Fear Factor

Fear is a complicated, multi-dimensional emotion. We can be afraid of specific things, like spiders or public speaking. We might fear new situations; the unknown is nearly a universal phobia. There's even the fear of fear: phobophobia. But what of primal fear? That paralyzing feeling that emanates from our animal brain, chills our internal organs and triggers the fight or flight response?

The raging wildfire burning in El Dorado County, about 60 miles from here, is triggering that response in me. As of this morning, it's still only about 10% contained, has burned over 82,000 acres, caused 2800 people to evacuate and is being battled by 7800 firefighters. The smoke is lending a surreal yellow-orange cast to the sky that was particularly vivid around sundown last night. Intellectually, I knew I was perfectly safe. But as my growing anxiety illustrated, the deepest part of my primitive brain was trying to tell me when the sky is that color I'm in danger.

So why does fire do this to me? Like anyone with Southern California roots, forest fires set off warning bells, but one extremely traumatic incident is forever imprinted. During the fall of my third-grade year, a large fire broke out in Big Bear, just below the dam. Like the King fire, it was determined to be arson, making it all the more difficult for an eight-year-old to understand. Someone did this on purpose?? I woke up that Friday morning (the 13^th) to my family hurriedly preparing to evacuate. It was the first time I'd ever seen my mother scared and I'll never forget what that felt like. It was a terrible moment of realizing there were things my parents couldn't do anything about. As I packed a box with diapers and baby food for my toddler brother, I watched my father dash in and out of the house, packing the car. We were going to stay with my grandparents in the valley, but we had no way of knowing how long we'd be there and if the house would still be standing when we got back. My mother told me I could bring one "special thing" I couldn't part with, but we just didn't have room in the car for much. Looking back, I have no idea how they packed three kids, a dog and our suitcases into a Volkswagen bug but they did.

My grandparents made us very comfortable, but I didn't have the vocabulary to express my unease. My parents were glued to the TV, wanting to catch every bit of news about the fire, but I couldn't stand to watch—I didn't even want to hear them talk about it. I left the room every time there was an update. We stayed there for nearly two weeks, and then, thanks to the mercy of shifting winds, my hometown was spared, and the fire was finally extinguished. We could go home. We still had a home to go to.

Driving up the mountain, through the burnt-out moonscape that used to be the San Bernardino National Forest is another vision permanently etched in my brain. A forest decimated is a harsh reality to witness. Our house was unscathed, save for a layer of ash on the patio furniture and the lingering smell of smoke in the air. I had no way of knowing what else would linger. But over the years it became apparent, as a siren in the distance or a single whiff of smoke would trigger the impulse for flight. I didn't know what a panic attack was; I just knew that I suddenly needed to be elsewhere. I got better at dealing with my fear as I got older, and don't think about it much until an incident like the King fire occurs. Then I remember the utter helplessness and panic. And send prayers of safety and success to the firefighters.