Evacuated!

The pungent odor of wood smoke was nothing new, nor was the greyish-yellow haze that obstructed the nearby hillside from view, like a blur filter had been used, rendering a muted softness to everything even just a few meters away. Wildfires had become commonplace over the past several years, but people carry on, because that’s what you do when you live in the middle of a forest.

Tumbler Ridge is a scenic little mountain town nestled off the beaten track in north-eastern British Columbia. Residents enjoy a low-key lifestyle, walking trails, and close proximity to some of the best hiking and scenery around. Unfortunately, the threat of fire is also part of the package. For the second time in the town’s short existence, that threat came too close for comfort. The entire town (population 2400) was evacuated on June 8, 2023, seventeen years after a previous evacuation in 2006. I was among those who had to flee.

Now that I’m back home, feeling safe again, I can’t help but reflect on just how close we came to losing everything. A good friend who stayed behind to work at Emergency Operations told us that they fully expected the fire to crest the ridge and come blazing into town that first night. She, and others on duty that night, called it a “Dragon” moving at an incredible speed straight toward town. It wasn’t a matter of IF, but of WHEN.

Our house is located on the edge of town right along that ridge, so ours would have been one of the first to go. Miraculously, that night the wind changed, stopping the fire just three kilometres from town. More than seventy men on the ground, a fleet of helicopters and other heavy equipment, and crews from around the province worked tirelessly for over a week to keep it at bay. The work continues, and even though we are home, we are still on alert should conditions make another sudden shift.

That day, I had stopped at the local sandwich shop to grab a bite before heading over to a friend’s house. I was supposed to meet her at one o’clock, but I was running late and hadn’t eaten yet. An acquaintance in the line-up in front of me said the schools and health centre were being evacuated at that moment, even though a general alert hadn’t sounded yet. She works at the health center, so she should know. However, her advice was, “Don’t panic. Enjoy your lunch while you wait for the general alert.”

The general consensus was similar. Keep going about your business. It could be a false alarm. Evacuating the schools and health centre might only be precautionary. Having never been through something like this before, I took the advice. I went to visit my friend, submarine sandwich in hand, and told her the news. She wasn’t worried either. She’d been through this before back in 2006 when the town had been evacuated because of a nearby wildfire.

Then it sounded. An evacuation alert blared on both our phones, instructing us to vacate immediately.

The first stop on my way home was my daughter’s house, but she was already packing up her two small kids. Her husband was at work but was on his way home. She assured me they would be fine, even though their vehicle was currently out of commission. They were going to assist his grandparents and drive one of their vehicles, so I headed home.

My husband had been working nightshift, so the alert woke him up after only a few hours of sleep. We had discussed what we’d bring in such a situation, and I felt calm, but it’s funny how the brain does tricky things when you don’t even realize your level of stress. I started throwing clothes into a suitcase along with some jewellery. Next, I found a box and loaded a couple of photo albums along with two family Bibles. When I looked around I couldn’t think of anything else I cared enough about or that couldn’t be replaced.

My husband, on the other hand, seemed to be taking his sweet time. I felt annoyed as he insisted on walking through the entire house taking video footage, narrating what he saw. In hindsight I realize this was a very good idea, but I’m sure if and when we watch it, I’ll be in the background nagging, “Hurry up!” He also insisted on finding a few other items like a painting done by my mother which has become a family keepsake, more photo albums, and a quilt my daughter made. Later, when we were safely away and in our hotel room, we thought of other things we could have (should have) taken, while a couple of things we did throw in at the last minute seemed silly.

Before leaving town we also needed to connect with our son. He, too, was currently without a vehicle. Rounding him up is a much bigger story which I won’t go into here. Suffice to say, we loaded him, his girlfriend, and her cat into our Yukon and hit the road. (My husband hates cats and is allergic, so this added another somewhat comic dimension to the drama!)

