When the Mountains Disappear

When the Mountains Disappear

Sometimes it only takes a change in the wind to remind us how quickly life can change.

When I first moved West, I knew wildfires were part of life here. I understood that intellectually. But understanding something and watching it happen outside your own back porch are two very different things.

For most of my life, the natural disasters I knew were hurricanes and tornadoes. I lived on the East Coast and in the Midwest, where you learned to watch the weather, prepare for storms and understand what certain skies could mean.

Wildfire is different.

Fire has a way of making you watch the wind.

One of these photographs was taken from my back porch when the fires first began. Beyond the pines, you can see the mountains stretching across the horizon.

The others were taken from that same area this morning.

The mountains haven't gone anywhere.

We simply can't see them anymore.

Smoke has settled into the valley, turning a familiar view into something almost unrecognizable. And while I look out over that landscape, I can't help thinking about the people who aren't simply looking at smoke from their porches.

Some have had to leave those porches behind.

Across Washington and throughout the West, families have been displaced from their homes. Pets have been separated from the people they know. Wildlife has been pushed from familiar habitat. Firefighters and emergency crews are working in exhausting and dangerous conditions while communities wait, watch and hope.

Here around Tonasket and Oroville, Washington, I have also witnessed something extraordinary.

People show up.

If someone has equipment that can help, they bring it.

Bulldozers. Excavators. Farm equipment.

People who have the ability to help push back fire boundaries and protect their neighbors are joining the fight. Others are helping in whatever ways they can.

And working as a nurse, I see another side of it.

People affected by these fires—including firefighters—come through our emergency department needing care for all sorts of reasons. It is a reminder that behind the acreage numbers and fire-containment percentages we hear about are human beings who are tired, hurting and doing incredibly difficult work.

There is fear here. I won't pretend otherwise.

At this moment, we are safe and are not in an evacuation area. I am grateful for that.

But everyone who lives with wildfire understands something very clearly:

The wind can change.

And so we pay attention.

We look after one another.

We make sure our neighbors are okay.

We help where we can.

And we remain grateful for every firefighter, emergency responder, healthcare worker, volunteer, farmer, equipment operator, animal rescuer and ordinary neighbor who sees something that needs doing and simply steps forward.

The Autumn Hollow has always been about slowing down, finding comfort and creating a little shelter from the storms of life.

Right now, some of our neighbors need a very literal kind of shelter.

So today, instead of talking about tea, candles, herbs or anything else from the shop, I simply want to ask something of our little Hollow community.

Please keep the people affected by these wildfires in your thoughts and prayers.

Not only here in Washington, but throughout the United States and Canada, and anywhere else communities are facing the same frightening uncertainty.

Pray for the firefighters walking toward what everyone else is trying to escape.

Pray for the families waiting to learn whether they'll have a home to return to.

Pray for the animals—domestic and wild—caught in circumstances they cannot understand.

Pray for rain.

And perhaps most of all, pray for calm winds.

Because today, somewhere behind that wall of smoke, the mountains are still there.

We just have to wait until we can see them again.

Stay safe. Take care of one another. And as always, the kettle is on.

With love from The Autumn Hollow
🍂❤️