“The Valley’s on fire!” Mom shouted, waking me up out of a dead sleep. 

“Wh… what?” I groggily answered as I rolled over in bed. 

“There’s a fire in the Valley!” she replied, “I think we might have to leave.”

I stared at my mom’s silhouette in my bedroom doorway as my melted mind attempted to digest what she was saying, “Can you repeat that?”

“Yes, there is a fire in Ken Caryl Valley!”

“A fire in the Valley?”

“Yes!”

“Where in the Valley?”

“Deer Creek Canyon.” 

“Okay, that’s close but that’s not the Valley…” I growled as I sat up, “Can you show me on your phone what’s going on?”

Mom handed her phone to me, which had an article on it explaining that a small fire had been discovered by the road in Deer Creek Canyon, less than a mile from Lockheed Martin. Thankfully, however, it was not in Ken Caryl Valley. But, it was still too damn close for comfort. 

“It’s not in the Valley…” I yawned, “But it’s close.”

“How bad is it?” Mom asked in an almost childlike voice, “Do you think we need to leave?”

“Has anyone come to our door to order us out?” I asked as I stumbled across my room to flick on the light switch. 

“No, not yet.” Mom shook her head. 

“Then probably not. But, let’s pack a few go-bags, just in case.” I replied as I rubbed my eyes and sauntered over to my dresser to replace my warm PJ pants with some jeans. 

“Should we drive into the Valley to see the fire?” Mom asked. 

“Uhhhh… no?” I glared back at her, “I’d rather not get in the way of anything. Plus, I don’t know what the hell’s going on yet. You just woke me up.”

“Let’s go just to see.” Mom urged as she began shutting my door behind her, “We won’t get in the way of anyone.”

The next thing I remember, I’m riding shotgun in my mom’s 4Runner, going south down Continental Divide Road to see if we could spot anything from the light at the Chatfield intersection. Sure enough, the black sky glowed an eerie orange above the hogbacks to the south, and I could faintly smell the smoke in the air as it wafted in through my open window. It smelled just like a campfire. Thanks to that smell, I was instantly wide-awake as we drove north down Chatfield towards Ken Caryl Avenue, the sky glowing orange in the rearview mirrors. 

First, my mom wanted to loop around the entire South Valley neighborhood, just to reassure herself that the valley itself wasn’t on fire. I caught a glimpse of flames shooting up into the sky towards the south as we embarked on the loop. Then, at the end of the loop, at the intersection of South Valley Road and Valley Parkway, we parked facing the south. I stepped out of the 4Runner while Mom stayed and watched the fire from inside. There were several other spectators, a couple of whom already had suitcases packed in the beds of their trucks, parked on the side of the road with us, while police and firefighters were rushing all around. 

The fire was on the mountain just south of Lockheed Martin, and it was growing alarmingly fast. I could see pillars of flames explode from the fire every now and then as it touched the bone-dry Gambel oaks. I licked a finger to test the wind, which was thankfully blowing against my back at less than a mile per hour. But, I worried that the houses just east of the fire would soon go up in flames, as the fire propelled itself towards them. At least, it seemed like the fire was headed that way. 

I don’t recall how long I stood in the headlights, just staring at the fire in disbelief. But, I eventually decided that standing there would do nothing to help anyone, including myself. I clambered back into the 4Runner and ordered Mom to take us home, so we could pack essentials and irreplacables, just in case the fire exploded. 

As soon as we got home, I B-lined it for my bedroom and started digging colorful fabric drawer boxes out from under my bed. Some of those boxes contained important and irreplaceable mementos such as family pictures and heirlooms. Others contained important documents that would be a real pain in the ass to replace. The rest contained much more replaceable items I decided I’d leave behind if the fire jumped the hogback. 

I then emptied out almost my entire wardrobe into a single hamper, then put the hamper next to my bedroom door. I also gathered up some bedding and folded it next to the hamper, leaving only a single blanket and a couple pillows on my bed. Lastly, I dug all of my medication out of my medicine drawer and stuffed them in my backpack. Like everything else deemed too important to leave behind, I tossed my backpack on top of my go-pile. 

