Tag: writing

A Storm Brewing in the Backcountry

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn Cedar Fire, firefighting, rural town, small town lifeLeave a comment

This is dedicated to one of my BFFs on the mountain, Aida Tucker, a most remarkable woman. Aida possessed an infectious laugh and bouncy brown curls, and taught at the local middle school. When I first met this fireball, she chaired the Julian Cuyamaca Volunteer Fire Department. I was a North Peak neophyte, relishing the whole mountain vibe and surrounding state parks and Lake Cuyamaca, the local library before it closed at 5 pm, and Julian newspaper (an old-fashioned rag on newsprint). In a break from unpacking, my husband and I devoured that newspaper—all ten pages— and that’s when we learned about the war brewing in the backcountry. It boiled down to the small volunteer army versus the substantial San Diego County Fire Dept. According to the local paper, an upcoming vote by Julian residents would determine the sustainability of the local fire department, and we moved in time to cast ballots.

For years, the Julian Cuyamaca Volunteer Fire Department struggled with finances and human resources. The fire station closest to our house sat dilapidated and unoccupied. So much for fire protection on our mountain. The next nearest and newest fire station— JCVFD’s pride and joy —was a twenty-minute drive, slow going along the twisting, winding Highway 79, which didn’t serve us well, or anyone outside of the town of Julian. Response times for medical emergencies or fires were dismal. We accepted the fact that we’d be dead or the house in cinders by the time help arrived. So we focused on being self-reliant and keeping a clear perimeter with trimmed trees and shrubs, which got us in great shape.

The average age of the firefighters in JCVFD was over 45, counting many retirees. Dale was 67 when we moved to the mountain. Prior to our move from Monterey, California, he held a current EMT license, assisted the Search and Rescue Team at Pinnacles National Park and monitored the “pig fence.” (Seriously. The pig team was essential in controlling the notoriously destructive wild hogs who roamed the Pacific Coastal ranges). He briefly considered joining the JCVFD and attended one meeting, but returned disillusioned, saying that “it was one meeting too many.” The disorganized JCVFD meeting involved a lot of people shouting (older people with hearing loss), no agenda, and no training. Only ten people came. He asked, “How can Julian function with just ten people working for the fire department? This place will burn again,” recalling the Cedar Fire in 2003.

Dale decided his vote in the upcoming election, and although I trusted his judgment, I exercised due diligence by questioning neighbors and other Julianites to be sure.

Big mistake. The Volunteers were understandably emotional about losing what they saw as their lifeline to the community. Backcountry residents value friendship and solitude in equal measure, and fierce, proud independence ranks at the top.

Here’s how several encounters went:

Me— “Can you tell me about the vote? Exactly, what is this about? I just moved here.”

Vol— “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You don’t get it?”

Me— “That’s right, and that’s why I’m asking. I just moved here, and I’m trying to understand what this is all about.”

Vol— now yelling, red in the face, veins popping out, spewing spittle— “We don’t want big government in our business, plain and simple. We take care of things on our own.”

I appreciated his concern, but at the same time, our house, a rebuild, burned once before. Since the JCVFD couldn’t protect our home from the last fire, it was unlikely they’d have sufficient resources when the next one hit. That’s about the time that Aida became a good friend.

She patiently—like a good teacher —explained the miserable JCVFD finances and thin staffing, and recommended dissolving the organization. Cal-Fire’s primary focus was and is wildland fires, not structures, and that’s where coverage gets muddied and where San Diego County Fire came in. In Julian, it became a Hatfield—and—McCoy thing. The fire department drew a line in the sand. The side we chose determined our friends and our place in the community.

My advice to anyone moving to a small town: be prepared. We were not.

It’s Been A While

On By Theresa Fowler-HarrisonIn retirement, rural town, small town lifeLeave a comment

It’s been a few years since we moved from our mountain home. We cherished our time there, savoring the seasons, sunrises, sunsets. Writing about these precious memories keeps them alive for me. I loved the scents of pine and cedar in the winter, lilacs in late spring, lavender in summer. I heard great horned owls hooting at night and ravens tapping on my kitchen window in morning demanding breakfast. How I miss them. There were three corvids— Mom, Pop, and Baby, but mostly Mom visited, retrieving the cherries and walnuts I left for her family. I relished being snowed in for short periods, when snowflakes floated down and everything grew quiet. Winter storms with howling Santa Ana winds and sideways sleet also slammed our house, and the building shook as though a freight train was driving through it. On those nights, I wore ear plugs.

We moved to the mountain on Christmas Eve, unpacking and putting away things during the first winter storm of the season. I learned how to drive in snow and ice, slipping and sliding my way down North Peak Road. We met a handful of neighbors, and grew close to Dan, who plowed our driveway, and Butch, Cuyamaca Lake manager and his wife, Barbara, and Rosie, my birthday twin. In our time on the mountain, we made the “best-est” of friends and the “worst-est” of enemies (my grandson’s way with words). Only five families lived full-time on the mountain. The other homes served as vacation houses, and we often bailed out those renting weekenders or flatlanders who struggled with the snowy conditions. Near the top of our hill, lived a couple nicknamed the King and Queen of North Peak, because they were OGs, having lived there since the 70s, and weathered the Cedar Fire. Many homes burned to the ground in that conflagration, so strolling North Peak Way is like going on an archaeological expedition. Littered about properties and the road are bits of tile and pottery—surviving remnants of cabin entries that no longer exist. Only a handful of people rebuilt. Most left their land as it is, a cemetery they seldom visit.

After eight years on North Peak (our goal was ten), Dale was exhausted from the work. Not me, but then I wasn’t carrying the load. I gladly would have paid someone else to paint, trim, weed, or complete other household jobs to stay, but since we’re a team, we left. Besides, getting people to do repairs or ongoing maintenance was difficult— not impossible, but challenging. I stopped writing this blog (but continued writing books), and now I feel the need to return to 5500 ft. More of that to come.

I will share our special memories, suggestions for those downsizing, and where we went from Julian. We tackled the house as part of our retirement journey. It was gratifying and stimulating while it lasted. We left because, as I mentioned at the beginning of this blog, we are not wealthy (all things being relative), and we didn’t want to bother with renting or VRBO’ing. We enjoyed working the land, but two and a half acres in a fire-prone area meant constant pruning and weed whacking, which eventually grew old like us. We moved on to traveling and ticking off bucket lists. This is the rest of our adventure.