It was a Friday when we woke up at dawn, phones dying, plugged into walls that lost power sometime in the night, and we looked for plumes of smoke. On the west face of the mountain, we’re audience to every sunrise, blind to every sunset. The day was clear. We knew the fire was burning somewhere, but without power, we had no way to check. No way to call out. So I put on my cycling kit, and I prepared to descend the canyon to the coast. I kissed Ben, and I told him I would call him when I was able to get news at the bottom of the canyon. Topanga Canyon Boulevard was backed up with cars. It happens sometimes when there’s an accident on the Pacific Coast Highway where the road dumps out at a single stoplight, but drivers were being erratic and rude. People were turning around, pulling over, and I kept swerving to avoid their desperation. I heard a loud pop and knew I’d broken a spoke. I stopped, opening my brakes, and kept riding, the rear tire still rubbing against the brakes and forcing my effort. I would need to have it fixed in the city. When I reached the coast, the stoplight was out. Something was wrong. There was tumult at the gas station. Aggression was palpable. I turned left in the shadow of a car going the same way over the freeway, and then saw them: the cars pulled over, cameras pointing back toward me. I stopped and unclipped, looking over my shoulder to see what was worth getting out of your car on your morning commute to see.
The smoke was unbelievable, like the earth had mirrored itself in the sky. The smell was unmistakable, emerging from the notes of gasoline and exhaust to pronounce itself as nothing short of chaos. I pulled out my phone to call Ben, but there was no service. Power was out everywhere. There was no way to call him until I got further into the city. Malibu was on fire. We couldn’t see the plumes on our protected western face, but the fire was coming. It was unbelievable.
I passed hundreds of cars on my way into Santa Monica, traffic backed up for miles. The whir of my bicycle making music with the wind against the open spaces between the cars. I kept pulling out my phone to see no bars, No Service. All along the coast, phones pointed toward the horror behind me with jaws agape behind them.
I checked the news at stoplights, desperately looking for a fire map. Over 10,000 acres and spreading fast. Evacuations notices pouring in. Winds becoming increasingly erratic, fire raging through a range deeply dehydrated by drought. I needed to go home. I needed to be there. But I thought I had time. I took my bike to the shop to fix the spoke. 12,000 acres. I went to work, and I tried to call Ben.
“Hey, this is Ben. Leave a mes—”
All my calls, straight to voicemail. Without power, our WiFi calling didn’t work. He would charge his phone in his car, I knew he would. 15,000 acres. I dropped my bike off at the shop, walked to the office, and continued to check the fire news. The Santa Anas blew hard and fast, pushing the fire through the Santa Monica Mountains. People kept leaving work, talking of back alleys, throughways to home. Text messages came in emojiless and short.
“Are you in Topanga?”
“Do you know if we’re in danger?”
“Have you guys left?”
I tried to call Ben again. Nothing. I tried to call our landlord, Jerry. Nothing. I kept trying to call as more people kept trying to call me. Gchats from best friends. Slacks from coworkers. Emails from parents. And a text from a neighbor:
We can’t go home. Do you think Ben could get Sax from our house? I think the bedroom window is unlocked.
My phone rang. I was already holding it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Helen’s Santa Monica, your bike is ready.”
It was time to go home. I told work, I’m sorry, but I need to go, it’s fastest by bike anyway, yes I’ll let you know but it should be fine, just want to be sure. I walked at a clip to the shop, but news reached me faster than I could reach home: mandatory evacuation of Topanga, all zones, immediately.
The canyon is broken into 9 zones. There are 3 primary outlets. One that goes to the valley, one to the coast, one deeper into the mountains. All zones needed to get out, splitting between the valley and coast exits. We’d seen a few evacuations, but this was first time it was mandatory, for everyone. No recommended, no voluntary — mandatory. For everyone.
I tried to call Ben — straight to voicemail. I got to the shop, and the fire was on the TVs.
“Miss?”
“Sorry, I’m here for my bike,” I said, staring at the news.
“Last name?”
I looked back at the woman.
“Sorry, what?”
Red flames, red news banners, red retardant falling from the sky.
“Your last name. For the bike.”
“Right, sorry, Wright. W, R, I, H, sorry, G, or G, H, T.”
…Woolsey Fire grows to 20,000 acres…
“Ma’am? Your bike?”
“Sorry! I’m sorry, just, these fires.”
