I walked on fire yesterday.
A little more than a month ago a fire began raging in the hills of this town just above the mountain I have been skiing for more than three decades. For days it was a bright streak hovering in the night sky, creating a surreal canvas in the air.
Its path crossed the Appalachian trail (the "AT"), the iconic route that thousands traverse each year in a pilgrimage to find whatever these lands are offering them. The portion of that journey that ran through these hills closed to the public as firefighters waged their battle.
The blaze has now worn itself out, the result of a combination of rain, snow and the work of countless people in clearing out brush, leaves and building firebreaks, kind of pits around its perimeter where the fires spread was stopped. Nearly 1700 acres damaged by the time the counting was complete.
Now the portion of the AT that had been in the direct line of disaster has reopened. What my son and I would find as we made our way up on our climb in wholly unknown.
For several minutes in our trek there was no evidence this land had been in a conflagration. No smell permeated, no change reported to us by nature. Would we actually come upon the predicate for our search? Or would it avoid our detection.
Then there it was, appearing as clear as the divide between Democrat and Republican, as certain as the difference between the dead of night and the bright noon sun. The trenches that had been dug around its perimeter having successfully completed their appointed task. The ground on one side seemingly wholly unaffected by its neighbor's travails. There the leaves lay in abundance, the ground soaked from the recent rain, drips of moisture clinging to the branches of bushes. But where the blaze had raged the earth had turned black, all color swallowed whole. As I walked upon this scorched terrain, it was as if I was stepping on the memory of what had fascinated and frightened us. It was a different universe here, no leaves in the brush, the trees scarred several feet into their bodies with reminders of the tremendous force that happened beneath and around them.
As my son and I climbed upward the disparity remained forever stark. Darkness and light staring at each other from across a divide. One showing unmistakable remains of what had occurred, the smell residing in, or on us as we ascended. The other appearing oblivious to what had been wrought mere feet from where it resided. Side by side but worlds removed from one another.
But life moves on, the vision of what happened in the lands above us fading for most with each passing day. Now a mere tale for those who gathered below to recite in years to come.
I am informed by my son that the soil damaged here is actually very fertile and what has taken place on this ground will likely be ever less evident over time. Nature having the remarkable ability to regenerate. Someday it may be difficult to distinguish the light from the dark.
But for two of us I think we will long recall this place, our senses heightened by the destruction we witnessed. Beautiful in its own terrible way. The bright streak in that night sky and what it left behind forever emblazoned in our minds.
Happy new year ✍️