The fire has been burning since June 17th, over three weeks now.
Most of Summerhaven is gone. Most of the Ponderosa Pines and the Aspens, north of Summerhaven are gone. 70,000 acres gone, up to this point.
I remember the day of the Big Blowup. The Aspen Fire had been burning slowly below the town of Summerhaven for a day or two. The firefighters were trying to put it out but they couldn't, and then a big wind came and the flames took off up the hill, burning most of Summerhaven, down to the foundations. It didn't stop. The fire went up the road and up and over and slammed with the force of a freight train, right into The Red Ridge.
That Thursday afternoon, June 18th, 2003, I was looking out of an 8th story window in Downtown Tucson, at theburning mountain and watching the smoke change color from gray to black to gray again, to black again. Then suddenly I was seeing flames, bright and orange in the noon day sun. Flames licking higher than the Ponderosa tree line. Oh No, I thought. No.
I got home from the day job and turned on the tube and every local station had live feeds. No Sienfeld. No Wheel of Fortune. All fire. One station had a video feed from a helicopter from its sister station in Phoenix. The sun was getting low. The shadows were long. The chopper was showing the remains of buildings in Summerhaven, some still burning. Too much space between the trees. The trees were gone, just gone. Then a shot of the Mount Lemmon ski lift to the northwest of Summerhaven. Safe, no fire. I had a bit of hope. Then the helicopter paned to the east and to The Red Ridge and it is an inferno. Flames 80 feet high, burning above and through the trees. Dancing and moving fast. I see the spot where the Baby Blue Spruce I have used as a model for a Christmas card grew, but it was orange with flame and gray with smoke. Little green. No blue.
I couldn't see the northern overlook of The Red Ridge or The Three Surrender trees from the helicopter shot, but I knew it would burn soon or was burning terribly right now. And I kept thinking about the Baby Blue Spruce, a tree who I saw as a friend. I would say hello to that little five foot tree every time I hiked down Red Ridge. Been saying hello to the Baby Blue for years. Watching it grow from three foot to four foot to five feet tall. And now it was gone. I could feel the small space where it once was. And I cried.
I cried hard that night and off and on over the next three weeks. I woke up one night, dreaming about the little animals of Red Ridge that couldn't escape. The squirrels. The lizards. Some of the birds. And the trees that can't move but can only take it and burn.
Firefighters talk about the three types of fire that happen in western forests. First type is the burn that burns mostly ground cover. It's good for the forest. The Ponderosa pines can take it with ease. The second type is a serious burn. Many trees die but not all the trees. All old dead wood is burned and living trees have a chance. But many trees are burned badly and die then or later. It's a bad burn. And then there is the third kind. Firefighters call it when the forest is 'nuked'. All trees burn. All life burns. The fire is so hot it sterilizes the ground. Nothing lives. Nothing grows for a while afterwards.
Red Ridge was nuked that day. The 18th of June, 2003.
Now, it's the 6th of July and the fire turned south toward town, a couple of days ago. The prevailing winds have changed. For most of The Aspen Fire, the winds have blown toward Oracle, Arizona to the north, taking the fire and the smoke away from Tucson, to the north and the northeast. Now the winds are now blowing toward the southeast, blanketing parts of the city in a dark thick cloud. When I returned from Phoenix on the night of the Fourth of July, I noticed that the usual ceiling of many stars was gone, replace by an orange low muddy cloud. I thought it was rain coming at first, but the clouds were too low. Then I look up toward the mountain that had been burning for weeks now, and saw a fire line moving down toward the Foothills of Tucson. God Lord, I thought.
I have resisted taking any photographs of the Fire. Seems like nature disaster porno to me. But on the late afternoon of Sunday July 6th, I gave in, for I could see flames from the parking lot of my apartment, here in the Foothills of the Catalina Mountains. I feel this strange duality of wanting to slowly walk to the advancing line of the fire, and at the same time, wishing to run away.
I get in my truck and drive the short distance to the Upper Foothills, the land of $300 greens fees, multi million dollar mansions that are empty half the year, and guard houses of gated communities built in the Spanish Revival style. Also it seem that most of the women in the Upper Foothills have exercised or starved themselves so much, that they have no ass. This sunset though, there are new additions up here in The Land of Women with No Ass.
Groups of lookyloos from the valley floor who have come up for the show, water tanker helicopters are dropping their heavy loads in long wet curtains, and a creeping slow line of fire is falling down the Front Ridge, toward the resorts and the mafia homes.
I park on the shoulder with the lookyloos, grab the Pentex with the long lens, my tripod and hike to the top of a small hill south of the Craycroft Road. A couple of other photogs are stationed along the way, mostly notable to me, a father and son team. They seem to be having a good time. While setting up my camera and tripod, I feel a slight sense of shame for being here in the first place. Like waiting by a railroad crossing after you have pushed an old car on the tracks and you hear a distant train whistle. Like hanging out in the lobby of a courthouse just to see the family of the victims and the defendants cry.
Hey everybody. Let's go up and watch a mountain die.
But I'm here and I'm mesmerized. It was like the primitive root part of my brain keeps me looking, to see which way the fire was going. To the east? To the west? Coming for me? Do I need to move the family now or are we OK? I could see my imaginary ancestral family of ten thousand years ago, sitting by my side. My mate is unhappy that we haven't left yet. My two boys are playing with the wolf. And I'm just looking up at the very slow moving fire, coming down at me.
I'm about 5 miles away I'm guessing. The flames are low, just a few feet high. They flare up when they hit a dead Mesquite tree or an old Manzanita bush, but then they die down again. It's the smoke that let me know where I am. Thick and acidic with ash coming down like a weak snow flurry. My eyes are burning. The fire tourists stay only for a while and then go, only to be replaced by another group of lookyloos. I stay and shot for a couple of hours, through sunset and into the full dark. No stars. Burning eyes. Rings of fire. Not as bad as Mordor from Lord of the Rings, but reminiscent. The tankers have stopped. Only sound is the lookyloos below and a soft wind blowing through the mesquite and creosote bushes. A southeasterly wind but not too strong. The smoke is so dense. My eyes can't take much more. It's amazing what firefighters can endure, I think.
I take a roll of black and white and go home. Feeling a little dirty with smoke and shame. I had a better time shooting that roll of film than I care to admit. I'm just a lookyloo too, but with a more expensive camera.
I walk up the stairs to my apartment, open the door and put my equipment back on the shelf. I take a shower to wash it all off. After my shower, I walk into my living room and see the Christmas card I made with the Baby Blue Spruce on its cover, and cry all over again.