Out of the Fire

Gail Stark                                                                                             June 3, 2016

BUTTE FIRE MEMOIRS THE RECOVERY

The word recovery seems to conjure up the idea of a single process. One begins recovery from whatever the problem is, the requisite work is begun and completed, and, consequently, the recovery is done, finished, over. Neat, tidy, simple,

Only that is not what I have experienced. How I wish it were that simple. The truth of the matter is that recovery is an on-going multi-level process which doesn’t travel a straight line, but proceeds in fits and starts following a designated path only to be radically redirected at any moment. And, it doesn’t happen overnight. I suppose recovery and the time it takes to happen depends on the magnitude of the thing from which one is recovering or, more accurately, one’s perception of that thing.

In the case of the Butte fire the recovery seems to be very slow or nonexistent. There is the recovery of the land, which actually will never happen. It will never be the same even if it all were reforested, which won’t happen. Grasses are coming back. Hopefully, some brush will appear in the months to come, but the vibrant, living, breathing organisms of trees, plants, animals, insects, birds and all ground beings is gone forever. Something living will take its place since nature in her drive for life will create what she can, but the work of decades cannot be replicated. So, I guess, recovery in the case of the habited land means cutting down the dead and dying, perhaps replanting, and waiting for nature to take her course. In the case of the wild lands, only nature will restore the downed forests, but she can only work with what little is left. So, actually, true recovery is only a dream.

Recovery for those individuals and families who have lost their homes, and there are hundreds, varies with each circumstance. My neighborhood is a microcosm of what is happening. Four immediate neighbors are burned out: one family purchased another home in a different area of Mountain Ranch, two said they would rebuild but have done nothing, and one parcel is logged and vacant. One has moved away, with another trying to sell and go. A burned acreage has been purchased and the new owners have erected a large green painted fence for their privacy. Three original neighbors remain.

Personally, I grieve mightily for the loss of my (our) neighborhood because we have been a tight bunch, many of us together for twenty, even over thirty years. We have helped each other, shared meals with each other, cared for our lands together, and loved each other. What a healthy and blessed way of life! It is gone. There is no recovery for our neighborhood. The fire took it all.

A new and different neighborhood will form in place of the old one. New and different people will move in. What type of relationships they form or not is up to them. What they do with the land is up to them. Will they cherish and respect it? Whatever transpires lies in the choices they make. This will be the new normal for my neighborhood. This is what people are calling recovery.

There remains the personal recovery. This is recovery on an individual level. I will try to share my journey.

The year was 1973. The place was Mountain Ranch, Calaveras County, California, USA. The voting register held only 200 names for a very large area, so it is evident that this area was extremely rural, which means we who lived there procured our daily supplies from the one grocery store, one general store complete with wood stove and pool table, one post office and one gas station.

It was an area of rolling hills, gorgeous Monterey and Sugar and Digger pines mixed with a variety of oaks, maples, madrone, firs, and cedars. Wild life abounded. We had the ubiquitous deer, mountain lion, coyote, raccoon, squirrel, blue jay, quail, opossum, porcupine, butterfly, moths, ants galore, honey bees and yellow jackets just for starters.

Our five boys lived a free and wonderful life exploring all the land had to offer and developing a sense of closeness to the earth which they carry in their hearts today. There was no crime, and no police presence. I used to say if we needed to correct something we would have to form a vigilante committee. It was wild and free especially for a city girl. And, I loved it. I loved living with all the other living creatures. I loved being a part of the natural world.

My husband and I found a piece of land we loved on Whiskey Slide Road and decided to build our much-needed larger house on that site. There was a small knoll by the road which Bill thought would be a good building site. The traffic count moving by the knoll was about six cars per day. Yes, six. However, for some unknown reason I felt we needed to build behind the knoll, which we did. Good thing since thirty-seven homes were built just two miles beyond us, not to mention all the other growth in the area.

In January 1974 we moved the three miles closer to town, lopping thirty or forty minutes off the kids’ school bus ride to San Andreas. The house stood on twenty-two acres, which held all the earlier described wild life and more. The view from my kitchen window was of ongoing life, the cycles of the seasons, the delight of new fawn each year and the spring time return of the robins. An endless kaleidoscope of fascinating and soul satisfying images.

For years and years I have walked Whiskey Slide Road to the church on the corner of East Murray Creek, actually since before the church was there! My grandchildren would complain of the long walk, it was three and one half miles, but now they are grown and go willingly! I often took a bag to pick up trash thrown out of cars. I couldn’t stand to see the papers and bottles and cigarette butts along the road as the manmade items stood out from their natural background. In the beginning I collected enormous bags of trash; however, as the years passed many drivers and passengers alike got the message and the garbage collection diminished. Not gone, diminished.

When the fire came, it killed most all of what I speak. All except our house and a few trees around it. The house was not burned because my husband has faithfully disced a large area around it for fire control.

Whiskey Slide Road has been burned down, cut down, and chipped to pieces. It has gone from a drive of exquisite natural beauty to an ugly open scar on the black earth, a blackened and burned, mutilated, rotting corpse.

I have not yet been able to adequately explain what the loss of that land has meant to me. I cry now just thinking about it. How much I loved that land and all it held. It has been such a tremendous wrenching of my self, my soul from a vibrant, living thing with which I interacted on a daily basis. That forest was such a huge part of my life. It was always there in the background. Always supporting me and welcoming me home after a time apart. It was the basis of my existence in a way that I did not understand until it was gone. Today my sadness lives just under the surface of my life springing forth at the oddest moments. Tears suddenly flow. I try to explain, but can’t. It seems I am alone in this deep pain. Sometimes I feel a little more forward-looking, like there will be a new life. Actually, I know there will be a new life, but I also know that I must bear this grief for however long it takes for me to grieve this enormous loss. The loss is deep because I have been blessed to live in a setting unavailable and incomprehensible to most people. I must remember that blessing. And, be

grateful. I must remember that blessing. And, be grateful. I must remember that blessing. And, be grateful........And, the tears continue to flow.

Recovery is a process, not an event. Healthy recovery is a process which leads to a new normal holding blessed memories and heartfelt gratitude close. I am heading toward my new normal.