Burning in the shadows
I’ve loved California, or at least the idea of it, for as long as I can remember. By the time I was barely in my teens, I was infatuated by the base player in a folk-rock band from LA. Some of the best so-called pop music originated on the West Coast back then: and for a long while afterwards it was the only place to have come from, or wannabe.
I recently read that a sub-genre of folk-rock – ‘characterised by jangly guitar, melodies, harmonies, and lyrics clearly delineated into verse and chorus’ – was termed Jangle pop. I momentarily had to suppress a loud shout of ‘bollox’ across an empty room: how could the Byrds, R.E.M. and the Smiths share the same tag? But things were so much simpler then; they’re much more complex now.
My love of California and its music meant I had to go there, but it took an inordinate amount of time –– actually, an embarrassingly long time –– to realise that ambition. And during my first visit to the Golden State I spent much more time in places other than the Hollywood Hills where my idol may or may not still have lived. There happened to be a most spectacular wildflower ‘event’, attributed to an unusually wet late-autumn the previous year. Flower power beat nostalgia hands down.
I thought of my base player during recent horrific bushfires, wondering if he’d left the scene of eccentric palaces of stars alongside simpler dwellings of lesser-knowns before they were all reduced to the same charred rubble. The conflagration affected all who shared this paradise before the inferno. Not for the first time I was reminded of someone’s observation, flippant or cynical I’m not sure which, that California was ‘a fine place to live, if you happened to be an orange’.
For a long time it was assumed that the release of stress within the San Andreas fault zone would reduce West Coast cities to ruins if anything did, especially as serious earthquake action was well overdue since San Francisco 1906. In the end, however, disaster came in the shape of a wind-powered firestorm that grew monstrous and terrifyingly out of control.
This was a place I believed was everlasting, drenched in sunshine and joy, if a tad smoggy sometimes. But much of it was obliterated beyond all recognition; and now I can only imagine the rounded low hills, unextraordinary except for their inhabitants; an infinite deep blue ocean lapping a sun-drenched coast; and a culture the stuff of millions of dreams.
Oh California; barely getting a mention these days, following intervening events best left unsaid, but events that will likely prevent me from ever returning to the US. Dreams shattered into pieces; burnt to a crisp; and finally scuppered by my own refusal to patronise a country led by a megalomaniac –– unbelievably elected a second time around –– and weirdly aligned with an equally unacceptable mega-egotist weirdo. We used to call such people bigheads where I come from: but that’s nowhere near rude enough now.
Are wildfires becoming more frequent and intense in a warming world? Perhaps we hear more about them than previously. Recurrent fire weakens native plant species so they are easily replaced by robust invaders that ignite easily and smoulder longer, creating a cycle of escalating risk and destruction.
I have limited experience of wildfire, and on the opposite side of the planet. In the lead-up to fire season in Australia, there are ‘planned burns’ to prevent larger accidental, potentially catastrophic fires. The national broadcaster, the ABC, reminds listeners beforehand how to reduce the risk of fire, by moving timber and other inflammables away from property; cutting deadwood fuel from trees and bushes; and packing in readiness for rapid evacuation. When firefighters come knocking, you must follow them straight out, not rush to pack a bag: so the smallest valuables, key documents, and pets in easy-to-carry containers must be ready to pick up by the door.
On a larger scale, I don’t know how best to pre-prep for fire season in a high-risk landscape. To what extent can the practices of indigenous peoples, such as regular and carefully managed ‘cool burns’, be learned and more widely used across a warming planet? Consider at what stage prescribed instructions should become enforceable restrictions.
A fiercely roaring wind may be indistinguishable from the sound of an approaching wall of flame. Also know that a blaze powered by violent boisterous blowing can move faster than a human can run. Are most of us gonna die ultimately in one raging inferno or another?
In the meantime, enjoy the natural world whenever you can, especially wildflower carpets, forest glades, mountain peaks, crashing waves, birdsong… especially birdsong.
I once spoke to someone I know in country Queensland when we were all on alert for fire. Her family had battened down the hatches on their farm and were awaiting further instruction from the fire service. She told me it was eerily quiet, any wildlife having long since departed. It was when she mentioned there was no birdsong that I shivered, fear gripping my heart.
We are minute specks (brush strokes) on an extremely detailed and brightly coloured canvas. It is a pity so few can appreciate the bigger picture. Massive, scarily daunting threats are especially hard to perceive, especially if you do not want to see them in the first place.
