When the Sky Smells Like Smoke and Coffee

Buddy and I tried to sit out on the porch this morning, but we didn’t make it far past the first cup of coffee. The air was so thick with smoke you could chew it. I swear it smelled like somebody had tossed a wet pine log on the world’s biggest campfire.

Now, I grew up in places where the summer sky was supposed to smell like hayfields, barbecue, and maybe the occasional whiff of cow. But here we were, sitting there with our eyes watering, looking like we were crying over a country song, and all because some fella thought it was a fine day to grind metal in the middle of a tinderbox.

Don’t get me wrong, I know accidents happen. Still, I can’t help but think there’s a kind of common sense that says, “Maybe don’t throw sparks around when the grass crunches under your boots.”

It’s the same brand of common sense that tells you not to fry bacon shirtless or poke a sleeping rattlesnake with a stick. Simple rules. Life-saving rules.

The Rancho Haven Fire was chewing up 1,400 acres by the time I poured my second cup of coffee. Crews had stopped forward progress, thank the Lord, but it was still burning hot and heavy.

There are 175 fire personnel and a whole squadron of aircraft out there, beating back the flames. That’s 175 families waiting at home, praying, while their loved ones were out doing battle with a fire armed with nothing more than courage, sweat, a Pulaski, and maybe a shovel.

I don’t need to imagine what kind of grit it takes to run toward fire when the rest of us are running the other way. I worked the line for two seasons back in the early ’90s.

When I looked over at Buddy, he had his bandana around his nose like some outlaw who got lost on the way to a train robbery. His eyes were half-shut from the smoke, but he wasn’t about to go back inside.

That dog has the stubborn loyalty of a mule in boots. I reckon if the fire ever got too close, Buddy’d stand guard with the garden hose while I packed the car.

We sat there listening to the planes overhead. You don’t know how comforting the sound of a helicopter can be until you hear it carrying water instead of tourists. Every thump of those blades sounded like a promise, “We got this. Hang tight.”

Now, Buddy doesn’t understand much about acreage or containment percentages, but he does know when I’m worried. He pressed against my leg, looked up at me with those eyes that say, “It’s alright, boss.” And right then, I figured he was right. Worrying wasn’t going to help the fire crews one bit. All I could do was pray for their safety, keep the coffee hot, and maybe be ready to lend a hand if neighbors needed it.

The truth is, living out here means you accept certain risks. Wildfires are one of them.

You keep your grass trimmed, clear your brush, and stay ready to load up the important things—family, pets, photos, and maybe that one cast-iron skillet that’s seasoned better than most people’s marriages.

But you also learn that neighbors will show up with trailers, casseroles, and chainsaws the minute you need them. It’s the unspoken pact of country living.

By the time I finished my coffee, I decided to move us back inside, where the air didn’t sting so bad. Buddy followed, grumbling about giving up his porch watch.

I promised him we’d be back out there as soon as the air cleared, and maybe I’d even grill us up some burgers. He perked up at that.

Funny thing about fire—it can scare the daylights out of you, but it also reminds you what matters most. People, pets, home, and a good cup of coffee to steady your nerves.

Everything else is smoke in the wind. So we’ll sit tight, say our prayers for the crews out there, and keep an eye on the horizon.

And when the sky finally clears, Buddy and I will go right back to the porch, coffee in hand, grateful for the simple gift of clean air.