My forest fire

My forest fire

In the end, a lumbering, refurbished Vietnam-era Huey showed up, emblazoned with the “Maine Ranger Service” logo. Loaded with equipment, it landed in the beach parking lot after air dropping a man on the burning island. The pilot commanding the mission pointed to two nervous-looking volunteer firefighters to signal they were going up on the next trip, along with the park ranger frantically diverting traffic from where the operation was revving up.

It had taken fourteen heart-stopping hours for that helicopter to arrive.

2021 was another summer of wildfires, global warming’s burning tongue roaring down the west coast. Hurricane Ida, too, wreaked havoc, drowning immigrants in basements in Queens as she ripped through the Mid Atlantic.

By the time Ida reached Maine, she had fizzled to a rainstorm.

Two days later, we were canoeing up a tidal river when my older daughter saw a plume of smoke rising from Campbell Island, a piece of forested land in the salt marsh, 300 yards or so from my family’s shared summer house. The fire was inaccessible by land and would not be visible from the road.

We speed-paddled back and I called 911.

I then floored it down to the ranger station at the state park—a mile away—and tried to explain where the fire was. The ranger and I met the volunteer fire truck whizzing down the road, its siren blaring. A knot of beefy men disembarked from the truck. One of them stepped forward, extended his hand to introduce himself, and asked where I was from. Without hesitating, I said, “Washington, DC.”

I knew immediately I’d made a grievous error. The corners of his mouth twitched in a this-is-a-whacky-lady-tourist-being-hysterical expression.

In fact, I’ve been coming to this area since I was in utero and am intimately familiar with the local topography.

I repeated what I’d been saying for the last 45 minutes to 911, the park ranger, and anyone who would listen. “There’s a forest fire on the far side of the island. You can’t see it from the road.”

“Are you sure it’s not someone having a barbecue?” he said with a smirk.

“The island is uninhabited.”

“It’s probably fog. We get a lot of fog around here.”

It was a sunny day without fog.

He got back into the truck and the firefighters drove off.

I rushed back to the house with another idea. The land across from Campbell Island has rental cottages on it. From one of them, you’d be able to see the fire. My family had rented that cottage back in the day, and my late father—ever the meticulous chronicler—had saved the phone number in a yellowing Rolodex on his desk.  

I called the occupant, a total stranger, and begged her to phone 911 to triangulate the fire.

911 was sufficiently calm that day, that when I called the dispatcher again, she confirmed that she now knew exactly where the fire was.

Night fell.

The state forest rangers flew in early the following morning, a calculation that proved correct, thanks to Hurricane Ida having soaked the forest, the salt marsh providing a moist buffer, and the wind being non-existent, a rare stroke of luck. The rangers did a terrific job and put out the fire by nightfall.

I’m still wondering what are lessons here.

I think of what it means not to be listened to, and of the inherent dangers in that. Which makes me think of the women of America, and whether we deserve a say over our health care and our lives and our futures, and a whole lot else.

How can we sing if we cannot be heard?