The families came to plant trees last Saturday for Gunflint Green up. I can’t tell you what a pleasing little tradition it has become these last five years.
Tom and Julia (who add a little more style to Cabin 2 every summer) and I were a trio. My job was to hoe the grass clumps, Tom would dig, Julia would plant. I was truly a happy hoer.
Last year at this time of year, Shelby wrote a poem of her memories of the start of the Ham Lake Fire. We really would have preferred to shelter our kids from the whole forest fire experience. Not something to wish on a 10 and a 12 year old. Even though adversity builds character and resilience, I think this one went a little too far.
However, we’re proud of the young adult she is becoming.
(12 year old Shelby)
Fire
Five minutes to fit my entire world into
This vacant suitcase in front of me
All my memories, necessities, smiles
Crammed in a single duffel
My heart pounds a
Panicked fluttering inside my chest
What what what?
What should I choose to bring?
The photos smiling on the walls
The battered lamp beside my bed
My favorite strawberry T-shirt.
What do I treasure most?
My time is ticking away
Throw in a few pairs of jeans
The money from my top dresser drawer
A third grade year book
What should I save?
Everything? Nothing?
Grab some pictures off the wall
Toss them in the pile
Five minutes and my entire world is packed into
This bulging suitcase in front of me
The tromp of heavy boots echoes upstairs
A firefighter’s gruff voice hollers
I sprint up the steps
Bag slung over my shoulder
Sunlight beams through the haze
As I dash to the idling Jeep
My dad at the wheel
My brother beside me in the back seat
We roar down the dusty driveway
A blanket of smoke curling thick among the pines
Now, I count
One dad, one brother, one panting Labrador…
No Mom
Where is Mom?
We round the corner
And collide with the flames
I open my mouth in a silent scream
Hands clench the door handle
A cocoon of fire envelopes the road
Flaming tree tips plummet and ignite the parched straw
Red and orange flickers burn my wide eyes
With their terrorizing image of destruction
As I glimpse mom’s grey suburban
Motionless at the Cross Bay Lake Entry point
The terrifying truth burbles up
And washes over my forced calm
Straining against my seatbelt
Hysterical panic exploding inside of me
Out there in the blazing inferno
My mom faces a hurricane of flame and heat she can’t fight
Helpless tears streak my cheeks
Strapped in a car; stuck
We approach the second entrance to the Cross Bay Lot
A grey suburban pulls out ahead of us
My heart soars
Stopping the sobs
We screech to a halt at the Gunflint Trail
And slowly turn
The smoky billows climb the air
Purple and orange hues blossom through the gray
Our house, our life
Disappearing into the sky
I discover the panic has stopped
Take a shaky breath
Somehow, some way
We’ll survive this
Waiting, breathing, accepting
Watching the firefighters
Hearing the radio exchanges
Dreading the hour we’ll see the destruction
———————————————-
The mile driveway stretches into millions
As we head back in the anxious car
The true wrath of the fire
Is revealed
Wasteland stretches before me
A desolate scene of smoking silence
Charred black from the raging blaze
Only a splintered shadow of the majestic beauty this forest once was.
The flames have stripped the very soil of its memory
Scraped down the rich dirt to raw rock
Leaving beached granite whales
In the ocean of blackness
The ashes ache with death
A forest that was once filled with life and energy
Now flutters between my fingers
And blankets the ground with a heavy sadness.
Towering white pines
That I had loved to lean against
Because they felt so completely solid and secure
Are left as frail slivers struggling to stand
But my eyes stretch over the hill
There, in a sparkling bubble of green
Lies our house, our resort
An island of survival in the sea of disaster
And my heart flies higher
Than the topmost branches of the soaring white pines
Because there will be new life in this desert
A new emerald woods
It may be my children
Who are the ones leaning against grand old trees
The ones who get to experience their great support
But sprouts are already tunneling up through the ash to sunlight
So I unpack my world, my suitcase
Put back my treasures
And watch this stunning forest
Create and recreate its beauty
(This poem appeared in the Boundary Waters Journal, Spring 2011 issue.)
