Monday, November 19, 2018

Chamise, the Woolsey Fire, Fucked-Up Priorities, and Gratitude


As you may know from my last blog-post, I’ve effectively adopted a little Chamise plant that lives in a fissure atop a sandstone outcropping in the hills overlooking my neighborhood. For the past year or so, I’ve fawned over this little guy like a doting parent, showering him with attention and water and protecting him against foreign invaders intent on claiming and occupying his homey crack. While other nearby plants have either withered or retreated into dormancy during what seems like perpetual drought, mi chamisa has flourished. He bloomed late into the season this year and is looking quite robust despite his rather harsh and austere surroundings.

So when the Woolsey Fire raced through the area and ravaged the local hillsides, I thought of mi chamisa and was immediately sick with worry. I realize how quirky and perhaps douchey it may sound to be worried about a single fucking plant while entire neighborhoods and biomes are burning. But I’ve invested a lot of emotional capital in this single plant, and rightly or wrongly, I was concerned about him.  If that makes me sound like a crackpot with misplaced priorities, I suppose that’s only because I’m a crackpot with misplaced priorities. I accept that.

So last Friday night, I raced home after work and scampered up the familiar trail in the fading light to do a welfare check on my friend. As I climbed the trail, a heaviness fell upon me. Both sides of the trail were charred black and the odor of smoke still hung heavy in the air. Most of the vegetation, including the despised Russian Thistle, had been completely obliterated by the flames. The landscape was deathly still and devoid of life. I wondered about the Western Toads I had inexplicably seen trailside before all hell broke loose. I was astonished they were there in the first place. What could possibly be their fate now?

Lost in thought and feeling a bit melancholy, I crested the ridge to discover that the trail sign and wooden bench were still there and intact. Stunned, I stood there for a brief moment trying to process what I was seeing. Everything around the bench and trail sign was completely gone, but they were still there. I hurried to the top of the hill where the sandstone outcropping sits, approaching it reverentially and with some hesitancy. Now that I was there, I wasn’t really sure whether I wanted to see what I had come to look at. But I quickly noticed that the rounded top of this hillock seemed to have avoided the worst of the flames. It was hard to tell for certain in the dusky darkness, but I thought I could detect living, breathing plants as I made my way up the spur to the summit.

At the base of the sandstone outcropping, I readied my flashlight and scurried to the top. Hesitating for a moment, I surveyed the cliff edge before turning on the light. I could see something in the darkness, but I couldn’t tell if it was alive or dead. I asked the universe for a miracle and then switched on the light. And there he was, mi chamisa, sitting there stoically in the sandstone crack as he always had, untouched by the flames.

I was overwhelmed by emotion. Tears began to well up but I held them back. Nobody was around to see, but I still felt a bit embarrassed about getting weepy over a solitary plant. I texted my daughter 400 miles away to tell her that mi chamisa had survived. She responded immediately with relief telling me that she had seen the destruction in the burn areas and had been thinking about my Chamise. She is her father’s daughter. She has inherited my idiosyncrasies.

I quickly pulled some water from my pack and offered some to my friend. He gratefully accepted. I then sat alone in the inky stillness sipping a beer and feeling content. Sometimes, the universe delivers.

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