The Thomas Fire
“Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.”
-Cormac McCarthy, The Road
“The dead hand of the past clutches us by way of living people who are too frightened to accept change.”
- Kim Stanley Robinson, The Ministry for the Future
The Thomas Fire huffed and puffed its way through almost 300,000 acres in a great shockwave of plasma that sent California’s claims to paradise up in smoke. Us Californians, after all, are the settlers who hoisted their way across the continent, the natives who outlived manifest destiny, the migrants who toiled across desert borders, the engineers who imprisoned every lake, river, and stream behind kneaded earth, and the farmers who drew wine from bone-dry granite. But the blasé embers of wildfires care not for such pedigrees. The Thomas Fire proved to be one of the first in a salvo of biblical blazes that lay siege in ways both real and imagined to the communities that call California home, and I spent the next few years visiting the sites of past and present wildfires.
A night exposure of the Lake Fire from the adjacent valley alongside the CA-138. To fight this blaze, California contracted a Boeing 747 supertanker all the way from Israel to airdrop what I imagine were hundreds of thousands of gallons of water over the boiling landscape. I barely registered its engines over the subtle breeze blowing through the valley. Lake Hughes, California. August 15, 2020.
An entire mountain scorched by the Thomas Fire. Ventura, California, January 7, 2018.
The chaotic vectors taken by windswept embers transform communities caught near the edge of a blaze into visible demonstrations of the arbitrary hand of G-d. As embers hopscotch their way through various cities, towns, and villages, neighboring homes are left in remarkably (and unfairly) different conditions. Some look untouched, downright ignored, while others mere inches away stand in ruins. Ventura, California, December 25, 2018.
Even after a wildfire is extinguished, its burn sites remain highly dynamic. Hydroseed fallows and yellows, debris shifts with the elements, victims clean up and pick up what’s left, and plants and animals creep their way back through their dull yet fertile homes. Ventura, California, February 11, 2018.
The burning of Ojai surprised many. Nestled right behind the coastal city of Santa Barbara, it’s a busy destination for many-a-daytripper looking to hike, ride horses, taste wine, and see ostriches. Ojai, California, December 25, 2017.
When witnessed from a distance, wildfires are oppressively silent. The lights, sirens, and hums of the equipment dispatched to battle them sound strange and muted. Next to these toys, the fire is so bright and rich that you can almost hear its light—a great, bright vacuum pulling in anything that isn’t as bright or as hot as itself. While watching the Woolsey Fire above, I heard a coyote take its last, ashen breath. Los Angeles, California, November 9, 2018.
Fire trucks rest in front of the Reagan National Library, next to Along the trail, which is a statue depicting Ronald Reagan on the back of his steed, El Alamein. Just days before, firefighters had beaten back the Easy Fire, which caused over $500,000 of damage to the grounds. The firefighters, who came from different parts of California and Arizona, were invited back for a meal and a guided tour. Simi Valley, California, November 2, 2018.
Fire preparedness is the name of the game in California. Various signs, notices, and billboards pervade the landscape, standing tall, but not proud among the dead and dying grasses. Napa Valley, California, May 27, 2024.
The remains of a home overlooking Telegraph Road. The green fuzz is Hydroseed, which is often sprayed over burn areas to quickly regrow grasses that reduce the risk of mudslides come fall rain. Ventura, California, December 25, 2018.