I knew sleep was important, especially if I had to suddenly get in my Xterra and drive across town to my grandparents’ house. At the same time, my brain would be failing me if it let me fall asleep, even though I was ready to go if the cops called us demanding we evacuate. So, I simply lay in bed with my eyes closed, praying that the wind would stay still while the fire burned. 

While I knew that circumstances were quite different, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Marshall fire, or the fire that sparked on the hogback just a few days before. Had the wind been gusting as strong as it had on the day of the Marshall fire when the hogback fire was started, I probably would’ve lost my entire neighborhood. Instead, there was no wind that day (that I remember, at least), which kept the fire small and allowed for a couple small water planes to skim the reservoir and douse the flames. I watched those planes divebomb the hogback with water from my house, and only went to sleep when the hogback stopped glowing orange that night. 

When the Marshall fire happened, I was scared shitless, even though the fire itself was over twenty-five miles away. After all, the winds were insanely strong that day (they were gusting over 100 miles per hour, which is already scary), and were blowing in my general direction. There was no stopping that fire till the wind stopped, and the wind was roaring against my house long after night fell. 

When morning came, the wind had died down but the destruction was immense. The Marshall fire caused as much damage as an EF5 tornado. Entire neighborhoods (and almost the entire town of Superior) were reduced to charred rubble and two people were killed. Almost three years later, Boulder is still rebuilding. 

I fell asleep at some point, because I woke up at dawn to the faint smell of smoke. Needless to say, that woke me up real fast! I was almost panicked when I emerged from my basement and rushed to the sliding glass door to check on my backyard. 

It was a bright, calm morning; the only sign of fire was the scent of smoke in the house. When I stepped outside, the scent of smoke stung my eyes and the haze in the air was thick. It was as though I was standing on the leeside of a raging bonfire. Still, I saw no signs of fire. It was a normal, quiet morning, minus the campfire smell. 

To get a better look of the foothills to the west, I left my backyard and stood on a small knoll in the open space directly behind my house. On that knoll, away from the trees and houses, I could see white smoke rising up from behind the Deer Creek hogback. It didn’t look as bad as I was expecting it to look, but that was largely because the air was still cool, keeping the smoke close to the ground (and in my lungs). 

As I stared west, a slight breeze kicked up into my face, bringing with it a deep sense of dread. 

“No, no, no…” I thought to myself, “Don’t let the wind pick up, Lord.”

I knew that the forecast didn’t really call for wind, but it did predict that the whole week would be very hot and very dry. In those conditions, it wouldn’t take much to push the fire up and over the hogback. Hell, the fire had more than enough of its own energy to propel itself eastward. If it could go eastward, it would burn all of Deer Creek and the Valley to the hogback. If it could jump the hogback, it could jump C-40. And if it could jump C-470, all of the neighborhoods along that corridor would be in serious danger. If it mere got gusty ahead of a change in weather, I could have a Marshall fire 2.0 on my doorstep, and that was an awful, awful thought. 

But before I could step off the knoll and fester in my fear and dread, a very important question came to mind: What can you do about the fire?

After just running through a very short mental list of all the things I could and couldn’t do in response to the fire, I realized that there wasn’t anything I could do that I hadn’t already done. 

Were my bags packed and ready to go in case we had to evacuate? Yes. Was I signed up for text alerts and phone calls in case my neighborhood was put in a pre-evacuation or mandatory evacuation zone? Yes. Did I know where to go in case we got evacuated? Yes. Was I keeping an eye on the news and press conferences regarding the fire, which was renamed the Quarry Fire that very morning? Yes. Was my house insured? Yes. 

But, could I fight the fire myself? No. Could I control where the fire went in any way, shape, or form? No. Could I control the weather? No. Could I do anything at all to influence the fire? No, no, and no. 

In other words, the only thing I could control was how I reacted to the fire. And pacing around my house like a caged tiger for days or weeks (depending on how long the fire lasted) wasn’t a healthy way to react to the fire. Being aware and prepared was good. Being panicked and wracked with anxiety, however, was not.