beaverton offered to drive to Corvallis to pick us up and take us anywhere we wanted to go. That was more comforting than can be adequately described. A writer whose name I do not yet know put it beautifully: “It is not so much that our friends help us, it is knowing that they will. (Is it obvious that the main theme here is an appreciation of the finest friends the world has ever produced?)
Further to such friends, we were fortunate to be invited into the home of a very dear old friend of mine in Vancouver, Washington. Possessed of endless generosity, she not only offered us room at the inn, but like the above friends, was even willing to plow through the opaque smoke for what would have been several hours to fetch us, had we needed the help. We drove to Vancouver without incident, although visibility was often limited to a few feet. Tired and dirty, we were welcomed like queens by our hostess, and her little dog, an exuberant mystery-mix terrier, who joyfully announced our arrival and met us at the door, wriggling every movable body part simultaneously at the speed of light, then flinging herself at our feet for a belly rub.
And so, we ourselves were rescues, saved and restored with hot showers, good food, lovely guest rooms, sound sleep, and laundered clothes. We basked in this bliss until early Saturday morning, when it seemed from official reports possible to drive home to Lincoln City, the deciding factor being the restoration of power. Our greatest concern was to get home to the neighboring cats that had evaded evacuation, who we calculated would have run out of water and food at least three days ago. We drove from Vancouver through Portland north to Tillamook and then south to home on what were nearly deserted expressways and equally empty coastal roads, an amazing phenomenon in itself. We made it in time.
We found most of Lincoln City untouched. The house in which our two apartments are located had a small amount ash inside around the windowsills, a minor detail. Friends in Otis were not so lucky. One elderly couple I know, he on oxygen and she in a wheelchair, escaped in their ramped van, but their home burned to the ground. Other friends in the same area got out safely with their dogs, but languished in a Newport motel for 11 days, not knowing the fate of their home until yesterday morning when they got miraculously good news. I cannot think of a more agonizing wait. Worse, of course, is the plight of the nearly 300 families whose homes were consumed in the inferno. And worse still may be the results of the search for the missing to come.
When we arrived back home, the air was still thick with smoke and ash. I went to refill the water bowl I keep in the garden for feral cats, birds, deer and raccoons, only to learn from the health department that ash falling into water would make lye, which would guarantee a horrible death to any creature who drank it. Should have studied chemistry. I ruefully turned the bowl over, knowing many beasties would be desperate for a drink. Sure enough, during the night, the security lights announced the arrival of Mama Raccoon with two of her three babies, desperate scrabbling at the overturned water bowl. Opening the door to supply fresh water would have frightened them away, so I watched as they struggled, finally giving up and moving slowly toward their home. That was gut-wrenching, but by the next morning, the ash in the air was much less, so my neighbors and I decided to refill our water bowls and keep an eye on them for errant ash.
The neighborhood gang of blue jays landed just before dawn and were scarfing the peanuts I had put out when the feeder was suddenly usurped by a young male deer, grown into teenage hoodlumhood, tossing unevenly matched vestigial horns, who guzzled the water and polished off the peanuts. The ace aviators, no fools they, flew back and forth under the security lights so that they flashed on and off rapidly, which scared off the young punk. Knowing the blue bombers held me in contempt for having abandoned them, I refilled the peanut feeder and hung up some suet, so I am for the nonce back in their good graces. This dark early morning, I was overjoyed to see Mama Raccoon and her three now grown children, sifting through the natural provisions in my garden and enjoying the water. Life resuming.