Saturday Afternoon. Just
across the lake from my house, the North Hills Fire is clawing up the flanks of
a mountain. On Friday, the fire
underwent a blowup, expanding from something near 100 acres in size to almost 3,000
acres. Some 400 people have been evacuated
from their homes.
As I write this, sitting on my back deck, several dark fists of
smoke punch hard at the soft underbelly of sky to my northwest.
Also in the sky: machines.
Choppers whunking back
and forth between the lake and plumes of smoke in the mountains. Choppers descending to dip water from the
lake’s surface. Choppers ascending to
splash watery fans against hot spots among the shawls of smoke.
Whunk, whunk,
whunk, whunk…
And bigger machines.
Spotting planes constantly droning circles through the curtains of
skyward smoke.
Come and go slurry bombers lumbering, rumbling back and forth to
and from nearby Helena—looking like bird footprints dragged back and forth
across the valley.
I have 200 feet of garden hose extended down into the sage, pine,
juniper and bunchgrass landscape just below my house. I am soaking the flora and earth on the fire-side
of my home in the event wind drives embers up and over the lake to rain down on
my side. These embers are the foot soldiers
of fire. The scouts. The assassins. If they join ranks…if they fury into a march…into
a firestorm…there is no stopping them.
I watch from my deck hoping the first scout never arrives.
Photographs taken
from my deck:
Mid-afternoon
Near sunset
Night
Night
Night
—Mitchell Hegman
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