My Favorite Places

February 2023

On August 16th, 2020, the Beachie Creek Fire was born from a lightning strike, deep within the Opal Creek Wilderness. By the time the blaze was completely contained at the end of October, over 193,500 acres of old-growth forest, numerous structures, and at least five human lives had been claimed. The Beachie Creek Fire was exceptionally intense and destructive, particularly at its core near the confluence of Beachie and Opal Creeks where the loss was total. It was home to an ancient grove of trees known as Cedar Flats, an area that contributed mightily to a career change and a course correction in my life’s journey. It was one of my favorite places on earth.

In the early morning hours of February 25th, 2022, what is believed to have been an electrical malfunction triggered a fire at our home in the woods. I was safely away for work, but the fire escalated so quickly and with such intensity, that both Kara and Lela were unable to escape, and perished in the blaze. By the time it was extinguished later that morning, most of the home and its belongings were gone as well. It was unequivocally my favorite place on earth.

I always turn to Mother Nature when things go pear-shaped, and this time has been no different. I know better than to seek answers from her, though. Rather, I am out there hunting for perspectives. Among the many things that my time spent grieving and healing outside has taught me, is that not all of her cycles are equal, comprehensible, or by human empathetic assessment, remotely fair. 

Some, like the changing of the seasons, are more reliable with regard to timing end execution. But others can be ambiguous and dependent upon any number of variables both known and unknown. 

For an ancient forest all but erased by wildfire, it can take centuries to grow back to a similar state. And depending on how that conglomeration of factors plays out, it’s likely that the forest will never resemble its former incarnation. In the interim, different, shorter, more readily observable cycles will be at work. That forest will again hold life and there will be beauty in the regrowth, just in different, yet-to-be-seen ways. Whatever the eventual outcome, it will most assuredly take time. It’s a process that neither you nor I will see completed, and in some ways, it's a loop not meant to be closed. I’ve learned to be okay with that. I have to be.

So I go out and appreciate the things currently happening and anticipate what I know is coming. The countless new greens of spring joining again in concert with the evergreens. The multicolored wildflower meadows in June. Bird calls both foreign and familiar. Mother Nature seems to regularly take my breath away with the intention of filling lungs deeper.

I am also grateful for wheels in motion that I’m not yet aware of and cycles unseen. Trusting that with every step, paddle, breath, day, year, and indeterminate measure of whatever, I am alive and moving forward along with all of it. However slow it may seem. Make it through another day, collect another sunset.