I was out of the state earlier this month and no matter where I went on my travels, when people asked where I was from and I responded, their immediate reaction was sympathy for the fires.
Their perspectives on “the fires” varied greatly. Most seemed to have only heard about the catastrophic Spokane fires. Their reactions were a collective bewilderment and indignation that the destruction of nearly 1,000 homes was (allegedly) the impact of one person’s choices.
Others seemed to be aware of the broader wildfire landscape in North Central Washington, affecting the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest, the Colville Indian Reservation, and other broad swaths of wildlife habitat and rural communities.
When you’re in the thick of wildfires like these (and here I will note that we in Winthrop are nowhere near “in the thick of it,” other than smoke, in the way that our neighbors in other communities in Okanogan and Chelan counties are), you don’t always realize that people in faraway places are empathizing with your plight. It’s a good — and for me, much-needed — reminder that in general, compassionate people are everywhere.
One fleeting interaction on my travels that will stick with me for a while was a chance encounter in New Mexico’s Sangre de Cristo mountains. My younger daughter and I were hiking the Wheeler Peak loop and as we descended into the final third of the route, we saw two hammocks strung up in an aspen stand, with two people reclining in them. “Hello!” they called out, disembodied voices wrapped in blue and yellow cocoons. “Hello!” we answered, and continued on down the trail.
Later, as we were halfway down the final miles of the descent, some of which takes place on a dusty and moderately trafficked road, a station wagon pulled over to the shoulder ahead of us and a man leaned out the window, offering us a ride back down to our car. “We saw you on the hike,” he said. “We were the people in the hammocks.”
We accepted the hitch; the road walk wasn’t adding anything to our experience. When we got into the car, the couple asked where we were from. “Fire country,” the man noted when he heard our answer. Chatting with them on the brief shuttle down to our car, we learned that they had lived on a boat near Bellingham before moving to Taos, New Mexico.
Dropping us off at our car, the man said, “Have a nice life!” and they drove away, each waving an arm from an open window.
“Have a nice life!” — it seemed so final. But of course, it was. It was a perfect valediction — an acknowledgement that in all likelihood, our paths will never again cross. And yet hospitality had been offered and accepted, and commonality had been established. Once again, I was reminded that there are very few degrees separating any of us from each other, and it takes very little effort to find common ground.
