Wild Escape Guides

That rare combination of events may not be so rare any more. Several years back, while out camping with a couple of friends, we evacuated because of a wildfire. Recently, I dug out my journal from that time and, finally, wrote the story down. As Smokey says,

“Are YOU prepared?”

One sweltering summer night, my vehicle bulging with camping gear, I checked into an airconditioned chilled motel room with seven companions: two of whom people and the other 5 were dogs. It was the sweet dog days of August, that time of year that begs us to be lazy, to lounge, to linger. We all would have preferred doing just that in the warm mountain air, along a lush riparian riverside, under towering treetops, rather than a Red Bluff motel room. But sometimes we are forced to make a decision out of necessity. And damn if that cool moist air and saggy bed weren’t as sweet as watermelon.

We rolled here on a vacant Hwy. 36.  Down from the mountain we caravanned, 75 miles of slow twisting; the road a metaphor for the reflections in our worried minds. Our taillights pulled farther and farther away from the lush forested campsite so softly held on the banks of the meandering South Fork Trinity River,

It was a celebratory campout of sorts, under a Blue Moon – the second full moon in one month. Not that we needed any excuse to get together and camp, but a full moon and a unique one at that sparked extra incentive in us to get out in the wild dark and look up.

The most significant and notable night, as it turned out, was not the night of the full blue moon; instead, it was one night before full, the night before I arrived. On that legendary almost-full-blue-moon night the moist coastal air collided and rose with the hot inland air giving birth to a monstrous thunder and lightning event that struck and shook the entire expanse of northwest California. Blissfully unaware of any of this, the next morning I headed for the campsite to join my friends. As I cruised eastward into the rising landscape, I leaned into the hay and honey aromas of the golden cured grasses with full vigor. The elixir ripe as the land it was wafting from.

On the flanks of South Fork Mountain, 25 miles shy of my destination, I snapped out of my reverie. Clouds rising thickly from the wild mountain contours enticed me to stop and take a closer look. I counted nine wildfire smoke columns dotted across the forested landscape. With intensity I watched as Helicopters flew over the mountain ranges, one dangling a massive bucket from a towline. In my coastal hometown thunder is a rarity. Lying in bed the night prior it never occurred to me the thunder was anything other than exciting. I could see now that the storm had been expansive (In actuality, an awesome and prolific quantity of lightning strikes had ignited hundreds of wildfires in this region – a fact I would only later come to find out).

The camp, up and over the mountain, was presumably away from the nine fires. But there was a tenth column, billowing in the direction of my destination: the camp spot and my companions. I attempted to call them by cell phone, the first number only rang. The second one immediately jumped to voice mail. I was forced to leave a message that more than likely won’t be able to be replayed.

“Hiya – nearly there and I can see forest fires started by last night’s lightning storm all over the mountain ridges. There’s a large column in your direction! Going to keep heading toward you. Hope you are OK.”.  

What else could I do, were my friends aware of the fires? Back on the highway I passed a USFS fire truck spraying water on a small roadside burn. Good, I think, the land managers have got the fires handled.

I roll into camp to find my companions swimming in the river and lounging on the riverside.  The warm sun baking warm, not sizzling hot, dancing across the water, the forest fresh, green and bright, a chorus of bird song a soft background melody.  Happy and relaxed the two of them regaled me with stories from their night with thunder and lightning.

Within the ribbon of the river, in the yoke of land that held it, life rippled alive and blissfully peaceful. The scene so pastoral it was easy to slip under its spell, my worries melting away. Only occasionally was my awareness pulled out of the riverside paradise by faint whiffs of wood smoke.

Near sunset a white billowy column floated into our view and over our heads.  The surging cotton of smoke seemed wispy and thin but in the dark hours it was substantial enough to obscure the celebratory Blue Moon.  The next day the sun rose late. It never occurred to us this was caused by anything other than topography. Despite the sky being laced with a veil of smoke the air heated quickly, with it came a strong aroma of burnt wood.  The smoke column waved progressively more often across the sky, but we were confident the wildfire was not a threat and reluctant to leave our oasis. By mid-day, all eight of us (dogs and their people) were basking on the riverside. It was alluring, serene and sublime – essentially nirvana. That is until ash, white and soft as snow, began to fall. The ash ignited instant panic in me, unlike real snowflakes which make me giddy. The flakes were raining down on us, large and constant. To the south and west the sky sparkled blue.  Were we basking in blissful ignorance, I began to ask?

My camping companions seemed less concerned about the ash than I (or, rather, more reluctant to leave). So, I took it upon myself to do a little recon to calm my worried mind.  I left the riverside, stopped in camp for my cell phone and my paper USFS map and I set off for a higher vantage point (& hopefully cell coverage).  Our camp spot was at the end of a dirt road, two miles from the highway, one way in and one way out. I knew I needed to get out of the river bottom, so I headed up a spur road, huffing uphill until the landscape opened. At this elevation I could see the column to the northeast rising and tumbling onto itself – like an avalanche of smoke. At my vantage point there was no ash falling but I could see the column leaning over our camp spot – hence the shower of ash there. By my guesswork I figured it was several miles from us, but it looked like we were potentially directly in its path.  An involuntary curse passed my lips as my heart rate quickened. Witnessing the dramatic destructive force of nature was nothing shy of awesome and well – damn alarming.

