The texts started when I was still three, maybe four hours from home — hard to say because I had been driving slow and stopping often to “make pictures” as the old expression goes. My friends thought I should know that I-80 was not going to be the way to drive because a wildfire was underway close to the Summit Park exit. I proudly hadn’t taken I-80 for a single mile of my three-week, more-than-2,500-mile journey, so it wasn’t any hardship now. And I had been inhaling a tiny bit of the smoke of the California fires for all those weeks — even though my trip was largely up and down the coast. I mean, I knew to expect from the overcastness hanging on most of the day — there is a reason locals call this month Fog-ust. The only time I had real smoke was up north — Tahoe and then Yosemite and a chunk of western Nevada.
I pulled over in Eureka, below Lehi and below Spanish Fork and way below the shadow of The Temple in Provo. I was snapping some shots of the funky town that is part of the emotional backdrop for The Killers’ newest album — “Pressure Machine.” One of the kids had told me to listen to the music with the Springsteen feel and then I found out Springsteen had a relationship with the band and had joined in on their recent release of the song “Dustland.” And the town was not actually haunted — there are still some crumbling storefronts open — but it was haunting. I got back in my car and saw my phone had a series of new messages about the fire.
So I drove home as planned in the Provo Canyon and the traffic was solidly backed up to Heber in the opposite direction from folks being diverted from I-80. I arrived in my driveway around 7, I think. It was still plenty light out but the sky was smoky and there were already planes overhead in support of the firefighting efforts. And there was white ash on my deck and chair cushions. I stayed alert — checked in with neighbors and had a text from our part-time neighbors who are equally in Layton, that they were offering up their home for someone to evacuate to.
I pulled a few things out of the car and left most things in. I was exhausted. I had started my day in Tonopah, Nevada. The day before that in Oakhurst, California, and then drove into a hail storm through Yosemite — that beautiful park with no guard rails. And the day before that — in San Simeon. I had broken my personal rule of — drive no more than two days in a row and take at least two days off. I was tired. Really bone tired. And I slept well that night.
By the next day, Sunday, the air was thick with smoke and falling ash. Folks had been evacuated to hotels and friends’ homes and the Red Cross setup at the high school. There was a camper truck now in the driveway next door — a young couple with a little girl who were so grateful for the shelter. Monday was much of the same with little change in the containment. Firefighters were working in an area with a deep, deep gully with no roads and so much dried fuel. No homes had been burned. And in the end no homes were. I’m gonna say we had the spirit of recently passed Fire Chief Paul Hewitt watching over us.
By Tuesday morning the containment needle hadn’t moved much — same issue — too much fuel in a tough spot — 500-plus acres and about 20% containment.
And then the rains came.
Not a little — but in biblical fashion. Complete with the feared lightning. So another day unfolded with breath held. But rains kept coming with such force the containment was soon over 80% and the residents could all return to find the moose ate the tomatoes and there was ash everywhere and the white spray-painted numbers at the end of the driveways — identifying if occupants had refused to leave their homes. (Pinebrook resident and masterful photographer Mark Maziarz’s Facebook photos were a powerful story of their own.)
And now, as I write this, the rains are still here. My beloved pink and purple hollyhocks — that are short-lived each summer — were taller than the fence line when I returned home. Now they are weighted with water and have been bowed to the ground. The grass is lush like early spring and the herbs need immediate harvest. And everything is a kind of damp I thought I left on the deck at the California beach a week ago.
So I am home but still between worlds. Not unfamiliar really. I find local politics are burning hot like the fire and the mask/no mask issue has folks weighted down like my hollyhocks. No one wants to return to mask wearing and yet … we must. The delta variant is more dangerous than the first round of COVID, according to all the smartest epidemiologists around. So we need to line up for our boosters and regroup. The schools need to mask up and stop teaching children how silly and petty and arrogant adults can be. Science is real. Our kids deserve better. And our brave teachers need our support.
This time, this trip, something odd took hold and I came back renewed, sure, but somehow shifted. It doesn’t have words yet — but it will — some other Sunday in the Park…
Teri Orr is a former editor of The Park Record. She is the founder of the Park City Institute, which provides programming for the George S. and Dolores Doré Eccles Center for the Performing Arts. She has been a member of the TED community since 2007 and founded TEDxParkCity in 2009.