The Conflagration of the Netty

The summer of 2003 was hot and dry.
In a region where the forest fire threat remains high even after a week's worth of rain - it was near deadly when not a drop of precipitation had fallen for more than two months.

The drive through Banff and Kootenay National Parks was marred by thick acrid smoke, flames and floating cinders.
The nearest city eventually became out of reach when the road was closed, due to the dozens of hungry blazes devouring the countryside.

The fires also threatened our small settlement on the western slopes of the Rockies, and we had our valuables and emergency supplies at the ready in case of a last-minute evacuation notice.

During that hot summer I was laid up with a painful set of broken ribs sustained in a recent mountain biking accident.
My whole left side was incapacitated and I could do nothing but lie carefully on the couch propped up by pillows.

I lived there and I slept there...

A huge gash had been ripped open on my left buttock, as well, resulting in a large haematoma that only added to my discomfort as both boo-boos vied for supremacy.

Unfortunately, as a mother of three school aged children, life does not stop due to illness or injury.
It remained that I had to rise in the morning, make meals, clean the house, look after the books and go to work.
That all can be very taxing at the fittest of times!

We also had various relatives visit us for the entire month of August.
My sister-in-law flew out from Toronto with her fifteen year old son and nephew for a fortnight.
The following weeks my brother came out to visit from Ottawa with his nine year old and eleven year old sons.
It was a hectic time - all with me flat out sporting a series of bung ribs and a sorry butt.

During the time my sister-in-law was here, one of our neighbours across the way hosted a lovely wedding for their grandson.
The couple was piped in and married in the garden.
We attended the following reception with dancing and live music - which included my George on bass guitar, a lead guitarist, a violinist and a piper.

I retired relatively early from the festivities, due to a certain amount of discomfort and the responsibility attached to my label of Mother.

At two o'clock in the morning I was roused suddenly by my sister-in-law shouting those words I had been dreading... FIRE!
I leapt from bed - broken ribs and ripped butt be damned - and flew upstairs.
Looking out the kitchen window I could see a column of flames leaping high into the tree tops - the tinder-dry treetops...

My hands shook as I dialed the local volunteer fire department and did my best to explain what was happening and where we were located.
I always thought I'd be very cool in a situation like that.
...apparently not.
I ran back downstairs to rouse the children from bed and hauled them back upstairs and outside.

We stood in horror as we watched the neighbours rented blue plastic outhouse writhing in a crackling dance of flames and smoke - dangerously close to their house and the trees.

In no time there were five garden hoses hissing and sputtering through the burning and melting mass that was once the loo.
As the fire department arrived, the last of the fire was being drowned by the quick-thinking souls who had such presence of mind to gather hoses and water within mere seconds.
The fire fighters then set their hoses upon the surrounding trees to avoid any further spread of the inferno.

As it turns out, the wedding party, who had been strongly advised against it, had kept a candle lit in the plastic port-o-potty.

All for the sake of ambiance...