It is late Wednesday afternoon and I am standing on the roof of my house in Topanga watching the wind. It is discernible through the ripple of the dry grass on a nearby hillside and the whirling motions of the branches of the oak trees in our yard. The leaves of autumn fly on the random bursts of their directionless courses.
No great effort is required in reaching my roof. It slants almost to the ground at one corner and I can be on top with a minimum of push. I am here because there is a red flag warning up today for the mountains and canyons of L.A. where winds of up to 40 miles an hour are expected. Grass on the hillsides is as dry as a desert from a rainless summer and the chaparral is dying of thirst.
Topanga is vulnerable.
A single spark can set wild fires roaring through our world like prehistoric beasts, fed by powerful blasts of Santa Anas, painting the sky in garish tones of flaming reds and yellows, drumming the earth with the thumping of helicopter rotary blades, and piercing the smoky air with sirens that wail with the rising intensity of a woman's scream.
All of the homes and scenic beauty of this mountain village could be turned to ashes in a matter of not days but hours. In the silence that follows a fire storm, only scattered memories remain.
Wild fires, like any great force of nature, involve all of one's senses simultaneously as the over-heated northeast wind moves relentlessly in an observer's direction, demanding attention to its sight, its sound and its waves of heat at intersections of strength and peril almost too large to comprehend; an invisible tidal wave of death and fury is coming and you are standing on the beach.
I have lived in Topanga for all of the 38 years I have been in L.A. I have stood on my rooftop and watched wild fires come our way at least a half-dozen times, once so close it lit spot fires in our yard and filled the air around us with burning embers. I carried a fire hose up with me on the roof top the first time to fight the oncoming flames but took one look at the approaching beast and felt like I was facing an army with a water pistol. I put the hose down and watched as battalions of fire fighters with ground and air support marched into combat.
I remain on the roof this Wednesday as twilight comes to the Santa Monica Mountains. I sniff the air and am grateful that there is no acrid aroma of fire this time. But Wednesday is only one day. The season of despair is long and is expected to be the worst in a century. All we can do when the danger is high is stand on our rooftops and test the air.
The wind knows.