Friday night around dusk, my friend Jessica Neafsey finally decided to relax for the first time all day. She poured a glass of homemade Cabernet from Cachagua-grown grapes and looked east from her patio, which faces the Santa Lucia mountains from Garrapata Ridge – and the Soberanes Fire, then obscured by the fog and smoke.
As the sky darkened and the smoke cleared, the fire appeared as a thin orange glow above the dark ridgeline. It was beautiful, scary and powerful.
A firefighter interrupted her reverie.
He had questions about where he might find garden hoses or other water sources. Together, they walked the perimeter of the house, inspecting nearby shrubs and trees, the stuff that could end up igniting the house.
Neafsey told the firefighter she was worried about a pair of big trees.
“I’m worried about everything,” he said.
A couple of hours later, Neafsey and her cat arrived to spend a night on a futon in my living room. For two nights, she barely slept. We spent a good amount of time sitting on facing couches, tapping our phones for updates on the fire. We drank coffee in the backyard, took tequila shots as sleep aids, talked about landscaping.
There was nothing somber about the few days we spent together before she left for a different place to stay. Instead, it felt like a chance to connect.
I met up Monday night with a group of about 25 fire evacuees, some of whom had lost their homes, gathered at Mundaka in Carmel after a community meeting hosted by Cal Fire, Monterey County and the U.S. Forest Service. Before I arrived, I braced for a night that would be full of grief. Instead, it felt like a party, with people already planning to rebuild homes.
There was a conversation about remodeling: “If you do stucco, you don’t have to feel obligated to paint it fluorescent orange,” one neighbor volunteered to another.
(I happen to like the idea of fluorescent orange stucco, but it’s definitely not the same style of Palo Colorado’s rustic log cabin aesthetic.)
There was Mike Caplin, who had stayed behind after his neighbors left, working to defend their Rocky Creek properties. By all accounts, his story was heroic. He stayed to defend a neighborhood until he couldn’t, and made it out just before the fire came through.
But Caplin had no interest in telling that story: Instead he wanted to talk about fire prevention policy moving forward, about how he’s harangued Congressman Sam Farr, State Sen. Bill Monning and County Supervisor Dave Potter for a change, calling for more expedient approval processes for projects to remove fire-prone vegetation. Environmental rules block vegetation removal projects, he says, leaving dead wood as kindling. As Caplin talks about his policy ideas, he realizes his computer – along with everything else – is gone.
More than anything, it was a night of neighbors getting together with neighbors.
Lorrie Kempf, a retired CHP officer, moved with her husband to Palo Colorado about five years ago, fulfilling a lifelong dream of hers to live in Big Sur. On Monday night, their house was probably standing, though in these conditions, it’s impossible to know anything for sure. What Kempf had nailed down for certain was the vibe. “Nobody is alone in this,” she says. “You can’t tell who here lost their home and who hasn’t.”
People of different means, different stages of loss, different levels of accepting wildfire risk – it’s not a matter of if but when, they’ll tell you – all eating paella together. “When shit hits the fan, you see who you can count on, and it’s incredible,” Kempf adds.
It is incredible, in the bravery of volunteer firefighters who are still fighting the fire on little sleep, and in much smaller ways, simple moments of tenderness and connectivity.
It reminds me of a Cal Fire communications expert I encountered at Doud Ranch next to Palo Colorado. His greatest achievement so far was one of connection: “When I got firefighters on Skype with their kids,” he said, “it was like I parted the Red Sea.”