All of my wisdom, such as it is, could be classified as “the educational variety.” I must experience something before it sinks in. I must be schooled.
Prior to evacuating from camp during one of the many recent California wildfires, the tips I’d read prior to the event were so much blah blah blah.
Have a list ready of what to take if evacuated. Yeah, sure.
Keep your vehicle stocked with emergency supplies. Oh yeah, you go girl.
Think ahead what you’ll do to prevent stress and troubles. Cry me a river.
None of it clicked. Until it did.
Now that I’m safely back at camp, the whole event falls into my favorite life-skills category, which I have dubbed: The Non-fatal Wake-up Call.
The event started Wednesday around noon when I emerged from the air-conditioned sweetness of The Tiny.
At this campsite, we are in full sun from about 9 a.m. to noon. The Awesome Awning that attaches to The Tiny and doubles my living space is great for rain as it is very tightly woven. But in the summer sun, with no air transfer, it becomes an oven. Once our walk is done, I get my doggie onto The Tiny’s bed for her post-hike nap, and work on my laptop. After high noon, the sun moves past the oaks and pines and the outdoor environment in the awning becomes quite pleasant and I can jump on my big computer hidden from passersby with the hippie panels.
As I exited The Tiny, I noticed the air was different. Instead of the crisp and brilliant high-mountain air I thrive on, it was muted. I stepped out onto the road and saw what looked like smoke mixing with high clouds. A fellow camper in a Fifth Wheel also stood in the road. I asked: “Is that a fire?” He said it was. I asked if he and his partner were leaving. He said they were. He said the fire was 11 miles away, and that if the town between the fire and us was to be evacuated, the 2-lane road down the mountain could become gridlocked. Being trapped in a traffic jam with fire bearing down is one of my worst nightmares.
I considered breaking camp and pulling The Tiny out of there. But with all the outdoor space I create, the set up takes a while to break down.
If I just had the trailer to hook up and pull, I could probably execute the mission in less than 30 minutes.
Tasks to get the trailer ready to roll:
- Close all windows and vents, put up all shades
- Secure all loose items in trailer, bungee cabinet doors shut
- Crank up stabilizer jacks
- Back up car to tongue
- Crank tongue down to ball
- Install hitch lock
- Lift up jockey wheel and secure
- Attach chains, brake cable, and power cord
- Remove chocks
- Pull trailer forward, remove leveling blocks
- Check lights
- Get outta Dodge
However, the added tasks involved in my fully set-up, elaborate camp require another 60 minutes:
- Stow big computer in vehicle behind driver’s seat
- Break down table it sits on, and stow
- Stow all outdoor kitchen supplies
- Break down the table they sit on, and stow
- Shake out and fold up rugs and ground tarps, stow
- Unclip outdoor light string, and solar lights, and stow
- Fold up 3 sections of fencing, stow in vehicle
- Unclip hippie panels and all other fabrics
- Break down awning and pole, detach from trailer, and stow
- Make a nice flat area in back of vehicle and put dog bed on top
So to break down my entire complex camp takes about 90 minutes. As I typically stay at each campground or RV park for 2 or 3 weeks, it never seems like that big of a deal and I have time to get myself mentally ready. Of course, if I’m staying somewhere overnight during a long drive, or just staying a few days for an event I’m attending nearby, I don’t set up my complex camp. My equation: The time spent camping in one spot is directly proportional to the complexity of the camp I set up.
So the other day, as the dark smoke billowed into the sky, I had to decide: Break camp and bring The Tiny with me? Or just skedaddle and see what happens?
I weighed the options with my Decision Making Quadrant. I normally do this on a piece of paper, but I did it mentally this time:
Pros of Taking The Tiny
- I would protect it from potentially getting burned up if the fire grew this direction
- I would have it with me to provide shelter in the coming days and not have to inconvenience a friend or relative, or have to stay in a hotel or shelter.
Cons of Taking The Tiny
- The stress of breaking camp with a wildfire potentially bearing down would take an enormous emotional and physical toll on me. I could feel my stomach clenching at the thought.
- Driving down the mountain would be extra stressful because it is the “hairy” road out. The road that I normally take up the hill was currently on fire.
- I would have to find a Thousand Trails campground to move to, and all options within a reasonable drive were super hot, over 100 degrees. I decided last summer that I cannot camp in the desert in the summer. It’s not good for me; it’s not good for the dog.
- After the fire was out, I would have to drive back and set up camp here again, a thought that made me feel very tired.
- The work to break camp and then set it up again did not jibe with my goal to work on several exciting and lucrative projects I am lucky enough to have. My mindset is to work, not to move.
Pros of Not Taking The Tiny
- I would save myself so much stress packing up during fire danger and I could have the instant gratification of getting me and the dog out of there.
- Driving down the hairy hill would be easier with just my vehicle.
- I could drive to my sister’s house and stay in her guest room and not have to camp in the desert.
- Getting back to a fully set up camp in my favorite campground will be splendid.
Cons of Not Taking The Tiny
- I would be far away from my trailer and couldn’t look after it.
- My trailer could be in the path of the fire.
- I would not be able to use my trailer as shelter and would have to inconvenience my sister.
As I was doing my mental worksheet, the camp’s maintenance supervisor drove by on a golf cart. I flagged him down. “I’m trying to figure out if I should take the time to break camp and pull my trailer out of here.” He said: “If you’ve got insurance, just leave it.”
That swung the deal. Yes I have insurance. Yes I’m getting outta here.
