The Humboldt Diaries: A Prairie Teacher's Journey: Where's Waldo??

One rarely plans to be eyewitness to history. It is the dumb luck of being at the right (or wrong) place at precisely the right time. It is the naval recruit at Pearl Harbor. The parade goer who just wanted a glimpse of a young president on that fateful day in Texas. It is those standing on the ground underneath the Hindenburg, the young rebels chipping away at the Berlin Wall, or the pedestrian in Manhattan on September 11^th.

It is the flashpoint of starting any old ordinary day and then finding your life forever altered in one unforeseen swoop of events. It may be wonderful or it may be the beginnings of a nightmare.

Seven days ago I witnessed the beginning of a nightmare.

One event led to another to bring about my cataclysmic brush with destiny. I’ll start with “why.”

My mother, one Ardyce Miller-Templeman, (hyphenated not because she is a raging feminist, but because she remarried after the my father’s death), decided she should be ordained as a licensed minister at the tender age of seventy-one. She is a superhero to me. She might as well be running around in tights with a cape flapping buoyantly behind her. She was a tad embarrassed over the age thing. She felt it was sort of like being the oldest mother in attendance on your child’s first day of Kindergarten (oh wait, that was me on Hannah’s first day…). I assured her that I was THRILLED that she punched Old Age in the eye and gave her a bloody nose. Why shouldn’t people do whatever it is they want to do, at whatever age they want to do it? When I hear the hated words, “…but I’m too old now,” I want to vomit. Always wanted to get your teeth straightened out? Do it!! Career switch when you are near retirement? Go for it! I say take your last breath with no regrets in the trunk of life.

Back to mom. She has been doing the coursework and going through the required internships and interviews for a couple of years now. The ceremony of ordination is merely a culmination of all that hard work. It is symbolic. But it is a very big deal. There was simply no way I was going to miss it. There is your “why” piece of my puzzle.

OK, the “where.” My mother lives in the beautiful state of Colorado. I love Colorado, I truly do. It is breathtakingly beautiful. Its weather is temperate. It is cowboys and rugged adventure. It is home to my entire extended family. If my children and husband are my breath, then my bigger family, my soul. I love each one dearly and tenderly.

The city of Colorado Springs was chosen for the host of this year’s district assembly and ordination service. It was an incredibly convenient stroke of luck for me as my sister and a brother both live with their families in that very city. Brother Ron graciously invited us to stay at his palatial home, even though it was empty for part of our stay. We happily accepted and enjoyed the luxury and comfort of his beautiful house. Opening the front door on our first morning at Hotel Miller, I caught my breath at the sight of Pike’s Peak directly in front of us. Love, love, love, Colorado Springs…

“When”… we arrived on June 21^st, 2012.

Why, Where, and When, are out of the way. Let’s turn our attention to “What.”

If I have to spell out the “What” after these hard-to-miss clues and you are an

American citizen, then you either just woke from a yearlong coma, are hung over, or live in a bomb shelter. The “What” is the worst wildfire in Colorado Springs’ history. I’ll save more for that later.

Here’s my story:

The day after mom’s ordination service, which was beautiful and heavy with meaning, my sister suggested we pack a picnic lunch and “head for the hills” to chillax near the Garden of the Gods, a Colorado Springs landmark and favorite tourist destination. Sounded like a stellar plan, so we packed chicken salad sandwiches, watermelon, chips, and bottles of water. Oh, and it was hot. The day I mean, not the lunch. When I say hot, I do not mean warm or nearly uncomfortable. No, I mean HOT, as in 105 degrees, blisteringly, sweltering hot. Burn your retinas hot. It was hot. Did I mention it was really hot? Hot…

We had not gotten more than ten minutes or so from the house when all of a sudden the car’s air conditioner said, “I’m done.” Immediately after which my sister said she had lost all power steering and that the engine was overheating. Uh oh.

Being the Nascar-worthy driver she is, she was able to pull over immediately into a parking lot. We called the guys who had piled into “the guy” vehicle (I’m sure they were singing at top-voice volume to oldies and giggling just like we were). They spun around on a dime and our gallant rescuers pulled up beside us. “I’ll bet it’s a belt,” I predicted as they popped the hood. Within moments Dr. Auto Mechanic (my husband) was pulling out shredded pieces of serpentine belt. I smiled smugly.

As we waited for them to purchase a new one and round up the proper tools, we girls sipped ice water from the tiny coffee shack sitting in the parking lot. As the very nice attendant handed us our water, he mentioned casually, “Have you seen the fire?” Fire? He pointed ahead and to the right. “Started about two hours ago.” Well, paint me yeller and call me chicken... Sure enough, there was indeed evidence of fire off in the hills. Hot windy day, lack of rain and winter snowpack had left the brush ripe for tinder… conditions were perfect for a wildfire. No, this can’t be good. But the column of smoke in front of us was fairly small, so we weren’t too alarmed yet. We were sure firefighters were already fighting the good fight and would soon have it under control. We found a tiny patch of shade under an immature tree and tried vainly to prevent our melting into puddles of sweat. Our daughters sought shelter in a Walgreens. Kim and I took advantage of the relative quiet to do some catching up.