Tumbler Ridge is fairly remote, with only two highways connecting the town to the rest of the world. By the time we got on the road, Highway 52 to Dawson Creek was already closed due to heavy smoke and low visibility. We had no choice but to take an alternate route to Chetwynd on Highway 29. Visibility was good and although there was a steady stream of traffic making an exit, it was actually moving at a good pace. (80 km per hour, which isn’t bad, considering.)

The evacuation alerts that continued to sound regularly on all our phones instructed residents to register in Dawson Creek at the Evacuation Centre they’d set up there. I telephoned my daughter to see if she and her family had arrived in Dawson yet and they had, but they, too, had had to divert to Chetwynd first, doubling their road trip. Apparently, the Evacuation Centre in Dawson Creek was already overwhelmed and “the word on the street” was that Dawson was running out of available hotel space. She and her husband were going to bed down at a friend’s house and try to register the next day. She also told us that another Evacuation Centre had been opened in Chetwynd, so we opted to go there rather than keep driving straight to Dawson Creek.

As it turned out, Chetwynd was also running out of hotel space. Plus, some people had been in line at the evacuation centre for several hours already. A very helpful gentleman told us that a third evacuation centre had just opened up in Fort St. John, another hour and bit away.

We stopped at my son’s cabin, which happened to be along the way, so he could rearrange some of his belongings and grab some other things that he might need. Meanwhile, the cat stayed firmly hidden within her mistress’s hoodie. Then we carried on to Fort St. John. Fortunately for us, we also have two other daughters who live en route to Fort St. John, but neither have much space for guests (although they would have gladly put us up!) and since we weren’t sure of the duration, we opted to see what was available through the Evacuation Centre in FSJ.

By the time we arrived at the designated centre, it was past nine. There was a line up, but it moved efficiently. In retrospect, it was pleasantly surreal as we chatted with friends, neighbours and acquaintances lining the hallway waiting for their turn. It was a strange reunion of sorts. Some people displayed more anxiety than others, but most were cloaked in a sense of gratitude that they and their loved ones were safe. What was left behind was only stuff.

The ESS volunteer staff were amazing and the outpouring of kindness and care was above and beyond. We finally got into our hotel room sometime after midnight. We were tired, but like so many others, just very grateful.

The next seven days were full of tension as residents combed news outlets and social media for any tidbits of information. We saw aerial photographs of just how close the fire was and photos of our street lined with hoses and sprinklers, taken by someone who opted to stay behind. One of our neighbours has a doorbell camera, so she showed us the view from her doorbell!

There was a lot of bonding going on, too. People who didn’t really know each other suddenly had something in common. We kept running into Tumbler residents in restaurants and other venues and we’d stop to chat like we were best of friends. It was like “old home week”. Apparently, people gathered to play cards in their hotel rooms, or chat around a picnic table or hotel pool. Each community that hosted evacuees put on special events or provided free admission to events already planned. Barbecues, concerts, plays, art shows… We even got to see the famous RCMP Musical Ride, which just happened to be in Dawson that week. It was like this weird forced vacation that you really didn’t want to be on, but you made the most of anyway. We also got to spent a lot of time with our grandchildren and children.

There were a few hiccups. We had to move hotels three times, but overall, we were treated so well that we really couldn’t complain. We were also sick of eating in restaurants. First world problems, right? We were so grateful when we got the clear to come back to our homes. Everything was safe and sound.

My final thought is how thankful I am to the people who toiled to keep that fire at bay. Firefighting is risky business and I can’t say enough about their bravery and dedication. At the time of this writing, the West Kiskatinaw fire is still burning just four kilometres from my home, but its direction and source of fuel has been diverted enough that the risk has been lowered. My little town made the news but now other more important stories have taken the spotlight. Life goes on, so we go about our business, because that’s what you do when you live in a forest. Still, there is that realization in the back of my mind that we aren’t out of the woods yet… (Pun intended.)