The Worst Brings Out the Best

While last week’s high winds were unpleasant for anyone living in Western Kansas, Oklahoma, or Texas, they changed life for many. Our hearts ache for families learning to live with only the memory of lost loved ones, ranchers who’ve lost livestock, and those who’ve lost homes and possessions. Despite  the tragedy, Plains people  once again saw that catastrophe reveals our best nature.

Social media offered a peek into individuals, families, and communities who share this landscape. It’s comforting to see relatives supporting loved ones who traveled wherever necessary to battle raging flames or evacuate threatened residents. One post shared a photo of a young girl who fell asleep praying for her daddy and his squad working 24/7 outside of Hutchinson. You know she was concerned, but her peaceful face and clasped fingers revealed such deep faith. Her innocent confidence reveals how those affected by this firestorm will rebuild their lives.

In addition to individuals, communities contributed help. In short time, groups organized supply drives, collecting water, Chap Stick, eye drops, clean socks, and other necessities to support those willing to leap into an inferno. While many battled flames, others took their places at work or at home, so firefighters could focus on immediate dangers. Hundreds wrote heartfelt thank yous to men and women who dropped what they were doing  to protect distant towns. That said, you know these warriors are sad about homes and property they couldn’t save. Supporters' kindnesses offer a balm for those heartaches.

In other photos, junior high and high school students readied sleeping and eating areas for evacuees in gyms and cafeterias. These kids modeled what they’ve seen parents and grandparents do repeatedly during crises. They made certain people had shelter and food. School buses transported nursing home and hospital patients to safety. In this case, that wasn’t always enough. Due to uncontrolled winds and flames, some evacuation centers relocated. You didn’t hear complaints. People continued ministering to others experiencing the worst time of their lives.

Now that the most urgent firefighting efforts are winding down, truckers are hauling hay and fencing materials into fire-ravaged regions. Churches, clubs, and other organizations are collecting supplies and funding for those who’ve lost everything. First responders and others are reviewing their procedures. Those who weren’t affected are wondering how best to help during future events. Many are donating to local fire volunteer fire departments to enable them to repair and replace necessary equipment.

No matter what, it’s good to know we live where people sacrifice to keep one another safe. It’s worthy to note that residents support firefighters, first responders, and law enforcement. We let them know in various ways that their and their families’ sacrifices are appreciated. As more stories emerge, it’s clear that living on the Great Plains is a challenge. Those we call neighbors make it worthwhile. 

Lesson on Storm King Mountain

                             

Funny which body sensations trigger memories we don’t recall storing.  Today’s 55-year-old out-of-shape body climbs a steep hill.  Burning lungs and screaming muscles detour my mind to a summer day six years ago. That day I visited Storm King Mountain outside Glenwood Springs, Colorado, on a pilgrimage to honor 14 firefighters who died in 1994 fighting the South Canyon Fire.  Tortured lungs and hot sun reminded me of the day I trailed a group of 20 and 30-year-old men up the steep trail to overlook the arroyo where 14 Prineville firefighters died. 

On a cool Colorado summer morning, we snugged on sun hats, tightened packs loaded with bottled water, and grabbed walking sticks to make the difficult hike.  For the first hundred steeply-graded yards, I kept up with my fellow pilgrims. However, it didn’t take long to realize my 50-year-old asthmatic lungs could not maintain a pace that made even young men breathe heavily and beaded sweat on all of our brows.

 Realizing I would slow these men to a ridiculous pace, I told the group to move ahead. I’d follow at my slower rate. 

Though I was beginning my trek, I had some sense of what those young fire fighters faced because I was stretching my own physical abilities carrying a water-filled backpack at a high altitude.  I know the firefighters lugged more weight than I and they moved more swiftly, but they had to recognize the same ache deep in their legs and throb in their tortured lungs.

A half mile into the hike, I realized I had another worry.  I was so far behind I could not see nor hear my comrades.  I finally acclimated enough to the altitude and trail that I noticed I was in prime mountain lion country—a steep, piñon punctuated arroyo.

  I scanned to spot sign of these huge mountain cats up close or at a distance. Knowing I was an easy target trailing so far behind the rest of my group increased my speed until I could hear the huffing breaths of climbing hikers. 

At the same time, I imagined the fear the fourteen fire fighters felt as they raced oncoming flames would add vigor to their steps just as my fear of prowling mountain lions increased up my pace and added endurance to agonized breaths. 

Once I caught up to my group at the observation point, I felt relieved I survived the grueling climb up the mountain without facing my worst fear—a mountain lion.  Now I scoped the arroyo dotted with stone cairns marking the sites where many of the 14 fire fighters deployed their fire shelters unsuccessfully.  What a lonely, beautiful place to die. 

My friends and I took turns reading passages from Fire on the Mountain by John Norman Maclean.  The wind carried our words down the mountain the same way it had borne flames six years earlier. 

My decision to climb to this observation point hadn’t been any wiser than the Forest Service’s choice to insert this fire team on the South Canyon Fire. However, I learned much about desperation and tenacity that day.  I am grateful for the pain that triggered this memory.