I am a survivor of the Camp Fire that occurred on Thursday, November 8, 2018, exactly two years ago today. I wrote this story sometime in the first year post-fire and dedicate it to everyone that has ever been affected by a disaster.
It is just over a year since I moved to my oasis in Paradise, California, a town of 27,000 residents in the foothills of the Sierras. Douglas fir, pine, redwood, and cedar trees surround and serve as guardians of my almost one acre, lush, fenced in property. Fragrant yellow and red roses intoxicate the senses, and flowering lavender invites hands to embrace softness and inhale perfume. The curved, swirling swimming pool with its creek sounding water feature soothes everyone that visits. Statues of spiritual icons are scattered throughout, uniting the mystical with the physical, and a grandmother oak tree oversees it all. It is a perfect place for me—not isolated, yet a private world offering expansion and relaxation.
I’m sleeping in after leading a ceremony in Chico the night before and rudely awakened at 8:30am by the blaring phone ring. “There’s a fire near you. Check it out.” I look out the window and am greeted by darkness. This is strange. I go to the front porch where an apocalyptic vision of otherworldly colors—deep red, orange, grey, and black—encompass the sky. Darkness rains ash as smoke seeps into my eyes and lungs. This is real.
There have been fires in Paradise before, yet none had ever reached my part of town. I get ready to leave for what I think are just a few days. Gather vitamins. Dog food for Apu, my corgi mix companion. My soft, maroon sweatpants and bulky sweater feel cozy, and I take another sweater, just in case. I pick up my medicine bundle, get in my car, and drive down my eerily still and vacant street. At the corner I’m shocked to see dozens of cars siting in motionless traffic. Shoeless pedestrians wrapped in blankets are hurriedly walking down the hill. Disabled community members in wheelchairs, small dogs held tightly on their laps, are rolling themselves forward. Panic is everywhere. What is going on? What should I do?
I take a risk and drive down the empty left lane, overflowing with gratitude for last night’s ceremony. If I hadn’t gone into Chico, my gas tank would be nearly empty, and I would have to stop at a crowded gas station. Helpers on street corners herd me down side streets I rarely travel until I finally arrive to the Skyway, one of the only roads out of town. A first responder waves me forward—directly into a tunnel of flames.
I suddenly find myself surrounded by cars filled with fleeing families, each of us driving about five miles an hour. Majestic trees are spontaneously falling. All vehicle makes and models are haphazardly abandoned. This blaze is too close for comfort, and when I look into the rear-view mirror, I can’t imagine anyone will survive. To my right, skyscraper-like flames are engulfing my friend’s house. Is Paula dead? On the left, formally safe havens have become charcoal factories. Apu sits unusually still and quiet in the back seat, eyes wide, ears upright, all his senses heightened. His leash is on in case we have to vacate the car; I am not going to lose him.
My sweaty hands hug the steering wheel as I chant over and over, “It is not my destiny to die in a fire. It is not my destiny to die in a fire...” Survival demands a sharp mind and expansive peripheral vision. Hyper alert, I drive slow and steady as flaming tree limbs miss my car by inches. At one point I see a distant clear sky with hints of sun. Can I actually exhale? No. The illusion of safety vanishes as I become enveloped in smoke once again. Will this nightmare ever end? As I continue my escape to a friend’s house in Chico, what would normally be a thirty-minute drive becomes three hours.
The television is constantly on. I pray my property is spared, yet as news filters in, wonder if that is a good idea. No one but first responders and media are allowed into Paradise. A few days later while out for dinner with friends, a television crew enters the restaurant. They are going the next day. I beg, “Will you take me?” I agree to be filmed.
The newsman and I drive up the Skyway in the same lane I had driven down only one week before. Ashes and debris are everywhere. Did a bomb go off? Paradise is a toxic dump. My street is littered with burned trucks and cars. We wear masks to protect our lungs and booties to save our shoes. My oasis is gone—the house, garage, sheds, and healing studio are all part of a dream-like past. The entire kitchen is in the basement, now a giant junkyard. A skeleton of a metal table lays on its side on the broken concrete patio. The formally pristine pool has been replaced by a murky swamp.
I silently walk the perimeter of my property over and over, looking for remnants of my life. A sea of rubble has replaced a sanctuary. The news crew films yet gives me space to absorb this new reality. “What are you feeling?” I can barely speak. This must be shock. The words that emerge are about what it had been just a week earlier. “Who do I hold responsible?” they want to know. Only an outsider could think I’m grounded enough to consider that. Remaining lucid and integrating the present moment are my tasks.
