Escaping the Flames

She’d chosen to be in Photography in her junior year because she heard that fun things always happened in the dark room when the lights went out. The rumors were never wrong as long as she managed to sneak in her boyfriend. Otherwise she would be stuck in the darkroom trying to unwind the negatives while the other kids made out next to her. There was always a lot of bumping around and there was enough laughter to break through the darkness.

It was for one of her black and white assignments that she chose to capture the organic beauty she could find at a little place called Bates Nut Farm. It was up in the mountains, away from the rush of the city and suburbs. Her grandmother had always taken her there when she was little and she still loved to return. There was a large, gentle tree and an outcrop of boulders at the top of a hill that overlooked the pumpkin patch and Christmas tree acres. Far off you could see other farms and horses crazing. Once her grandmother took her to the fence and found a beige and white spotted horse that she nicknamed Pepper and fed apple and carrot pieces. The farm had a small gift store with toys, dolls, and books; a general store with big barrels of candy and nuts and delicious dates and honey for sale; a small boxy grill in between the stores for fresh made burgers with pastel picnic tables full of sticky crumbs that always attracted bees. There was an outdoor stage and a large grassy area slung with maple trees where gophers would bury around more picnic tables. And there was a large L-shaped set of chain link homes set up for geese, chicken, a pig, a couple emu, sheep, goats, and a miniature horse. On special holiday occasions, only a few times a year, the farm would bustle with tents and the mountain folk would come from the woodwork to sell their handmade dream catchers, puppets, pottery, and paintings. There was always a booth where children could paint little resin statues. And there was always food: cotton candy, kettle corn, corn dogs, shaved ice in flavors of lemons and cherries, hot dogs, beef jerky. Oh the smells that rose through the air! And teenagers could run free through the corn stalks while a tractor-pulled hay ride rumbled through the dirt paths.

It was one of her favorite places.

This time she came with her mother.

They had only just arrived. It was a Saturday, late morning. They had parked the SUV off in the dirt field with all the other trucks and cars. They had unanimously decided to walk around and enjoy the farm before she pulled out her camera. They always started with the duck and goose enclosure. It was the closest enclosure to the parking area. From the car they jaunted across the main dirt road and past a few tables and trash cans, which were already sticky, yet oddly, no bees were hovering. They watched the geese for a while, honking obnoxiously.

Once when she was little - the same height as the beady eyed goose – and had purchased a bag of corn to feed them, one of those same geese had snatched her finger instead. 

She moved on to the chickens, big heavy ones, ones with bright large feather crowns and anklets, and the rude little banti roosters all crowded around cluck-cluck-clucking for corn.

Next she looked for the pig that slept deep in his sty.

The emus were on the far side of the enclosure, only viewable after a long walk around.

The sheep were next. They were big, fluffy things with crazy eyes that would gobble up your corn feed leaving your hand sopping with spit.

The goats were always busy playing King of the Mountain on a pile of wood and boulders. The tiny horse would be next, but something felt strange. There was a lot more baying and bleating than usual. The skies were overcast, but in a grey uncomfortable way that didn’t seem to be cloud cover.

They looked up the small mountain just behind the general store and noticed that somewhere, in the slopes and crags, a great black smoke was billowing to the sky.

“There must be a fire up there somewhere.”

The cloud of ash was enormous. Workers and chefs stepped from their shifts to look up at the smoke just behind them. Then fast, so fast, the flames erupted over the side of the mountain. The fire raged over the peak and down the hill, a hundred feet high, eating every tree in its wake. It was coming straight for them.

She snapped a photo. One of only two she would take that day.

People in the stores rushed to get their keys. The lines to the propane grills were cut. Car doors slammed. Her mother asked one of the panicked workers about the animals. What could they do?

“They’ll be fine; they’re in the middle of a grass field with fresh living trees surrounding them. They’ll be fine,” the worker had yelled against the engines starting.

There was no true assuredness.

There was no more time to wait, though. The fire was ravaging the mountain, in minutes it would be upon them.

They jumped into the SUV and pulled out, their hearts high in their throats. Her mother quickly changed radio stations finding the news: widespread panic. The fire was all over the mountain: miles long. People had been evacuated.

They pulled onto the main road; the beautiful trees arcing over the road would soon all be up in smoke.

The fruit stands on the corners of the roads had been shut down. People were pulling out onto the road, suitcases strapped to their car roofs. Through the trees, panicked faces were rushing to get children into car seats, dogs and cats in carriers, fish into Ziploc bags. They all pulled onto the crowded road, not knowing if they would ever see their beautiful homes again.

Once out of the tree lined roads, the two lane passage that would take you off the mountain was completely backed up. Huddled against the barricade hundreds of ashen people and animals and caged birds sat on their suitcases, praying the fire wouldn't reach them. Their soot-covered pleading faces and hands held signs asking for water. Some were making a mecca down the small highway on foot; old, young, people without cars or people whose husbands or wives had the family car at work. The chosen horses were trotting down the road on leads. Hundreds of birds flitted across the streets, eggs left behind in nests that had already perished.

They made it to the bottom of the mountain. Another lane was added to the highway, but the cars pulled to a standstill. The freeway had been closed. There was a detour that led back into the mountains, but there was no way home.

They pulled off into a convenience store parking lot. Her mother asked the clerk for cigarettes and a clear passage home, avoiding the freeway. The clerk didn’t know of any other freeway.

There was a moment of panic.

A great, roaring fire, miles long up in the mountains, hundreds of houses were being destroyed, and they were in the middle, stuck.

A leather-clad, blonde beast of a woman got in line behind them, overhearing the predicament. Her rumbling bike sat outside adorned with leather tassels and silver studs next to about ten others.

“There’s a way out,” she growled with a serious but friendly smile, “take Bear Mountain Pass.”

She told them of two or three turns that would lead them down onto a different freeway.

“But you’ll have to be fast, they’re likely to close that down too. Good luck to yeh.”

They wished her good luck back. She was picking up water to take back to the abandoned people on the freeway.

Bear Mountain Pass did see them down to another freeway. The roads were dead. The freeway must have been closed somewhere behind them already. They took the chance and jumped on to the empty road. For the next few miles the lush mountain side on the right was a stark contrast to what was on the left. Fire sprang up, twenty feet tall at the edge of the asphalt, daring the cars to get closer. The flames looked as though they were plotting their route across the six lanes. The black, barren lands of dead trees and collapsed houses behind them.

The radio spat warnings at them, panic in the announcer’s voice, that the freeways had been closed. And if the fire could jump the highway, then the firefighters would have no chance at containment.

The girl looked off over the miles of fire. Their road home was open. They were one of the lucky ones. People would die today. Houses, animals, trees, and Bates Nut Farm would all fall.

But something caught her eye. She pulled out her camera.

There, above the fire, in the wind thick with ash, on a pole rising from the Earth, the American Flag stood tall.

And she knew then, between her concern and her hope, that the people would rebuild.