I couldn’t go home, he couldn’t get the news, and I couldn’t stop apologizing for being lost in the smoke. The fire was growing and I stood wide-eyed in the slow commotion of the bike shop. And then he called.
“Hel—”
“Benny! Benny, are you evacuating?”
“What? — Hi Kelton!”
“Is that Jerry?”
“Yeah, we’re just hanging out. Trying to find where in the house has reception. Power’s still out.”
“It’s mandatory evacuation.”
“Really?”
“Yes, the whole canyon, it’s mandatory. Our zones go out through the coast, zones 1-6 to the valley.”
“We can’t even see any smoke. Is the fire close?”
“They’re worried about a windshift.”
A pause.
“Ben?”
“Sorry, moved from my reception spot. OK, well, I’ll get our stuff together, is there anything you’d like me to pack?”
“I actually need you to go get Sax from the neighbors’ house. They can’t get home.”
“The cat?”
“Yes, can you get their cat?”
“I’ll try. I’ll pack up all the animals and our stuff and call you when I’m out of the canyon.”
A long time ago, I was prepared for this. My father was a smokejumper — he jumped out of airplanes to fight forest fires in the great American west. Photos of him in his gear, young and strapping and cash-strapped, hung around my childhood home. Next to each photo of him was a photo of my mother, rifle in hand, never to be out done by my father. When I moved to the West, I knew forest fires well. Because of them, I knew all disasters well. I knew all about go-bags and tennis shoes at your desk and extra supplies in your car. I grew up with handguns in center consoles and spare keys hidden in wheel wells, with gas tanks always full and cash never low. I grew up checking exits and the wind.
I was prepared, but I wasn’t there. And it made me mad. God, it made me mad. I could see myself in my house, my cabin, my stretch of cliff and dirt and wood, and I could see myself moving through it with the efficiency and grace of deep responsibility and care, knowing so completely in my heart the list of what mattered and what didn’t, and playing the perfect game of Tetris in my truck with all the perfect pieces of my life. But I wasn’t there and it wasn’t my call.
Four hours and 15,000 acres later, Ben pulled up to my office in my truck, his heavily modified Subaru WRX left in the driveway at home. And in the truck, three animals, the passports and wedding certificate and wills, my engagement ring and the necklace my grandfather left me, my first target practice with my dad, the checkbooks, the emergency litter box I had bought months ago, and a duffel bag of my clothes.
It was a Friday night, the fire was devouring the thirsty earth, we were taking refuge in a friend’s place, and I was going through the duffel of how my husband imagined I dress. He packed my favorite jeans, a pair of badly stained khakis, a sweater that didn’t go with either, another sweater that I wore every day on our honeymoon, a flannel I don’t wear, two technical t-shirts meant for riding bikes in the dirt, enough loungewear to clothe an elephant, only bras without underwire, and no shoes.
From the city, I could see he had time, but from where he was, all he could see was that I had called 15 times and he needed to break into the neighbors’ to save their cat after their other cat had gone missing in that canyon only a few months after moving in… and only a few months earlier. He packed some funny things, but he packed the right things.
Seven days later, we were able to go home. Topanga had been spared. Malibu had not. Paradise, much worse. I saw my father in the faces of those men on the news. I saw his friends. I saw their proximity to loss, the weight of what they saved on their shoulders, the permanence of what they couldn’t on their souls. And I saw my home in the ones that burned. When we walked in, our house smelled of cedar and fir and tobacco, as if the warmth of a home well-loved found a way to melt our candles, the fire miles and miles away. I stood in the doorway of the cool evening, holding Finn, looking at this strange rental I call my home. A painting of our first place together. A blanket I’ve never unfolded on the back of the couch. A pile of dismembered stuffed animals in the dog’s bin. Three homemade cookbooks. “One free massage” handwritten ticket. The Topanga Survival Guide sitting on the shelf. All the things that would have been gone forever, forgotten for years, etching themselves into a picture of what I would always remember as the home I didn’t want to lose.
One day, this canyon will burn again. But I know my exits. And my go-bag is pretty simple: it’s a cat, a dog, and a boy that leaves his sports car behind to save his girl’s truck.
I wrote this piece listening to City on Fire by Tyler Hilton, and My Day Will Come by James Francies & YEBBA.
Subscribe to the newsletter at tinyletter.com/keltonwrites.
I forgot how much I love her writing. Her flow, her precise detailing, her atmosphere. Goddamn I was gripped.