The spiritual statues stand out like lights in the darkness. There’s Guadalupe, lying on her side. Infused with fire medicine, she’s gone from tan to multi-shades of black and brown. Angels look up at the heavens from the noxious ground. Saint Francis is still upright. Is he waiting for wildlife to return? Buddha stares compassionately from the center of a burned-out flower bed. The small icon of my power animal, a gift from my son, is unscathed and sits at his usual place at the fire pit. Amazing. I pick up some crystals that had formally infused the earth. The grandmother tree, a bit scorched, is well; what a story she has to tell. I am alive, yet most everything I know and count on is gone. Where do I go? How do I remain sane and healthy?
I ended up landing in Chico (for now). As I edit this story, fierce, relentless winds, not unlike the ones of two years ago, are visiting. There seems to be something about the two-year mark after a trauma… Today the wind is certainly doing its part to unleash emotions that had been lying latent under newly gained stability. I think I will take Apu for a walk in the windiest area. Spread my arms and allow the blustery air to free me of as much heavy energy as possible. The third year awaits. It's time for empowerment.
16 comments
Oh Ann. Thank you for sharing this us. Parts of your story are scorching and beyond my grasp and parts illuminate resiliency. I hope the winds did their job yesterday and today finds you a bit lighter. Surrounded with love the next moment arrives.
Thanks,L.J. The wind did its part, and I realized it’s time for fire to do its. Fires in the fireplace are now a nightly constant. Handling the wood, lighting it, and then receiving the heat for hours are now part of my healing. Fire can be deadly, and it can also be nurturing. Annie
Really appreciate this story Annie. It’s a miracle you and Apu escaped, along with others. The earth is so mysterious and also so blatant at times. We have fallen so far out of sync with earth processes we don’t even know anymore what they are. And so the earth is correctly for our errors in harsh and painful ways – the earth bleeds itself to heal. Thanks for being witness to this strength and for your own strength, I stand witness. Many hugs and much love.
Thank you, Elizabeth. I am receiving the love and hugs…
Graciously real and transparent I’ve witnessed you, as this event has pummelled you these last two years into your deepest depths of despair and loss, forcing growth, yet you have sustained, and walked through , and now courage blossoms in you enough to witness the wind releasing you, maybe even lifting you.
Wow! What an example lived of Full Circle Spiritual Healing!!!
Thank you for this beacon of resilience you are being.
It’s a blessing to be witnessed and seen and supported. Thank you always, hermana.
The great teachers show us their broken parts. Thank you. You and Apu are alive to wag the tail and tell the tale. It’s a powerful story to share with other humans; you’ve been in direct contact with the imminent deterioration of the earth as we know it. Women in so many other tribes are constantly being displaced and abused by the corruption and avarice that is forced upon them. You are a victim of the same war torn selfishness. Speak loudly about it. Scream about it. We have to keep getting the attention of the evil ones, and the hypnotized population. And what I know of you, you’ve faced evil down a few times and know how to handle it. Keep up the illumination, beautiful being. I love you.
I always love your vision, T.L. Thank you for expressing it here. I will keep up the illumination. Annie
As I read this, I weep for you and the others who were scathe in many ways. There are those who had no choice but to cry and begin to heal. Then there are those who smelled the burn and saw the ashes in disbelief in nearby Chico. May we now feel the soft coming of rain and take in the wistful autumn leaves. Blessed are we all in this time of Great Purification that continues. Apu is a great Gift. Love you, Annie.
Thank you Sharon.
❤️❤️
It’s good to read it again. I am grateful that you made it out alive that day. I love that you are making fires now. That says a lot. Xo
Thanks, Joy. I am receiving the nurturing heat from the fire.
Thank you so much for sharing this Annie. Your strength is amazing. I too am grateful that you made it out and continue to heal, guide, and educate me and others. Thanks to you and your guides I continue- with millions of others- to nurture the spirit of real healing to grow throughout this earth. -Max
Thank you Max.
Annie
I love the way you have written about your escape. You are an inspiration. Your courage and resilience are to be applauded. So happy you have Apu!
May the Gods of the Universe continue blessing you and Apu.
Thank you so much, Clebia.