Deja Vu

Eleven years ago, Los Alamos and White Rock (my hometown) were evacuated due to a raging wildfire, the Cerro Grande, blazing in the beautiful Jemez Mountains. Now, a raging wildfire has once again prompted evacuations (for now, just voluntary), and my parents and my sister, brother-in-law, and niece are staying in Albuquerque.

This feels eerily similar. I am five hours away, yet I still feel the exact same stress I did at 2 in the morning the night my family packed up our most precious belongings and our pets and drove to stay with my grandparents in Nambe for 6 days or so. The drive took about 6 or 7 hours, which usually is only about 25 or 30 minutes. The traffic stayed on our street for about 4 1/2 hours. Which was kind of good, because we kept remembering things we should have packed and walked back to the house to retrieve them. This stress I feel is very specific, and I have only felt it these two times.

The Cerro Grande fire burned 47,000 in about 2 weeks. The present one, the Las Conchas fire, has gotten up to nearly 45,000 acres, and it's only been 24 hours. My heart is breaking. I love those mountains; they're just as much home to my family and I as our own house is. I know that fire is somehow good for nature; it provides the means for new life and growth. But it still deeply saddens me.

One of the saddest, most haunting, but also most beautiful sites I have ever seen was a few days after we came home after the Cerro Grande fire. It was not completely out, but contained enough that residents could return home (the lucky ones, at least. Too many homes were lost). My family and I drove up the middle road from White Rock to Los Alamos. Burned trees and ground everywhere. Closer to when we got to Los Alamos, I looked out my window and there, standing among the trees that were now black sticks, with the sunlight casting a dazzling yellow light, was a lone doe staring at us on the road. It broke my heart, but it was still beautiful. I was the only one who saw it. I imagine the deer was confused, lost perhaps, not knowing what to make of the new scenery (which may not have been the case at all, but that's how I thought of it). That site still haunts me.

I should feel grateful that I'm not there right now (it would probably upset me even more seeing it live rather than just through pictures), but I would give anything to be with my family. I feel so helpless here.

We need rain, desperately. And less wind. It cannot be said enough.