Prologue

My friend Marsha and I were recently reminiscing about our trip to Jazz Fest in New Orleans in 2016. Back then, Marsha bragged to all her friends that she was meeting me in NOLA to see Stevie Wonder. On the day of his show, this happened:

Stevie would have still performed even though the audience was wet and miserable, if it hadn’t been for the lightning. That fucking lightning. His show was canceled.

There are lots of old adages that are still in use today because they remain as true as ever, for example, “A stitch in time saves nine,” or, “Waste not, want not.” “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch” doesn’t quite fit the Stevie Wonder/NOLA example, or the recent events that are the subject of this post. I’d say the moral of the story I’m about to tell is, “Don’t gloat, brag, or boast about future events, because Karma is a little bitch that will rear up and smack you right across the face.”

Fire! But First, A Little Backstory

Before I accepted a volunteer  camp host position at El Capitan State Beach outside Santa Barbara, I was interviewed for a similar position at Ed Z’berg State Park in Lake Tahoe. I thought the interview went well, but when weeks passed without any word, I submitted an application to El Cap. It’s a good thing I did, because I finally heard back from the Ranger in Tahoe: I didn’t get the gig.

Wildfires in Northern California raged all summer long in 2021, prompting closures of all national forests in the state,

while our Santa Barbara summer passed by without any fire activity. “Can you believe what’s happening in Tahoe?” I asked anyone who would listen. “You know, I applied to host at Ed Z’berg this summer. How lucky am I that I didn’t get it?”

Now, here’s the part that brought Karma down on me. As the months passed I’d conclude by saying, “Six whole months at a campground in California with no fire evacuation? I should buy a lottery ticket.” The problem was, my six months weren’t up until November 1.

Without Further Ado, Fire!

On Monday, October 11, 2021, just 20 days shy of concluding my six-month stint at El Cap, a large plume of smoke rose near Refugio State Beach, two miles north. I was on duty and snapped this photo.

We didn’t have these details at  the time, but a fire had ignited at Alisal Reservoir in the Santa Ynez Mountains (cause still unknown), and the blaze moved southwest toward the ocean with alarming speed.

(News Photo)

The canyon above Refugio State Beach was ablaze, so all Refugio campers were evacuated to our park. I was busy directing traffic, helping with parking, and restocking toilet paper in the restrooms when the fire jumped Highway 101 and began licking at our park’s northern border.

“We have to evacuate,” the Ranger said. “Cal Trans has closed the 101 northbound. Campers can go south to Carpinteria State Beach. I’ll announce it on the PA in the truck, and you follow behind in the golf cart making the same announcement on your bullhorn and answering any questions.”

I am very calm in a crisis, and this time was no different, but my thoughts were racing. Annmarie had just arrived from Seattle and was setting up her tent at my site. Calls were not going through and I wouldn’t be able to stop at my place to give her the news right away. I had the dogs to think about, and whether I was going to try to enlist someone to move Hunker Downs, or just grab the essentials and go.

Pivot!

Basketball players pivot so gracefully, swiveling on the ball of a foot and changing direction with ease. Some folks take what life throws at them and mentally pivot, while others are simply unable. To them life is linear, and any deviation from The Plan (whatever that may be) is not tolerable.

The vast majority of campers had seen the smoke and were already packing. They nodded as I announced, “As the Ranger said, you can’t go north. Head south, and if you need a place to stay tonight, Carpinteria State Beach is about 30 miles away.”

I could tell some campers had questions from the looks on their faces, and who wouldn’t? But they thought better of it, waving instead, saving their queries for a more appropriate and less life-threatening time.

In Loop A a woman ran after me in the golf cart. Her demeanor was aggravation at inconvenience, rather than fear. “We need to go north!” she said. I slowed the cart  but did not stop, answering her over my shoulder.

“Highway 101 north is closed,” I said, “but drive south to Highway 154 and you might be able to go north from there.”

She kept running after me, shouting, “Can we leave some of our things here?”

“No ma’am,” I replied. “This is like de-planing. Take all your personal belongings with you.”

She trotted along, her questions clearly not exhausted. I stopped the cart, distracted by thoughts  of Annmarie and Hunker Downs and the dogs and the four other camping loops I had not notified yet.

“When can we come back?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied.

“Well then, how will we know when we can return?”

“Watch the news,” I said, “and the social media pages for the parks.”

“What are those addresses?” She asked.

“You’ll need to google those,” I said, growing more annoyed as I depressed the go pedal.

