I went to a Portland burner thing one night, a while ago. I had my lammies in my ranger bag and someone noted the plastic and cloth rose on them, and asked what that was about. Not wanting to tell the story at the moment, I said “it’s a long story” and went about the business of that night.
That story starts on a bright Monday morning. This may have been any other slightly shitty Monday, except for the date. It was Monday July 14, 2014 and the last 48 hours had been the hardest 48 hours in my life–in a lot of lives that touched mine. We had some clean up still to do at Seabase and planned to return that morning.
I wasn’t sure about going back; I am sure I was still in shock. Kate asked if I’d like some company, and I enthusiastically said yes. I spent the morning trying to summon the physical and emotional energy to go back to where it all happened. As I prepared myself, I thought about leaving something at the makeshift memorial that had reportedly sprung up. I wasn’t completely sure whether to be angry at the fact a memorial had popped up or relieved that people were starting to process their grief. I don’t think I really even knew what, exactly, to make of what I had been through or was feeling just yet. I did know that I wanted to do something nice for those who knew the dead man, and especially for my friends and loved ones who had been as close to what happened as was I.
I grabbed some artificial roses from a vase in my breakfast nook. They were small, plastic, and non-descript but they were…..something. I tore one off as a memento for myself, tucked the rest of them in the pocket of my shorts, and finished grabbing the things I needed to take with me. The appointed hour came, Kate arrived, and I pulled on boots and grabbed water. I remember that my boots—weighing in at about 3 pounds—felt a mile long and like they weighed a ton; their weight felt oddly reassuring. I wasn’t so reassured by the visible markings where the soles were stained with the mix of ash and mud and bodily fluid from the scene.
JP, Kate, and I piled in his Jeep and made the drive to Seabase. It was a quiet drive with muted discussion and a lot of silent contemplation. It was a brilliantly sunny morning. An unforgiving sun shone brightly on us as we arrived; a light breeze blew from the South. Sparky still smoldered, and then started actively burning again as we worked.
I was torn: On one hand the fire struck me as a funeral pyre: a witness for the fallen. On the other, It felt like someone ripping a barely scabbed wound WIDE open to watch flames dance across the ruins of….what felt like everything. I thought it was disrespectful to everyone: the rangers who were involved in the initial response, those who saw Chris go in, the community at large, Chris himself, and his friends and wife. I wanted nothing to do with any more fire and wished someone would pour A LOT more water on it and put it OUT. The decision was made to let it burn, and the flames burned on.
As we finished loading, I excused myself and walked alone out to where Sparky had stood and where Chris had gone into the flames. I took a few minutes of quiet contemplation at the scene of it all. My breath was hot as the still burning fire, my chest tight, and tears flowed. Alone still, I wondered what a great many people were probably thinking then, and have since: Why? Why here, why then, why at this magical weekend’s close? What the fuck? Why couldn’t anyone be bothered to say anything about him before hand? There was a giant lit box with Doctors and Nurses and minions and a shit load of people knew where medical and sanctuary was and there was a FUCKING PHONE NUMBER IN THE GODDAMNED SURVIVAL GUIDE YOU GODDAMNED DRUG ADDLED FUCKING HIPPIE PIECES OF SHIT!?
The blinding sun and desert breeze gave no easy answers to my questions. I pushed my roses into the sand and walked back to where JP and Kate were waiting. We pulled out of Seabase as the silence in the Jeep roared so loud it was deafening. I looked back to catch a last glance, and was greeted with scenes of a smoldering fire, a dusty road, and plastic roses in the sand trimmed in red cloth that was billowing in the smoky breeze.
June 2016
Portland, OR
Mr Curly's Adventures 