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.