In short order, the guys were back and we were on our way again, my niece Lauren in the back seat playing DJ with her iPod, and “the girl car” was rockin’ once more. My brother, Ron, broke into our Karaoke Heaven to text to us some 411 on the fire. It had indeed started just when our ice water savior had said it had and had consumed 150 acres. My farmer brain went into action trying to visualize that amount of land. One hundred and fifty acres would be roughly a fourth of our farm. Well, that didn’t seem too catastrophic. Field fires happen in my neck of the woods every summer. Even our tiny rural fire departments are able to manage those. Should be a piece of cake for these city-slicker firefighters.

We wove our way into the Red Rocks Park, parked and carried our yummy lunch to a picnic table. Wow, it was hot! A pretty poor excuse for shade here as well. We were considerably closer to the fire now and had a front row seat to its condition. It was growing at an alarming rate. We finished our food and while the rest tried to prevent their brains from boiling in its own fluid, my sister and brother and I climbed a cliff to get a better view of the fire. The fire had an official name now. Whoever it is that has the dubious honor of naming such monsters had unimaginatively dubbed it the Waldo Canyon Fire. Even an untrained fire-namer like myself could have come up with THAT.

We climbed high enough (not an easy feat in flip flops) to see over the ridge that partially obstructed our view. Garden of the Gods rose majestically to our hard right and Waldo roared just left of it. At times the smoke shifted just enough that we could even see bright orange flames licking at the brush. I snapped about 10,000 pictures (I was born for digital photography), and we made our way back down the cliff without breaking anything of a human bone nature. I did manage to brush my thumb against a cactus and pulled a few souvenirs out as a result. Thankfully that was the extent of my flip-flop-wearing, cliff-climbing injuries.

It was obvious that this thing was nowhere near containment. We were watching it spread uncontrollably before our very eyes. The local news was reporting that evacuations had begun and roads were being closed. Time to get out of Dodge.

As we climbed back into our Gender Mobiles, my brother and sister and I looked at each other with the same genius thought, “Let’s get closer to the fire!!” No one has ever accused us of being smart enough to take the prudent path. There were some in the Donner Party who chose to return back to home base rather than run to danger (sissies), and climbed into the Safe Mobile. The rest of us headed the wrong direction back into the path of the fire to see what we could see until either we could go no further or someone told us we had to turn around. Holy cow, I love adventure!! Our one mistake was taking our mother along. Drat that life giving, care taking instinct! We should have forced her into the Safety Mobile, much like securing a seat on one of the Titanic’s lifeboats.

As we drove along HWY 24, we were awed and dumbstruck by how the situation had grown somber. There were emergency vehicles and personnel literally everywhere. We passed multiple staging areas where fleets of utility trucks or other services were clustered and waiting for directions. We were now witnessing earnest evacuations. Cars and vans filled with worried faces and precious belongings streamed in the opposite direction. We were swimming against a current of fear and panic.

My camera could barely catch a breath. With window down, I tried to capture as much of the moment as my obstructed view could manage. We were fairly far up the mountain when my brother’s next text made me laugh. His car was carrying our mother. The text read, “Captain Dangerous thinks we should turn around.” Well, that was that. We may be middle-aged adults, but mom still rules the roost.

We found a turn-around spot and pulled over next to an ambulance. There were others also lining the shoulder of the road – rubberneckers like us – gazing in awe and disbelief at a force so powerful minute mankind could only slay it with the help of an army of hundreds and overhead planes with bellies full of red poison. My sister asked my daughter to take our picture with the belching black cloud as our backdrop. A motorist smart enough to be speeding AWAY from the madness honked and gave us the finger. “We deserved it,” I said matter-of-factly. That poor man was probably a fresh evacuee and here we stood all googley-eyed like it was some treasure hunt. Not that I need to justify my actions to our obscene gesture friend or you, for that matter, but for the record, the photo was for the record. Our goal was not to have a salacious moment at the expense of others, but to record history. There were many who grabbed cameras after the bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Historians are glad they did.

My brother called me to a second story window before retiring for the night. “Look to the right,” was all he said. I was shocked and a little spooked to see bright red flames lapping at the hillside not far from the spot where we stood. It was surreal. Of course I grabbed my ever-present camera, but chose to not post the photos on Facebook. My sister-in-law, Mel, was away visiting her mother in Vermont and I did not want to give her unnecessary anxiety more than she must have surely already had. The pictures were left on my computer, saved for another time.

We awoke to the ominous news on that Sunday morning that the firefighting heroes had achieved zero containment. It was too big. The conditions were too dry. The wind was too strong and erratic. The Monster was gaining strength and power. The status of the Waldo Canyon Fire had changed. Strategic control was being handed over to a national team that would spearhead all firefighting efforts. And just like that, Colorado’s wildfires became the number one firefighting priority in the nation.