USFS Visitor Use Maps, aside from roads and waterways, list Ranger Station contact information. After verifying my location, my plan was to call a Ranger Station. I counted on the bouncing bars of cell phone coverage to provide me a lifeline. I call the Station which manages the area we are camped. The phone rings so long I’m about to hang up when it is finally answered. Every query for information, every question, is answered with the same response, “If at any time you feel you are unsafe in a situation you should leave.”  Sound advice, but I was seeking more conclusive information. “Which direction”, I ask, “If at any time you feel unsafe” … the voice connecting me out of the wild responds. I try not to panic. I can’t decide if the phone call was poor customer service or shit was hitting the fan (later I’d find out the Ranger Station and the town it is located were at the time being threatened by a wildfire). 

I try a different number. Our camp location is on the management line between two National Forests. This time I ring the adjacent National Forest, different land managers. This is a long shot. This Ranger Station is west of my location, not east where the billowing fire column could be seen. The phone is picked up immediately. I tell the voice at the other end my location, I tell her about the smoke column, I tell her my exact location and I ask if I should be concerned, should I leave. Astutely and assertively, she tells me only the sheriff can tell me/us to leave or issue an evacuation order – she can’t say.

“But,” she adds, “I can tell you this: currently there are hundreds a Wildfires over several national forests. This particular Ranger District is actively fighting the Pickett Fire which has a flank actively burning in your direction.”

I find Pickett Peak on the map. Using the map township and range sections (knowing each are one square mile in a grid of 36), I determine it is two square miles as the crow flies, southwest not northeast, from our camp spot – a second fire of concern!

“Highway 36 & 3 are hard closed; only emergency vehicles allowed, no exceptions,”  the ranger continues. This means our only way out is Hwy 36 east to the valley, to Red Bluff and I-5, the opposite direction from the refuge in our coastal homes. Enough said!

I swiftly walk back toward camp. There are two other sets of riverside campers along this stretch of dead-end road, a small family and a young couple. As I pass the family, I see they are packing up.  Seeking advice, assurance, I step into their camp to ask if they are leaving because of the fire. Reluctantly, they tell me they had been informed by one of the area cabin dwellers of an evacuation order. Whoa, ok – Evacuation. The maples leaves waving gently large as hands, the assured stands of alders, the firs dense green and robust, the dappling summer sun, forming a mosaic of silhouettes and sunny spots across my momentarily frozen body.  It all seemed so unfathomable.

Nearly at my campsite, the young couple runs up to greet me.

“Are you leaving?”, they ask. Clearly the falling ash was startling them as well.  “Can we get a ride?” I had noticed they had no car and minimal camp gear, but stranded I hadn’t expected – two street kids from New Orleans I find out, picked up, driven across country, and dropped here in the dark with promises of quick cash as” trimmers” from an illegal cannabis grow. Two weeks of waiting further notice, drinking unfiltered river water, now they just want out of here – the wildfire further proof/sign to flee this sketch situation. I’ll make room I assure them. I will not leave you stranded.   

When I reach my own camp, I find my friends still lounging and nature bathing along the river edge. Tucked in and nearly hidden, it’s a place that was easy to feel detached. As I stood on the river bank and soaked in the bucolic scene, I noticed the forest was oddly in silent. Where had all the birds gone? I took this as our cue. As much as I hated to, it was time to break summer’s delicious spell.

It took us a little over an hour to cram all our camp gear into two cars. We swam one last time, less of a cleanse and more of a communion – we all recognized the fragility of this spectacularly beautiful wild place.  One friend created an artistic thank you sign for the fire fighters. It was a way to pay homage and energetically hold space in our hearts for this land we had connected with. The street kids jumped in my car and we drove back out the dirt road to the highway. The air was tinged with a smoky haze, otherwise it just felt like August in the mountains – warm and ripe.

Knowing the road west was closed all the way to the coast we were forced to turn east away from home (a trip that would take us 150 miles longer to reach home). The emptiness of the road felt eerie immediately.  A half mile down and around a mountain corner we are assaulted, as if a bomb went off, by a charred landscape obliterated to ash. Both sides of the road are completely burned and smoking.  Road sign posts, paint melted, lie crumpled and smoldering. Stunned, in my mind all I could think was Fucking hell! This burnt landscape was only two miles as the crow flies over the mountain northeast of our camp! For several more minutes we roll through forest on fire.

Our campsite came away unscathed by the wildfire that time (sadly it was decimated by a different wildfire in 2020). However, the forest surrounding it was extensively burned. It’s hard to know if eventually anyone would have come to tell us about the encroaching danger. One thing is for certain, once in a Blue Moon you may experience a rare combination of events: paradise versus the devastation of wildfire, friends versus unfamiliar tag-alongs, moon lit sleep versus the glow of a motel parking lot. It is to this day one of the most important lessons in awareness and action I have ever experienced out in the wild. Never underestimate the value of a map!