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As darkness fell, the scene grew ever more surreal. A car came racing up the hill, snatched and chased by licking flames. In front of us, the hulks of other cars were blazing. A man caked in soot appeared, looking for his horse. As night began to deepen, the dark hills acquired necklaces of orange, and the sky around us was a locust-cloud of ashes. And, when we were told that it was the time to make a break for it, we finally raced down the mountain through a scene more beautiful and unreal than any Vietnam-movie fire fight: beside us, houses were turning into outlines of themselves, the blackness was electric with orange, and cars were burning as calmly as a family hearth. Burning logs and the corpses of small animals blocked the middle of the road as we sped through clouds of ashes, the sky above us turning an infernal dusty yellow.
By dawn next morning, everything was gone. Smoke hissed out of melting cracks, and an occasional small fire burned. All the signs of life were there, but everything was hushed. Later, officials announced that the fire was probably caused by arson. On Saturday, Santa Barbara was declared a federal disaster area. Fifteen years of daily notes and books half written, of statues and photos and memories, were gone. My only solace came from the final irony. In the manuscript I had saved, I had quoted the poem of the 17th century Japanese wanderer Basho, describing how destruction can sometimes bring a kind of clarity:
My house burned down.
Now I can better see
The rising moon.