Lesson Previously Learned and Confirmed: Explore all pros and cons with the Decision Making Quadrant
I am lucky that my sister lives within a 3-hour drive. But that’s not really luck. That’s the very design of my lifestyle for the past year: to camp near friends and family. I’ve noticed many of my peers travel to see the sights, the national parks, landmarks, interesting places. I do that a little. But my main goal is to be near and spend time with family and the friends I am blessed to have in my worldwide recovery community. So it figured that I’d be near someone who could take me and the dog in. My sister was gracious, and said yes, by all means come here. She was at a waterpark with her grandkids, and our elderly mother was sitting with the dogs and I could come there and keep Mom company for a few hours. Sounded great!
It took me about 10 minutes to pack some stuff I needed:
- My food and food scales.
- Clothes and shoes.
- Toiletries and makeup
- Armour Thyroid.
- Big computer and laptop.
- The dog and her food.
What I forgot:
- Computer cable.
- Dog bed.
- Dog Kong toy.
- Baggie full of family photos.
- Box of office papers.
Driving out of the camp, I noticed that I had just a little over half a tank of gas, which will take me about 200 miles. As the drive down the mountain is only about 20 miles, I would have plenty. Still, I decided to go half a mile back up the main road to the small mountain gas station to fill up. When I got there, I saw a somewhat chaotic scene with multiple cars lined up in twisty lines vying for the 4 pumps. I decided not to get involved, did a U-turn, and proceeded down the mountain.
Lesson Previously Learned and Confirmed: Keep at least half a tank of gas in the vehicle at all times.
The drive down the hill was uncommonly civil, without the aggressive tailgating that normally goes on, a battle between locals familiar with the twists and turns, and visitors worried about tumbling down a cliff. There was a steady stream of people leaving the mountain, but everyone kept a respectful distance. Coming up in the opposite direction was a steady stream of fire and police vehicles. Bless them all. While we flee danger, they run toward it.
As the next few days ticked by and the fire grew, I was safe and comfortable in my sister’s house, but I found myself losing my mojo in the tract of nicely kept homes. The temperatures were over 100 degrees each day, 15 to 20 degrees hotter than on the mountain, and that limited how often I could walk the dog for our dose of outdoors. I have come to depend on the mountains and the redwoods and the sand dunes and wide open spaces for charging my battery. I thrive on trees and bugs and birds and coyotes (the latter way in the distance please). There were moments I wondered if I should have pulled The Tiny out of there after all. How long would this go on? Weeks? I hated the thought of invading another person’s space for such a long time. But Motel 6 or a shelter for those displaced by the fire sounded awful. Several friends offered the dog and me a place to stay with them. That warmed my heart!
Meanwhile, I worried about The Tiny. I had accidentally left some yogurt and homemade dog food in the fridge. I imagined it rotting in the heat if the power went out and sticking up not only the small fridge but also the entire trailer. I worried about rodent infestation. I had seen a fat grey mouse and some droppings under the awning the day before the fire, and I had taken steps to repel them: dryer sheets and peppermint spray, which rodents are said to loathe. Still, I worried about them getting in The Tiny and making nests. A pest control guy told me mice don’t like to move in where there is a lot of activity and they prefer quiet places. I worried and fretted.
Lesson Learned: Remove ALL perishable food from the refrigerator before evacuating. Put that on the list.
The return was anticlimactic. When I heard that the evacuation order had been lifted and there would be a checkpoint to let only residents back up the mountain, I worried about that. I took a screen shot of my reservation confirmation and was ready to show it to the guard. I barely had the words Thousand Trails out of my mouth when he said: “Go ahead.” I laughed in relief.
As I drove, I wondered if maybe I should just rest a few days on the mountain and then pack up and move up north to my next destination on the Oregon coast where the weather will be cooler and where I have many friends. I thought maybe I was done with this area for the season. But as the elevation signs went from 3,000 feet to 4,000 feet and higher, and the pines and oak and Manzanita appeared and became denser and as the air cooled, I began to feel better and better and I thought: “I frigging love it up here in the mountains.” I thought I’d stay.
But as I drove, I worried: Would the gate into the campground work? What if I got there and the code didn’t work and the gate arm wouldn’t lift? I decided I’d park my vehicle at the guard shack and hoof it into the campground. I rolled up to the gate, put in the code, and the gate lifted.
My next worry: Would the stuff inside my awning be chewed up my rodents? I opened the hippie panels on the awning I’d left draped closed and there was no sign of damage, other than the remnants of an acorn party.
My next worry: Would there be any power in the campground? There was power.
My next worry: Would my breakers have flipped sometime during the event, and thus there would be no power coming into the rig, which means no AC or refrigerator? The breakers were not flipped, and the AC was going.
My next worry: Would the food in the fridge have spoiled and blown up and ruined everything? No, no, and no. Well I’m not sure if the first outcome was a no. The power had been out at some point on the mountain, and a video on the Forest Service Twitter feed said we should toss out all perishables. Which I did.
Lesson Learned: Can you stop worrying so much already? I’m not sure. But it would save a lot of energy and grief.
Within minutes of coming home, I felt the energy and clarity and creativity streaming back into my body, mind, and spirit. I got my big computer out of the car and set it up on the table under the awning. Oh how I love how sitting in front of that 27-inch beast makes me feel, so completely immersed in my work.
Then I got my dinner going with eggplant chunks with Tony Chachere Creole Seasoning cooking in the microwave. I worked on filling my dog’s Kong toy, which I had forgotten to bring (Lesson! Make the list!). I made Cafe Bustelo coffee with milk and sweetener. Sitting in front of my big computer, sipping my drug of choice, my dog next to me digging her treasures out of the Kong, the scents of my dinner wafting into the awning. I don’t know what heaven is like. But it might feel just like this.
Lesson Learned: You rocked it, Katt. Make a few tweaks, refine your systems a little bit, but just keep doing what you’re doing. Atta girl!