It was wicked hot at the edge of the wilderness, and a wildfire wind was howling. I had downloaded an app to track the fires. It was day three of our month-long trip class, and I was about to meet my writing students when the app chirped and I clicked. On the map, our region had been glowing yellow, which means “get set,” but it was now glowing red, which means, “get the heck out!” The “Camp Fire” -- as it was ironically named -- had just devoured 20 acres of forest only a few miles from our tiny wooden field station.
My students all had their books and notebooks open. We were reading nature essays. I tried to appear calm, as if my PhD is in outrunning fire. The camp van was on a grocery run and would be back in 20 minutes. Well class, I said. There’s been a change of plans.
I gave them that 20 minutes to grab their sleeping bags, laptops, and a change of clothes.
My biggest fear was leaving someone behind in a wildfire, and even after the final head count, I kept opening doors, shouting, “Is anyone in here?”
The gravel road – the only way to safety – was consumed by dust and smoke. It’s a bumpy and curvy road, more like a trail. When the road swung to the north, the huge plume of smoke from Camp Fire – now 40 acres wide, and soon to be 4,000 – seemed like it would swallow the world. But then the road curved, and the coast seemed clear. Until it curved again. We made the trip like that, choking on the air, veering between hope and despair, all the way to Ely, Minnesota. To safety.
