A few weeks ago, actually the night before I flew to my hometown for my 100-mile race, I spent the night making escape plans - which things we would take first, how much we could load into our cars, where we would go. Our neighbors had said there was no need to worry until the helicopters were directly overhead. I found that of little comfort. The hills, just over a mile away, glowed in shifting patterns of yellow and black.
Like much of the country, the Northeast was experiencing a severe drought in early Spring. And, in spite of fire warnings, people continued to do stupid things, like light camp fires and throw cigarettes out their car windows. The New York region was awash in brush fires. A brush fire had started up on West Mountain in Harriman State Park - my back yard - and was spreading rapidly through the tinder stick forest.
We slept with the windows open - to hear the helicopters, to smell the smoke, to hear the calls of forest rangers fighting the flames, to know if it was time to leave.
Luckily, the winds and temperature died down, and swarms of hard-working rangers and DEC firefighters got the flames contained. Rains a few days later finished the job. Over a hundred acres burned, but no people or property were lost.
But as my footsteps crunched along the scorched earth, I began to notice bits of green highlighted against the black. Small patches of life had inexplicably survived; bushes and patches of moss stood like verdant oases. Overhead, the canopy was filling in, leaves growing from the tops of charred trunks. And already, just a month later, blades of grass were sprouting up through the ashes.
I realize this may sound terribly cliched, but I am astounded by nature's tireless urge toward life and renewal. The landscape may be altered, the devastation severe, but there is always an effort toward life.
I find that comforting.