Throughout my long life, I’ve dwelt in the American West. Sixteen years into my decidedly non-average childhood in San Diego, I flew the family coop and headed to Canada with a draft-age boy. For some reason, we thought if we showed up at the border, the RCMP would let us right in and help us homestead. Turns out, that’s not how it works.
Eventually, I migrated solo to the San Francisco Bay Area. More specifically, to Berkeley in the mid-1970s. I didn’t stay forever, though. For 35 years, I resided and worked in Hawaii, Nevada, and Colorado. In 2012, my old grey cat and I rented a 24′ truck and towed a used Bimmer over the Rockies, landing atop Mount Veeder between Napa and Sonoma Counties. Leroy and I lived (mostly) happily in a cabin in the redwoods until the whole shebang burned to smithereens.
In October 2017, a PG&E-sparked wildfire burned my whole world down
Just before a big tree fell and took out all power and communication, my luthier friend in the Napa flatlands texted an offer of sanctuary and a couch to me and my cat, if and when we needed it. The winds were roaring, but the visible fire was on the other side of the valley, across Hwy 29. I cuddled Leroy and played solitaire by lantern light. I did not sleep.
The next day, I fiddled with the car radio and walked around the property in a vain search for a phone signal. I napped. I chose two of my many guitars –an electric and a 12-string acoustic– and put them in the back seat along with a blanket and a pillow. Leroy’s medium-size dog crate took up the entire passenger seat.
A sheriff whose name I wish I could recall knocked on my door and told me that a worried facebook friend asked for a wellness check. I said to let her know I was staying alert and asked if I had to evacuate. The deputy said no, and assured me he’d be back if evac became necessary.
I slept.
The day after that, my nearest neighbor came by to make sure my unreliable old car would start, just in case we had to haul ass. We checked, and it was dead as a duck. Young nabe gave me a jumpstart and said there might still be a WiFi signal at the laundromat halfway down the mountain. I drove five miles to Brown’s Valley, found no signal, and puttered back up the serpentine road to my cabin.
That’s when I saw the orange sky. In a panic, I snagged a handful of bedside books and my laptop. I put Leroy in his crate in the still-running car. Before I had a chance to dash back inside, a man I’d never seen before appeared on the road and said there was no more time. I dived into my dodgy Beetle and hit the gas. Leroy and I barely escaped the fast-moving conflagration in the rear-view mirror.
Wildfire wasn’t the worst thing to happen to me that day
What I didn’t know was that when I fled those frightening flames, I ran toward something far more devastating. Minutes after accepting sanctuary, I almost met Miss America.
KP Cleaver 