What Had to Be Done

Some of my favorite trees, the ones that “save me (and daily).” Thanks to Mary Oliver for that beautiful line from her poem “When I Am Among the Trees.” Fires around our region are still burning, and also (ironically) it is time to start making preparations for the delivery of this winter’s firewood. Fires destroy; fires save. It’s a lot to think about.

It is a little breezy today, which in the olden, golden days made me happy, because a little breeze was cheerful (Remember that “Summer Breeze” song by Seals and Croft? You can listen to it again here: Summer Breeze ), but today, the breeze is making me nervous, because of the fires.  Hard to believe it was just a few years ago that the weather basically seemed sane, predictable. Do you remember those days, like ten years ago? We knew when it would snow, when it would rain, when it would be hot. We had the luxury of not thinking much about climate change.  There were a few fires, a few hurricanes, a few floods, but not everyday. Sure, there were occasional news stories about global warming, but it was mostly a theoretical possibility that scientists and a few politicians talked about, not one that affected our daily lives.

That sure has changed. And so quickly.

The Caldor Fire, which I have written about every week for the last few weeks, has now gobbled  more than 210,000 acres. (The first time I mentioned it here? The first time it alarmed me? It was at 6500 acres or so) Apparently, firefighters have shifted their priorities, and instead of trying to put out the fire, have decided to try and direct it. Right now, they are coaxing it away from the Lake Tahoe Basin. So far, they have been successful, but not before the entire city of South Lake Tahoe was placed under a mandatory evacuation order, which caused a six mile traffic jam that lasted for hours. For awhile there, it wasn’t looking good.

Normally on Labor Day weekend, Tahoe would be packed with tourists. Not this weekend. This weekend, it is a ghost town.

Outside of Tahoe and the fire zone where tens of thousands of people are under evacuation orders, life is going along, mostly normally. We are living our lives, though we check the local news station every few hours for fire updates, and check even more frequently when we see planes overhead, praying they are not spotter planes. We leave our phones on at night, just in case a fire pops up and there is a sudden mandatory evacuation order. But along with this, we are trying to get outside chores done before the weather changes, because the weather will change, right? Sometime?

My friend the Tree Whisperer came today and trimmed the trees that were blocking easy access to our woodpile. Since he is also the one who delivers my firewood every winter, it was in both of our interests to have this done. Last year was the first year we had wood delivered, and it was tricky, finding a place to store it. There wasn’t much room, so he had to deliver one cord at a time. That made him nervous, because if we get a lot of snow (which was common back in the days before climate change), he can’t get to where the wood is stored at the back of his property. Which would mean that we would be out of wood and out of luck when our first cord ran out, probably in February or so.

Three of the trees he trimmed are looking a little sad and scraggly, though he assures me they will perk up now that all the suckers have been trimmed. Another tree is gone all together. It was a plum tree that was growing nearly horizontally. It was full of vertical suckers and “just needed to go,” he said. He had a point. It was not a beautiful tree, and it hung over the deck and dropped teeny plums all over it. Also, it blocked the pathway so I had to duck everytime I walked into the backyard and occasionally hit my head on it if I wasn’t paying attention. Which happened more than once. And plum trees, if you don’t know, have menacing thorns that are not so fun to run into. It was a good decision to cut it down.

Still. I confess that seeing that plum tree go made me a little melancholy.

But maybe I can shift my mindset a little. I don’t have any problem ripping out the stinky baby Breath of Heaven trees. Or the spiny black locusts. Or whacking away at the nonnative blackberry vines. Or attacking the star thistle. This tree was probably a volunteer; there are a lot of those in the yard, thanks to the birds who eat the plums and drop the pits in random places (thanks to the people who live here who eat the plums and drop the pits in random places.) Now that it’s gone, there is space, an opening, the chance for something new that I didn’t have when that suckery tree blocked the way. I think I will expand my little native wildflower patch, the one that was growing next to that tree but was stunted by its shade. I could also plant  daffodils, a native dogwood tree.

There is loss for sure, but there is also light. I am grateful for the possibilities, and for the fact that we now have a nice, safe space to store our firewood. Because someday, the weather will cool, winter will come, and fires will be welcome in these parts again, especially the ones that burn in our woodstoves and keep us warm in the winter. I needed that reminder, that new tiny hope, especially on this breezy day in a season of monstrous fires that seems like it will never end.