Summer in the Pacific Northwest

Fires in Oregon, slowing down, fermentation chat, 🦫 update

Yesterday Oregon hit the news cycle because of its 51 or so active 🔥 wildfires. Thank you to those of you who reached out to check if we were safe. We are. At the moment we aren’t near any of them, the largest of which are in the eastern part of the state. Southern Oregon is not where most of the fires are, unusual given the drought in this already drier part of western Oregon. Even California has less in the way of fires than Oregon currently. That said, since we are in already in what feels like full swing, I forget that is early in fire season.

Oregon and California fires on July 22, 2024

That said, we are in and out of smoke and this time of year it is moment to moment, any spark at the wrong place at the wrong time would change that. This is not to sound like Eeyore with a half-full glass, it just is, and it is now how things are. The patterns we thought we could trust are askew as we learn to live with the new normal. Across the planet, people are learning to live with extremes and this is ours to accept.

Last week was the first time this season that I watched as a summer storm grew grey and moody as it advanced across the blue of the sky. It is a stunning sight. As we watch the skies and hope for rain we also hold our breath. Storm clouds this time of year bring lightning and rain. It is an unbalanced gift, skewed toward the lightning. In the ideal scenario, these strikes release atmosphere-bound nitrogen that the rain washes to the ground and the plants almost immediately. Instead, the electricity on a drought-parched landscape, blown by stormy winds, begins fires, that are often not doused by the clouds’ patchy downpours.

Dark clouds of a coming storm

On this particular evening, we were lucky to be in the rain’s path. The temperature dropped from 101° F (38° C) to 68° F (20° C) in about 20 minutes. The rain came down for at least 40 minutes. Cooler weather and moisture ignites me like a shot of caffeine—energy and hope replace heaviness and overwhelm. In the cool air, Christopher and I watered until dark, it felt somehow like we were amplifying the moisture that had blanketed the hillside.

Rainbow after the summer storm that did bring rain.

Sunset after the storm looking (L to R) north, east, and south from my vantage point on the hill above the house where we were watering small trees.

If I was watching myself this live this past week through a video camera it would be as if someone changed the speed of my days to slow-mo. If I think about how it has felt in my body this week then the intensity of my days went from the jerky high-speed time-lapse to slow motion. Last week I was trying to get all the things done, not the least of which was traipsing up and down and across our hillside property in the sweltering sun (except that sweet rain-soaked evening) to keep plants from dying due to heat stress in the only way I knew how—water.

I am not at home this week. Christopher is home with his job, heat, seemingly endless lengths of garden hoses to deliver water, beaver care, pet care and smoke. When I packed my clothes I crammed more of my clothes in my bag than I usually would. I am not sure when I will be going home and I wanted to make sure if Christopher had to evacuate he wouldn’t have to worry about packing a go bag of my clothes. (I did pack the important papers, etc. in a bin that sits by the door in case.) Again, this is just what is during summer where I live. And what I know. Some of you have hurricanes or cyclones—both of which terrify me as they are not my normal. I don’t know how to live with them. I am learning to live with the threat of fire.

This was clear to me as I read a book of speculative fiction, with some delightful magical realism, that takes place in near-future Florida. The Light Pirate by Lily Brooks-Dalton is a coming-of-age story of resilience and subsistence in a land that is becoming more and more watery as heat and hurricanes sweep away the world as we know it. It is a hopeful story that reminds that change is just change and much easier to navigate if we transform our expectations with it.

I am with our son’s family waiting for a new grandbaby. It feels unfair already, then add that I am ten hours to the north (by car) in a gentle summer climate operating in toddler time.

I spend a lot of time on the floor with the soon-to-be big sister with puzzles, board books, and dolls. I eat pretend food and we have short-sentence conversations on repeat—about farm animals, bunnies or deer in the yard, using the potty, and the baby sister we are all waiting to meet. We walk to the park or run through a sprinkler in the yard. It is a good vacation from my daily routines. I have no expectations for each day. Let’s be clear, the whole idea of no plans, lists, or goals is something that I am learning to lean into.  

And I am enjoying it. I won’t ponder if this being able to just be, to sit still, is an age thing or not, but I am happy it (the peaceful feeling) is here.

I won’t say toddler time is like microbe time but one could draw some similarities if one thought about it. In fermentation, the microbes are in control. You are just there trying to set up an environment for success—well yes, that does sound like a two-year-old. I am not going to take this comparison much further as it feels like that could quickly become corny.  

Instead, I want to share a conversation I had early in May with Dr. Rupy Aujla of The Doctor’s Kitchen at his London recording studio. We spent the morning fermenting and chatting, as one does.

You can listen 🎧 here. Or, watch below. (We talked about all kinds of things but I can’t say this is about longevity…but let’s not judge this by its cover or title. I hope you enjoy it.)

Beaver update

Beverly’s wound finally healed and her skin is fully sealed. It turns out four sharp splintered bone fragments had to work their way out of her wrist before this could happen. She doesn’t use her front paw but can swim and eat. We don’t know, given their pen, if she will be able to build with sticks and mud. Now that we are no longer caring for her wound, she is becoming shy again. This is good for her eventual release to the wild.

Baby Elderberry, though, did not make it. The following bit has been difficult to write. I don’t feel ready to talk, let alone write about this, but I know you care. I am guessing don’t want this particular news either but leaving you to wonder seems unfair. Stripping this of specific sensory details and emotions (which goes against how I try to write) has helped. Someday there might be more.

Elderberry’s decline happened within a couple of hours one morning. When we woke Elderberry was fine, an hour later lethargic, another hour and gone. The vet said he has no way of knowing for sure what happened but that infant animals, have immature immune systems and are quite susceptible to even the slightest stress. Elderberry did not have any signs of heat stroke or dehydration, but the heat could have triggered something. This happened the day after the hottest day of the year. We also know that an immune system is only as strong as its microbiome. As Beverly was on antibiotics for most of her pregnancy it is possible, even likely, that Elderberry’s microbiome was compromised. We will never know that but we do know Beverly wouldn’t have lived to give birth without the medicine, now she and Joe have a chance to rebuild their life and hopefully raise a family next year.