Hello from your writer in exile!
Well, I'm not in exile any longer, but it's been a frightening and chaotic week.
Let me start by saying we are home, safe, our power is restored, and we have not discovered any significant loss or damage. Even the freezer got power back enough to maintain a safe temperature over the last few days. So with that in mind, let me tell you about my week. Warning: this is a long story!
When I started writing on this project I used the metaphor of a tsunami to describe the overwhelming change that comes from retirement. It seemed appropriate, given our proximity to the ocean.
We even had a tiny preview of a tsunami a few years ago, when the Japanese earthquake spawned devastating tsunamis in northeastern Japan. At the time of the disaster it was unclear whether the waves would propagate across the Pacific. If they did, we were a prime target. We spent a sleepless night, and went out in the early morning light to watch from our hilltop. What we actually got was maybe a couple or three feet surge that looked like going from low tide to high tide and back again, several times over the course of just a few minutes. Other places, notably Crescent City, sustained much worse damage.
It was a warning, and we took it to heart. We made sure we had plenty of emergency lights. We kept a supply of non-perishable food, and a propane stove we could attach to the tank for the grill. Living on the top of a hill we were well above the evacuation zone, and in fact were the de facto destination for our friends at lower elevations. Providing they could get here, of course. We made sure we had extra blankets, kept extra pet food in our inventory, and even tucked away some cash-because credit and debit cards would be useless without power to operate the card readers.
In short, we prepared for the threat by sea.
An earthquake, with or without a tsunami, loomed largest in our minds when we thought about preparing for a natural disaster. We expected Two If By Sea.
What we didn't expect was One If By Land. And that is exactly what we got this week.
It started over the Labor Day weekend with a warning of high east winds accompanied by high temperatures, and dry conditions. All of this added up to a perfect storm of highly unusual weather patterns. Our winds usually come from the south and west, off the ocean. Temperatures along the coast, thanks to the marine effect, are generally mild to moderate. Our summers don't get a lot of rain, but we usually get some, and while we get a little dry in the summer we aren't usually this dry.
The winds started and by Monday night they were howling around us. We expect high winds in the winter (remind me to tell you about rescuing shed walls in 125 mph winds) but it was extremely odd to have winter-storm-level winds with warm temps and no rain. The power went out Monday evening, the result of winds taking down power lines. Again, not anything new after 21 years here on the coast.
Tuesday we woke to a bright orange-red sky, and no power again. We avoided opening the refrigerator or freezer, and managed on water and peanut butter sandwiches, expecting power back any time. By late afternoon with no restoration estimate in sight, we knew there were several items in the refrigerator that wouldn't keep long without power. We made a plan, rehearsed our moves, and staged an assault that resulted in the liberation of steaks, milk, and a couple other items-all in about 9 seconds of "open" time. We slammed the door shut, fingers crossed that we hadn't allowed too much chill to escape.
We took the steaks (and the milk) to a friend's house, where a gas range allowed us to cook the meat on a stove-top grill by the light of battery-powered miniature lantern. The three of us ate by candlelight, watching the city crew pull trees off the power lines across the street, and the power company working to restring the downed lines.
Taken from my friend’s dining room window. You can see the power line dropping to the ground. At this point the wind had died down. A little.
We came home about 10, read by flashlight, texted updates to friends thanks to power packs which recharged our phones. As we were falling asleep around 2 am the lights came back on. Just in time to go to sleep.
The phone woke us the next morning, a friend who was watching the news a couple states over asking of we were okay. The downed power lines (most likely) had sparked a couple wildfires just north of town, and the situation was going downhill rapidly.
The next couple hours were a whirlwind of activity punctuated with periods of uncertainty where we stood frozen by indecision as we tried to pack up to leave, not knowing what might greet us when we returned.
It was a strange mix of feverish action and dead stop. The first 15 or 20 minutes were easy: important papers (though we later realized we forgot our passports), check books, cash, medications, clothes, water. That all went in the car, and there was room to spare, which was when indecision set in.
What next? Which sentimental items were most important? Another spurt of frenzied packing as we realized we needed to be sure all the computer backups, all our writing, made it out safely. Steve went to his office for a few minutes and emerged with the hard drive from his computer; he had managed to safely remove it in just a couple minutes.
We devised a plan: load immediate needs in the car, less immediate but important items in the van, and leave the van in the lot of the hotel where I used to work. It was a few miles down the road, and in a "clear" zone. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
We left by back roads, avoiding the clogged highway for the first mile or so. But then it was bumper-to-bumper as people fled the fires on the two-lane highway. Which was when we hit the first major problem. Neither vehicle had more than a quarter tank of gas, and with the holiday weekend and then power outages we hadn't been able to buy gas for several days. If we got into stalled traffic we could run out of gas and be stranded.
Steve reached the hotel before me, parked the van and walked a few blocks to the gas station that we'd been told was still open. Though it wasn't yet noon they were sold out and closed. He walked back, meeting me as I reached the hotel.
Decision time. My former boss said he'd give me a room, but the staff had mostly evacuated and I would have to clean it myself, and of course the restaurant was closed so there was no food available. We took him up on the offer. At the very least maybe we could wait out traffic in the relative safety of the hotel. Built of concrete and steel, anchored into a stone cliff with little vegetation nearby and the ocean just a few steps outside the door, it was as safe as we could get without leaving town.
