Anatomy of a wildfire

Day 1

We’ve just gotten ice cream on a meltingly humid Sunday afternoon when we spot it on the other side of the highway. It’s odd. I guess I’ve always thought of forest fires burning dirty, but the clouds its forming are white, pristine. It doesn’t seem that large, but maybe it’s further away than I think.

I point it out to the boys and Ollie asks me what I think, “It’s probably a wildfire, but it could also be one of the buildings at the place that sells soil and mulch.

It’s 2 hectares at this point in the day. A jump starts a spot fire. By 5 pm it will be 30 hectares.

I text my brother who works out west late in the afternoon, as it shows no signs of containment, “If this fire moves north, what do you want me to get out of your house?” He makes me a list. He tells me, “It’s literally rain down here - the last 10 days.” Usually it’s the other way around - he’s working near wildfires and it’s been raining here.

Grass fires break out in Centennial Park caused by people who have left BBQs unattended. They pull a fire crew off a structure fire to go deal with it - they’re that stretched that they have to leave one fire to burn to deal with others. The province asks everyone to stay out of the woods. No fishing, camping, hiking, driving in any wooded areas. They close all provincial parks. Our premier says, “Come out of the woods, stay out of the woods,” They ban all forestry operations, including harvesting. I imagine her whispering under her breath, “Don’t. Touch. Anything.” Something I have definitely hissed at my child.

When the sun drops below the trees around 8 pm, we go out and start to water all the plants. I start with the newest ones. Then the flowering plants to bolster food for the pollinators. Then those who have already bloomed and are now storing energy in their roots for spring. Mike waters everything in the back garden. And then we water them all again.

It’s so dry in the front garden that it sounds like October beneath my feet - a crisp crunch of fallen leaves and dried up blooms.

We haven’t seen significant rain since June 7/8, which was two months ago now.

The wood is bloated with the humidity and the door sticks in its casing and we have to pull it hard to close it as we pass through again and again, lugging water. The door is as sick of this as I am, sweat soaked by the end of it, even though it’s dark.

It’s our worst wildfire season in history, already four past last year’s total of 218 and it’s only the beginning of August. They pull water bombers off a “beyond control” fire in the north. Current fire conditions are so extreme that the fire can’t be brought under control - given “the current environment, it doesn't matter what we throw at it." It is not to be cowed. Their fire is at 340 hectares as of last night. A monster compared to our 30. But their fire was an “out of control” 65 hectares on Friday and grew to a “beyond control” 340 hectares by Sunday. 30 can also go to 340 and beyond and its already bordering four residential areas.

Resources are spread too thin. Some of our firefighters are in Newfoundland helping with their overwhelming forest fires. Our province asks for resources from other provinces and other countries we’ve helped in the past. I can only imagine how exhausted everyone must be. Wildfire season is becoming a marathon, not a sprint.

They dig a fire trench. They make one last flight. They call it. It’s too dangerous to work without daylight and the water bombers can’t fly in the dark. The standby evacuation zone has grown to four neighbourhoods. Not many will rest easy tonight.

My feed fills up with pictures of the fire, smoke glowing, orange-lit. Unsettling barely captures it.

One of the small water bombers runs out of fuel on its way home and lands on Highway 10. One more run before they wrapped up for the day, one run less of fuel for the trip home.

The firebugs come out of the woodwork when the world is a tinderbox. Someone lights a fire beside a building on the main road in our neighbourhood.

The offers of help come too. Farm land, space in barns, horse trailers, cattle trailers, pickup trucks, help moving things, places to stay. Community. From across the region. Tell us what you need, we can provide it. Someone can help. We’ll make it happen.

I can’t sleep.

I make plans for acquiring bird baths and making insect drinking stations.

I figure out how to hang lights at height in the backyard.

I think about how and what I would pack if we had to evacuate.

I make a strategy for packing my brother’s stuff, if I have to.

I write emails in my head.

The big dog has an upset stomach and I’m outside on the deck at sometime after 2 while he sorts himself out. There is no wind. It’s still humid. Cars pass on the highway. The moon is impossibly full and bright. The August Sturgeon Moon. A relic of a time when fish were plentiful. It’s hard to see all but the brightest stars, but I wish upon the shooting stars of the Perseid for rain. Days of rain.

I don’t fall asleep until sometime after 3.

Ollie is up with an upset stomach just after 5.

I’m up and on the deck before the crows have come to ask for their breakfast. We’re under a heat warning until at least Thursday. Today will be 42 C (108 F) with humidity. All I can think about are the firefighters working near the blaze in this immense heat. It’s unnatural.

Their day starts again at 6. It is light enough to organize. To plan. There is nothing new to report. Everything remains the same. Off-duty firefighters are joining their colleagues on the frontlines this morning. The bombers and skimmers will be back. For as long as it takes. They’ve cut resources to the “beyond control” fire in the north and are probably sending them here to our “out of control” fire. Who am I kidding, they’re probably already here and some of them probably volunteered to work. People are good like that.

The wind feels like it’s blowing south and I feel guilty for my sigh of relief. South and/or East are away from my brother’s, away from ours. I don’t want anyone to lose their home, but I definitely don’t want to lose mine.

A single, sad, moulting blue jay has appeared to clumsily grab some peanuts and go. They’re so bereft of feathers I can see their ears. The other blue jay, are they a mated pair?, shows up a few minutes later. A bit less clumsy, but knocking peanuts akimbo nonetheless. Not nearly as elegant or calm as my crows. Not nearly.

Ollie joins me in the kitchen as I wait for my tea to steep.

“Is it under control yet?”

“No. Not yet, buddy. But you know we’ll keep you safe, right? That if the fire turns we will leave before they even tell us to. You can trust us, Ollie. I promise.”

“I know.” He shrugs.

“Do I look as tired as you do?” I ask him, wan smile.

“More.” He touches my face, “You have black circles under your eyes.”

n xx