I snapped a shot before leaving the parking lot of church that morning. The sky to the west was completely filled with smoke. Some at church reported waking to ash on their lawn, others were already displaced individuals whose fate was yet to be written. It was a somber day of gathering in the safe shelter of common faith.

The winds pushed east throughout the day, causing smoky haze to settle heavily on the city, like snow on those same majestic Rockies. Its acrid smell filled our noses and stung eyes and caused breathing difficulties for many. The brilliant afternoon sun struggled to shine through the amber curtain.

Monday found a shift in the wind, which cleared the city of smoke, but only intensified the out-of-control fire. We listened with sinking hearts as more and more outlying areas were being forced to evacuate. Instructions for leaving homes were posted in all the local media outlets. The “Five P’s” were stressed: people, photos, prescriptions, pets, and personal records. Grab and go. That was the urgent message.

Temperatures soared into the 100’s for the umpteenth consecutive day. I had graduate coursework due and spent the morning pounding away at my laptop. We met up with my sister and her family for an early supper and a stroll through Manitou Springs, an area that had been originally evacuated and then allowed to be reinhabited. The night felt delightfully cool, even though the thermometer in the car read 98 degrees. It’s always about perspective, isn’t it?

We walked through the beautiful, if not touristy, main street of Manitou Springs and enjoyed popping into quaint shops and munching on funnel cakes. I did not realize that there was an actual “spring” and was amazed at the fizzy nature of its famous waters. Ever the teacher, I filled a water bottle with the stuff for my students to taste come fall. As we made our way back to the car, there was a sudden flurry of activity. Looking in the direction of the excitement, we learned the reason for it. The fire had jumped the ridge and was now within just a few miles of the town. It had happened so suddenly that even the local shop owners were snapping pictures. It seemed there was no place to go to get away from the madness.

We left the next morning. I climbed into our van with a heavy heart. The people I love were left to deal with this mess. I was headed home to clear skies and green foliage. They were still living a nightmare. I had no idea as we drove north, away from pieces of my heart, that their nightmare was very soon going to intensify and become a living hell.

We stopped for a quick lunch with our son, Ryan, a dental student in Denver, and then to Greeley, Colorado for the night with another sibling, Kevin, and his darling family. Shellie, my sweet sister-in-law, grew up in Colorado Springs. She had lived only in that city until they accepted a call to pastor a church in Greeley. She loves her home, her new city, and her church, but her heart will always beat for the Springs.

While preparing our dinner that night, she had local coverage streaming live through her mobile device. I heard her gasp, her hand involuntarily flying to her mouth. Tears streamed down her face and she ran suddenly to her bedroom, sobbing the entire way. My brother, tears filling his own eyes, said quietly, “The Flying W ranch has just burned to the ground. Our first home is probably next.” “Go to your wife,” I urged him. I stood next to the speaker and listened to the choked voices of the local newscaster as they apologized for being so unprofessional, but mourned aloud the loss of such a beloved Colorado Spring landmark. It took them several minutes to gain composure. Their grief was palpable.

In the few hours since we had left that city, the fire had turned its steely, red eyes onto residential neighborhoods and set its sights for the Air Force Academy, Garden of the Gods, and other beloved, well-known places. My brain refused to absorb the breadth of such catastrophe. The evacuation numbers now stood at 32,000 and hundreds of homes were threatened. Dear God, it’s so hot. Where will all those people go?

The Beast was unquenchable. It would not be satiated until it had gorged itself on 346 residential homes, and drank the blood of two innocent people. Finally, it staggered back in a drunken stupor and headed back toward the hills, leaving sorrow, homelessness, and lives forever altered in its terrible wake.

I later saw aerial images of the destroyed neighborhoods and felt my stomach drop. It was easy to make out roads that led into subdivisions and cul-de-sacs, but I struggled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing beyond that. You would expect to find some structures partially burned, with timbers still hanging or possibly a wall here and there left standing. There was nothing, save for giant piles of ash. Pile after pile of pure ash. Ghostly, haunting images seared into memory.

As we pulled onto the final stretch of road that would lead us to our beautiful home and farm, I found myself seeing the familiar with new eyes. I was so grateful for blue skies with no smoke, and lush green grass. It looked like Eden to me. I gulped in the serenity and said another prayer for those in chaos.

I was there when it started. I am not happy about that. But for whatever reason, I was eyewitness to an event that will be part of Colorado history books for many years to come. Why? I have no answers. It was the dumb luck of being in the right (or wrong) place at precisely the right time. Or was it? In the life of a follower of Christ, nothing is happenstance. If there was a divine purpose, I do not know it yet, nor may I ever. But I was there. It is not my home. There is no connection to me other than cradling my loved ones. And yet… I am forever altered by it. I cannot fully understand the difficult road ahead for those I left behind.

God help us all…