Picture taken from our room early afternoon. That’s smoke in the air, not fog.
We got a housekeeping cart, sheets and towels, and settled in, grateful for the hotel's massive generator that kept lights on and elevators working.. The previous guests had left food in the refrigerator, but we tossed everything that was open, keeping half a dozen eggs. Mixed with a can of tuna from our "go bag" it made a pretty decent dinner, and our only meal of the day.
Sleep did not come easily, but hot showers helped and we were up and out early the next morning. My sister in Salem had offered us her guest room, complete with electricity, hot food, and Internet service. It sounded like Heaven.
The direct route to Salem is Oregon Highway 18, just north of town. Where the wildfires were raging, and the highway was closed. Instead we headed south, filled the gas tank in a small town about 10 miles away (us scofflaws even pumped our own gas-illegal in the state of Oregon-to keep the line moving as quickly as possible), and picked up drive-thru breakfast about 15 miles later. With both us and the car fueled, we headed east toward the Willamette Valley, about an hour away.
The drive from the hotel all the way to my sister's was incredibly smoky, visibility sometimes shrinking to a few car lengths, slowing the sparse traffic to a crawl. But at least we kept moving. It took nearly four hours to make what should have been an easy hour's drive.
We spent two nights with my sister and brother-in-law, relishing the relative safety of their home. Air quality was horrid, hitting 600+ during that time, but we kept the house closed up tightly and the AC filters did their job, keeping us relatively comfortable. Throughout those two days we kept in nearly-constant touch with friends in town, tracking the progress of the fires, the smoke, and the closed roads.
My gratitude to my amazing sister and her incredible husband is beyond words, even for someone who makes her living with words. Without their generosity and hospitality we would have been much worse off, camped out in whatever motel room we could find, eating from drive-through or take-out places, and taking our chances on whatever amenities our accommodations might offer. It's a debt that can never be repaid, even though their response was, "It's what families do." I know better. I know that there are families that don't do that. You did, and I love you for it. Thank you.
On Friday the winds shifted to the west, bringing with them marine air, lower temperatures, and an increase in humidity-all things that provided a glimmer of hope for the firefighters. By Saturday morning the evacuation warnings were relaxed and some of the roads into town were reopened. Not the most direct route, but at least we could skirt around the fires and get home in a couple hours. With the AQI at home less than half of Salem's we decided to strike out for home.
This is the IMPROVED air quality on the way home.
It took a couple hours, but we made it safely home by mid-afternoon. Along the way we took a short detour off the Coast Highway to check out Pacific City, and one of the famous "haystack" rocks just off the beach.
Yes, there really is a big rock out there. It’s just hidden by the smoke. Usually it looks like this.
This is what it SHOULD look like.
A few miles south we passed the junction where our usual route reaches the Coast Highway. It was closed, and remains closed two days later, with the likelihood that it will remain closed for several more days.
The closed highway sign, and the even-more-improved air quality as we approach home.
Up that closed highway the fires remain uncontained, though at this point they have been surrounded by a hose line and have not grown in the last few days. Entire neighborhoods have been destroyed, and families fled with little more than the clothes on their backs. They can't get back in to see what, if anything, is still standing, and many have left the area (as we did) to shelter with friends or family. As of Monday the list of GoFundMe and other fund-raising efforts have exceeded 130 different funds for groups, families, and individuals whose homes were damaged or destroyed.
We are a small town, and the loss is nearly overwhelming, but it is heartening to see how people are coming together to help.
Sunday morning, after our first good night's sleep in a week, we began scouring the house for things we could donate. I went through the linen closet, the bathroom cupboards, and my own closet. I had a stack of brand new T-shirts that went in the collection, along with toiletries, sheets, shoes, and additional clothing.
We took our stuff to a collection point and asked what else they needed. We were told diapers and formula, along with several other things. They also needed volunteers to sort, fold, and organize donations, so I signed up for a three-hour shift today, Monday.
On the way home I stopped at a local department store and dropped a couple hundred dollars on diapers, socks, and underwear. It just felt as though something as simple as a new pair of socks was a small comfort I could share with someone. We don't have a lot of money, but we still have a house, we have all our belongings, and our lives are intact. It would be horrible not to share.
I did my shift today, helping to sort and stack boxes of diapers, packs of baby wipes, and bag after bag of donated clothing. With each one I realized how fortunate we were, and I watched as people who had lost everything carefully picked through to find a single pair of jeans, a couple shirts, and shoes that mostly fit. No one took much, leaving supplies for those that came behind them, grateful for the small amount they did take.
There are more days of this ahead of us. People without homes, without warm clothes, without food or any way to cook what they do get. I will continue to volunteer as I am able, and try to remember to count my blessings.
There are lessons to be learned from this experience. Don't let the gas tank get low, even if you have to deal with heavy tourist traffic (or plan better and get it done before a big tourist weekend). Don't let the laundry stack up-we had a full hamper and I almost had to pack dirty clothes and hope I got a chance to wash them. Keep your important papers organized and easily accessible (and don't forget the passports).
The biggest lesson, though, came in those paralyzed moments when we were shoving our belongings into the car. In the end, it's all just "stuff." Even the house we have lived in for more than 20 years. As I looked around that day, knowing that Steve and I were heading into the unknown but at least we were together and we would be safe, I kept repeating those words.
"It's only stuff."