From the minute I woke up this morning I could tell forest fire smoke would be a problem today. Even with most of my windows closed overnight, walking into the kitchen was akin to checking on a working smokehouse. I could taste it.
I’ve lived through forest fire smoke so thick the sun was bloody orange like the yoke in a pullet hen’s first eggs, but here the sun is blocked behind Copper Mountain until 10:30 a.m. or so.
After breakfast I leashed the dogs and set out to walk before the temperature climbed any higher. Looking south along the street a blue curtain closed the far end, and on both the north and east sides a blue tinge obscured the mountains.
For a moment I debated whether or not to continue our walk, after all the advisories warning seniors or others with breathing problems to stay indoors and above all not over exert themselves in physical activity.
But I kept walking, knowing how much our daily outing means to both the dogs and myself. They look forward to coming home to a cold drink of water followed by a three or four hour nap in a shady spot. My plan in this hot weather, with or without forest fire smoke, is to loaf the day away watching TV newscasts and commentaries.
As a concession, I chose a slightly shorter route just in case. By the time we had gone less than three blocks I began to feel slightly dizzy. My eyesight grew fuzzy. Stepping between two trees to leave the open path for a narrow way through bush I hugged one tree to steady myself so I wouldn’t scrape my arm on rough bark.
The atmosphere became slightly less smoky as we turned north, the mountains ahead more sharply outlined. Nonetheless when we reached our regular rest stop — a low pile of 3 x 12 planks Highways uses to shore up bridges during heavy spring runoff — roughly one third of the total trail distance, I was eager to sit down as were the dogs. During normal weather, we walk half that 60 minute trail with only two sit-downs. Not today. We took several extra rests including one where we sprawled on the grass of Copper Mountain’s upper playing field. The clipped grass felt cool, and the ridge offered a breeze absent on the remainder of the trail where it is enclosed by tall trees, low shrubbery, and hip high grasses and tansy.
Vegetation of all kinds show signs of prolonged stress whether from strictly water deprivation and too much heat or smoke as well. Underfoot dry curled leaves crackle. Alder are as naked as they usually become only in late September. Tansy looks wizened, blossoms shrunken. I’d venture not a single wild strawberry grew this summer. And everywhere bush is silent – no little birds singing, even few crows or ravens since their fledglings graduated to unpopulated crown land.
By some fluke, the two crows who hatched close by are hanging around as though this is their preferred home turf. I call them The Twins. They sit side by side on the hydro wire, sidle along the shed ridgepole one after the other, together invade my yard to ream any tidbits my dogs have left on their beef bones, and generally stay near each other. They say little. Come winter, I can see feeding them for the pleasure of observing their behaviour.
How much wildlife have we lost to our forest fires?
