The fundamental character of a wildfire is that it destroys everything in its path. Watching the increasing devastation from the all-consuming fury of the massive fires burning in Northern California, I feel a special loss for both the people and natural splendor of Santa Cruz County.
Forty-seven years ago, I followed my destiny to Go West, Young Man. At age 18, I moved from Fort Lee, New Jersey, to Santa Cruz, California, sight unseen. As I watched my first multihued sunset over the sparkling Pacific, I remember thinking, This sure ain’t New Jersey.
I ended up in Santa Cruz because I was determined to go to college in California and specifically, the University of California at Santa Cruz. Barely a blurb in the encyclopedic college handbook in my guidance counselor’s office, I discovered in The Hip Guide to Choosing a College that UCSC was located on 2,000 acres of rolling meadows and redwoods overlooking Monterey Bay, that potpourri was preferred to powderpuff football, and instead of giving letter grades, teachers emphasized written evaluations and a Pass/No Record system. Sounded pretty good to a teenager eager to experience the Left Coast.
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To my great disappointment, UCSC rejected me. But the rejection letter also mentioned that I could write an essay appeal. That evening, en route to dinner in Manhattan with my father, we passed the docks on the West Side and the very first ocean liner was the SS Santa Cruz. I told my dad, “my ship has come in, now, I’ve got to get on it” and ended my letter of appeal by declaring that only UC Santa Cruz would be my Paradise Found. Lucky for me, they bought it.
In the ’70s, Santa Cruz was an eclectic smorgasbord of retirees, hippies, surfers, college students, progressive politicians, and tourists who came in droves to frolic on the beach and boardwalk. I lived in Boulder Creek for a summer, a small mountain community 10 miles from downtown Santa Cruz, and the entry point to Big Basin State Park, the oldest state park in California, with the largest stand of old-growth redwoods south of San Francisco, some over a thousand years old and hundreds of feet tall. Walking silently among these majestic giants, I can vouch that if there’s one tree truly worthy of a hug, it’s a Sequoia sempervirens.
So, I watched in horror as the CZU Lightning Complex fire raced through the park. Scouring online news, I came across pictures of fallen trees that looked like enormous burnt matchsticks and one especially striking shot of the inside of a giant hollowed redwood trunk glowing with red-hot embers. This image epitomizes the many crises scorching Northern California; coronavirus, unemployment, racial inequality, extreme weather, and incendiary political rhetoric from President Trump and the Republican Party. While badly charred, these ancient redwoods are actually resistant to wildfires — but how much more heat can our more fragile human organisms withstand?
Big Basin boasts one of Central Coast’s most spectacular hikes, the 17-mile Skyline to the Sea Trail. You start high up in the forest and end at Waddell Creek Beach, where windsurfers and kiteboarders soar across wind-swept waves. It’s a passage that symbolizes the expansive grandeur of the Golden State. There’s a sense of awe and wonder as you meander through cathedral-like rings of redwoods, whispering waterfalls, and finally, inhale the briny scent of salt water. I don’t know when I’ll be able to complete that magnificent trek again.
I moved back east after graduation, but feeling the westward pull again, I returned to the Bay Area 30 years ago. There are now wildfires burning to the north, south, east, and west of us and the CZU blaze that threatened UCSC and ravaged Boulder Creek still isn’t fully contained. An even more sobering thought: There have already been over 700 fires and more than 2 million acres burned, but California’s fire season has only just begun.
California has always been a place for dreamers, and those dreams are now being threatened from all sides. The fiery wreckage from these wildfires has singed me from afar, because it will take years for people to rebuild their lives and homes, and for our precious ecosystems and wildlife to return to their natural states. Just when we thought 2020 couldn’t possibly get any worse, Mother Nature reminded us that we are vulnerable to her often cruel whims.
Stepping outside my home in Marin County, 100 miles to the north of UCSC, smoke from these surrounding infernos serves as a harsh reminder of the smoldering wreckage in and near my old college town. Whether from the hazardous air quality or my emotions, I feel tears come to my eyes, as my heart goes out to Santa Cruz, a Paradise Partly Lost.
