Gene and I take turns sleeping at night, watching tall pines on the ridge behind us burst into flame, exploding like Roman candles. Three nights in a row, fire crests the ridge. After midnight in early morning's coolness the flames subside, and in afternoon's heat they surge ahead once again. They dip repeatedly into irrigation ponds and into pools on the Rogue River, and race the buckets to hot spots. Slow moving bombers with swollen bellies curve in wide circles over the ridges, swooping low to release fire retardant that paints buildings and landscape Pink Panther pink.
Explosions echo between the hills as fire fighters detonate dynamite to start backfires.
Household propane tanks erupt, touched by the lick of flames. The explosions vibrate underfoot and reverberate in our stomachs and throats, and afterwards the air is deathly still for a few moments. Our normally quiet country road begrudgingly bears the incessant traffic of fire trucks and water tankers that rumble by. The ribbon signals that the topography and landscaping are defensible, should the fire rush through. Three days into the siege now, whenever we drive down our road we must show ID to National Guards who, outfitted in camouflage uniforms, are stationed at the bottom of the hill.