Where There’s Smoke

I should have taken this thirty minutes earlier, but it’s still pretty.

Bye hot Sam, I’ll miss pretend swing dancing with you.

There are so many distinct burning smells—right when nuts go a little too far in the oven; autumn leaf piles; the metallic tang of welding; a smoldering cigarette; a marshmallow that kamikazes from perfectly golden and gooey to a charred disaster.  From flying sparks spring raging tongues of flame.

The forest fire got worked up again.  There was a bit of smoke, the air took on that campfire scent, but we didn’t think much of it at first.  Summer is winding down and people are leaving already, so a round of salutatory fun has been initiated.  A group of us went out on the river one evening to drink a few beers, catcall a few bald eagles, pretend to be thrown around by the minimal rapids, and (lucky us!) coo at a baby brown bear.  This week also featured our all-staff backcountry camp out/ping pong tournament/fancy dress party.  Sure it was getting smokier, but we motored across sparkling Skilak Lake to revel for a night at our sister lodge.  I sported a purple floor-length satiny gown that was slit and ripped (not by me) to my upper thigh.  I watched my first full sunset of the summer, the pinks and purples intensified by the thickening haze.  Despite a week of crappy sleep and force-feeding myself handfuls of raw ginger to stave off a cold, I tapped into a current of energy and caroused until the wee smalls.

Far too soon, a knock came at my cabin door.  The wildfire that smoked us out all of July has reignited, jumped the river and highway, and highway was closed.  A van and car load of costumed, hungover, wallet-less people headed for the nearest town, where we...went to a brewery and chilled all afternoon to laugh over our fate.  I was one of the lucky few who had spare clothes, ID, and even camping gear as I’d planned to make a weekend of it.

We made it back this afternoon to an intense but as yet unscathed basecamp with friends bustling about in masks clearing brush, and eerie yellow-filtered light of smoke-choked sun.  Grasping for a sense of normalcy, I retreated to the kitchen.  My coworkers didn’t really need help but invited me to chop some veggies, and I decided to make the strawberry-rhubarb pie I’d been hemming and hawing over all summer.  If the garden goes up in flames tomorrow, I’d regret not having made it.