“And what do we do about our refund?” she asked, hands on her hips, and I hit the brake again.

“Ma’am, this is an emergency. We are evacuating this campground. Do you understand that?”

“I KNOW this is an emergency, and that is why I am asking these questions,” she said in a snotty tone.

“Ohhh, is THAT why? I can think of a few other reasons,” I said as I drove away.

By the time I finished my rounds and made it back to my site, there was no time to move Hunker Downs. I packed dog food, medications, personal electronics, the safe, a few clothes, and a bottle of tequila, and Annmarie and I were off to Goleta.

The Alisal Fire

(That’s El Cap in the lower right-hand corner.)

By Tuesday the fire had doubled in size to 6,000 acres and was zero percent contained. High winds kept the planes grounded. When I saw on the news that the fire command was set up in the Del Mar area of El Cap, my heart soared.

(News Photo)

A whole bunch of firefighters stood between the fire and all my worldly possessions.

By Wednesday, the fire was at 13,000 acres and only five percent contained, but Super Scoopers, big choppers and special firefighting DC-10 airliners were finally able to assist.

Home Again

On Thursday, October 14, staff were allowed back in the park. The fire was not contained, but the winds had shifted away from El Cap.

I had had the presence of mind to pack my volunteer vest, and when the Cal Trans flagger saw it he waved me through the checkpoint onto a completely empty Highway 101.

It was eerily quiet in the park, not only because there were no campers, but because there was no traffic noise coming from the adjacent closed freeway.

Hunker Downs smelled very smoky, and there was a fine layer of ash covering everything, inside and out. The power had been off for more than 24 hours, but nothing in the fridge was spoiled. I counted myself very lucky, as I opened all the windows and grabbed a bottle of Febreze.

Life At A Fire Camp

Fire crews started arriving shortly after I did, some of them stripping off all their clothes and jumping into the ocean to cool off and get clean. Others profusely thanked me as I unlocked all the showers and bypassed the coin payment system. In a few days portable showers would be delivered, but for now the campground showers were a luxury.

Later that evening someone knocked on my door, asking if the water from the campground spigots was potable. That’s a common question from campers, and I looked out expecting to see an average fellow. Standing in front of me was a young man who was covered in soot from head to toe. He was Caucasian, but his face was so black I could hardly make out his features in the waning light.

I set about making the crews as comfortable as possible.

On the first night I got nothing but laughs as I drove around in the golf cart offering free firewood, but as the days wore on and the work turned to cleanup instead of fire suppression, some of them took me up on it.

Many crewmembers commented they had never stayed at such a lovely campground. They cordoned off their favorite spots with colored tape so they could return to the same spot each evening.

They generally left by 6 AM and returned by 6 PM, the rumble of their trucks and fire engines announcing their departures and arrivals. One evening there was no sign of them until well after 8 o’clock; there had been a flareup.

The dogs got a lot of love and attention. Many of the crews were from out of state and had not seen loved ones in months. “I haven’t been home since June,“ a Hot Shot from Arizona told me. “We came straight here from Tahoe.”

The freeway reopened on Thursday night. By Friday, El Capitan was a full-fledged village, supporting fire suppression personnel. Food trailers were set up by the beach, serving three meals a day: A hot breakfast, a sack lunch, and a hot dinner.

Fuel for the vehicles was dispensed from the maintenance yard. The shower trailers arrived.

Covid vaccinations and tests were available in a tent at the top of the campground, as was paramedic medical care. Full-serve laundry facilities were also up there, and it was an impressive operation. A massive trailer full of washers and dryers was staffed by three women who spend their summers making money by traveling with fire camps. Huge freshwater and gray water bladders were dropped on the pavement, and trucks came regularly to fill and empty them. Laundry was free of charge, courtesy of the United States Forest Service.

I was so thankful for my intact trailer and for witnessing a fire camp in action, so I decided to spend my downtime policing the campsites for garbage. The next day, crews from the California Conservation Corps descended on the park, and those young people combed and cleaned every campsite.

The campground raccoons in residence became ravenous without the smorgasbord usually provided by unwitting campers, and they were quite aggressive with the firefighters. A guy from Colorado asked me if we could round them up and release them somewhere!

By October 22 the fire was 100 percent contained after burning 17,000 acres. It destroyed 12 homes with costs expected to exceed $80 million. Amazingly, there were no deaths, and only one injury.

Epilogue

I have so many things to be thankful for from this experience, not the least of which was bearing witness to the mobilization and Herculean efforts of all involved. Thank you to them, and to you for coming along with me.