“You need to prepare to evacuate,” said the handsome fireman, turning my flirtatious smile into what I’m sure was a really sexy look of dumbfounded incomprehension. I heard what he said, but I couldn’t really wrap my head around it, despite the ash falling around me. I did, however, register one important thing—shit just got real.

 

This all happened about a month ago, with my day starting routinely enough. The sun rose, I walked the dogs, and I planted myself in front of the computer to work, periodically getting up to stretch outside on my deck. During one of these breaks, I noticed that something was wrong, very wrong.  The first clue was the smell of smoke—an unmistakable scent of something burning, something far bigger than a burger left on the grill. I peered over my deck and looked down the canyon and saw a thick haze crawling toward me, which in and of itself is not unusual—the marine layer from the Pacific often makes its way up the canyon. But when I put the two together (move over, Sherlock), I realized that there was a fire somewhere near me, a really big fire. That’s when the helicopters started zig-zagging overhead like loud, cumbersome humming birds, and convoys of fire trucks roared up my little streets.

 

 

Since I have no cable, I turned, naturally, to social media. Sure enough, nextdoor.com and the Topanga Facebook page were lighting up with posts and pictures of a fire down in the lower canyon on the Pacific side.

 

 

So began my literal trial by fire in southern California living during the summer season. As I stood in front of the handsome fireman, my first addled thoughts were, “OK. Dogs, computer, car, go.” As I walked away, the logistical side of my brain fired up and attempted to fill in the blanks. Obviously, the first order of business was finding a place to evacuate to, which, if you haven’t done it, is a fantastic tool for truly assessing your erstwhile “great” group of friends. As I was texting, it became startling clear who I would turn to in the event of alien invasion, or for a couple of eggs, for that matter. Good friends are the ones who said, “Come whenever. We’ll leave the sliding glass door to the guestroom open.” Then there were the friends who replied with, “Wow!!!!! Crazy!!!! Duuuuude, the new season of GOT starts soon!” The third group was a surprising one, full of new, local friends who regaled me with fire stories and tips. One new friend, in particular, responded with helpful advice on resources for up-to-date intel and offered up a spare bedroom.

 

With offers in hand, I turned to the task of packing up. A fire evac is very different from the winter storm decamps I was used to. Decamping is easy—grab the mutts, a change of clothes, top off the cat food, and go. Evacuating for a fire brings with it the real possibility that you may return to nothing, which puts an incredibly tricky spin on packing. I sat in my bedroom and eyed my closet critically, the what-if scenarios getting wilder by the minute. What if I get invited to Europe—I’ll need those new sandals. What if I end up in South America—it’s winter there and I’ll need my ski boots. What if that surf pro calls—I can’t go without a wetsuit. Eventually, I reined it all in and threw a bunch of underwear (considering I wasn’t wearing any at the time, it was a sensible move), several changes of clothes, my computers, important papers, my passport (Europe was still in play at that point), dog food, and about 25 scarves, into the car.

 

And then I waited. It was an eerie, eerie afternoon and evening. The incessant thrum of the helicopters and rumble of the fire trucks were punctuated by pauses of surreal silence. Nothing moved. No birds (they had flown the coop hours earlier, because they are animals, and much smarter than we are). No cars. No laughing kids. Just smoke and ash, lending an apocalyptic feel.

 

By evening, we were told that the fire had been partially contained and that the evacuation had been called off—for the moment. We were warned that the status could change at any time and we would only have minutes. Thankfully, that call never came. This time.

 

As fire drills go, this was an eye-opening experience on both a logistical and philosophical level. The opportunity it presents, trying to whittle your life down into whatever fits in your car, and discovering whom you can count on, was nothing short of revealing, and oddly entertaining. The revelations were both unsurprising and unforeseen, and, thankfully, more good than bad. The upshot of the experience is that next time, I will surpass a Cub Scout in preparedness, I’ll know immediately whom to call, and I know exactly which scarves best accessorize a fire.