In July 1960, the summer after Margo (Members of the Cast) first saw San Dimas Canyon, it burned. I took a chaise lounge down to the flat and fell asleep.
I woke at dawn as the fire rounded “my mountain” across the road and creek. I remember most the roar and trees popping like gunshots. As fires do, it had a mind of its own and never thought of crossing to our side of the canyon.
That fire was the beginning of the end for my childhood home. Further up the canyon, the watershed was destroyed, and heavy rains brought mud and silt.
The dam filled with silt and eminent domain took my father’s 32 acres to dump the dirt 75 feet deep. My childhood is buried there.
This week fire visited again. I stood on the hillside, turning on the sprinklers to wet things down. Smoke billowed up, red in the afternoon sun, and I watched for flames. It wasn’t long before we took the motorhome, one car, and a 101-year-old friend out.
Our path to the freeway was blocked by police cars. I can understand keeping people from coming in, but blocking the main road out of an area seemed misguided. We turned around and drove five miles in the wrong direction to get to the freeway. Going back down, past Colfax on I-80, with the backdrop of smoke behind our little town, was haunting.
Both fires left me undamaged, as so much in my life. I am a blessed man and am reminded of that as I look out at the smoke. I pray for peace for those who lost everything.
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