It started off as an average June, although the word "average" has little meaning in 2017.
The temperature on the first of the month was a less-than-remarkable 82 degrees. Some would dare call it a cool day. I was in Nebraska, visiting my family, so I was little aware of the goings-on in Prescott, although I do keep a keen eye on the weather.
As it turned out, this was an anomoly; a break from what we knew not was coming. We should have known, though.
I arrived home on the sixth and the thermometer had already begun its ascendency into uncharted territory. It was the fourth consecutive day of five that would register above the 90-degree mark. I left for Oregon on the the seventh, and the temperature notched in at an unremarkable 90. Warm, yes, but nothing that wasn't normal. Again, I will repeat that words such as "normal" and "typical" have no real meaning in the new world order. They have been made quaint by strings of wholly remarkable heat; heatwaves that make even the hardiest desert cacti shrivel on their way to a slow death, marked by days of withering heat that parches the hardscrabble clay and sand until it can no longer sustain life. It is death by a whimper, not a bang.
On the fourteenth, it hits 90 in Prescott. Mark that on your calendars - it would be the last day of the month that the temperature is that cool. Soon, Prescott will long for a 90-degree high.
Then, the temperature skyrockets: June 15 it's 94, and the following two weeks see Central Arizona transform from green to dreadful shades of brown. On the 16th, it's 96. Then 97. Then the records begin to topple. 97, 102, 102, 102, 103, 103, 100, 101, 101, 99, 97, 93, 91, 92...and on the final day of the month, it's 95.
Six all-time heat records are broken in a thirty-day month. This means that 20% of the month witnessed record highs. Put another way, there were four days of extreme warmth followed by another record-breaking high from the begin to end of June. Sadly, when researching this writing, I found that most of the records have been recorded after the begin of the new millennium. Eighteen years of data holds more records than the 100-plus years that preceded it. Worse, a good number of records - some broken this June - were set last June. The average high for the month is a new standard, a standard that will likely be broken in a few years.
This is the new world order. Mark Spitz famously stated, "...records are meant to be broken." I don't think this is what he had in mind.
The Goodwin Fire ignites fourteen miles south and east of Prescott on the 24th. It consumes the chaparral/pinyon forest like the dry tinder it has become over the exceedingly dry spring. It eats the land with a voracious appetite for destruction. An ominous pall of smoke ascends into the air each day, descending onto the earth's floor overnight. Morning in Prescott is a smoke-choked affair. One could look on Prescott from a distant vantage point and think that a fog was enveloping the city. Fogs do not, however, withstand temperatures that are in the eighties by mid-morning.
On July 1, I slide into my red 2005 Honda Civic, rev the tired engine and head for Las Vegas. I made a last-minute decision to play in the World Series of Poker and wile the miles away sans AC, which is on the blink. It's 95 in Prescott, so Vegas is a pleasant 110.
Everywhere there is smoke. It's as ubiquitous as the heat, and it's equally destructive. I see fires on Interstate 40, then on Road 93 to Vegas. In places, the fire is actually visible. When it's not, the scourge of smoke follows me like a poltergeist on the haunt. The heat is insatiable, but the fire somehow affects me to a greater degree. I roll up the windows at times, despite not having air conditioning, to keep the floating ash from entering my car.
The Southwest is burning!
I want to cry for the earth, but what good will come of it?
I get to Jennifer's house. We talk about our lives, eat Thai and have a great time. She is a cool customer: my niece, a former professional bodybuilder, Lingerie Football league player and overall fun person. I remember the girlie girl of her youth and think, "What happened to that?" It disappeared with the years.
I don't win at poker. But I do text Jen and end up hitting the town until late into the night.
The next morning (and I use that term lightly, Jennifer having awoken at nearly noon), Jen and I visit the Pinball Hall of Fame, which is becoming a ritual when I visit. Then I hatch a plan. It's about 2pm.
Text message to my cousin, Suzanne, in Placentia, CA: I'm thinking of stopping by today as it may be my last best chance to see you, Byron and the girls this summer. I have been visiting my niece in Las Vegas the last two days and it would be a 4.5 hour drive. Here's the rub: the AC in my car went out, so it would be a warm drive, but I hold to the saying that a summer without seeing you guys is a summer ill-spent.
Response text from Suzanne: Our only plans today are to go see denis. Come on down!
Jen and I bid farewell and I am once again on the road, this time to Placentia, CA.
Not being much of a drinker (one or two a month), last night's antics with Jen and her friends has me tired and feeling melancholy, not ready for what I am about to witness.
It's close to 110, but heat doesn't really bother me. The traffic jams leading out of Las Vegas, heading for California, do. We move like a sluggish organism, in uncoordinated fits and starts, at less than 10miles/hr for about two hours. The reason is obvious when I look in the distance. A plume over the horizon appears like a mushroom cloud. The miasma of smoke and automobile exhaust push me to the point that I want to cry. But I push on, pushing back my emotions. I have seen so much of this I want to be inured of feelings, but the devastation is too much. It breaks my heart to see the world afire.
And it goes on.
The chill air that prickles against my skin as I approach Placentia is like salve to a wound. I smile as I drive through the air touched by the Pacific. The temperature is 67, a full 40 degrees less than what I was enveloped in only a few hours ago. I usually don't like these cool evenings, but on this day I love the brisk note.
And then I am at my cousin's. Nearly three hours past my original ETA, but I have finally arrived.
Suzanne is her normal, awesome self; Byron is genius; and Bree is as feisty as ever. They are a perfect family on a perfect evening. For the remainder of the evening and all through the next day, my cousins do what they always do: lift my spirits to lofty heights. I love that family! We visit Suzanne's father, Denis, at an assisted living facility the next morning. He is as always - erudite and amiable - a wonderful man. We also visit Suzanne's brother, Brian, that evening. We all feast like kings and talk about the past, present and future. I think to myself: "I love this family; and that's what life is about - family."
Then, we retire for the night. I have a long drive home the following morning.
Saying goodbye is difficult but made easier knowing that I have spent time with a family whom I respect as much as any I know, to say nothing of the fun we have.
The 360 mile trip home is hot, but my soul is bouyed by the thoughts of having strengthened connections with my extended family. They are a godsend - all of them. The kicker is that, although hot, I see only a few suggestions of fire, and at a good distance.
I am home. I left, but the heat has taken hold like a tic, and has no intention of doing the same.
The first ten days of August are a rerun of June. The mercury never drops below 90 for those ten days of the month, making the streak of 90 and above a frightening 27 days. Another record is toppled on the seventh of the month, the third straight day of 100-plus in my little town.
Then, then the monsoon rains arrive - late, yes, but incredibly welcome.
This is happening all over the world, sadly.
Meanwhile, there is a man in the Whitehouse, a man who could call black white, and 35% of Americans would agree unequivocally. A man who checked his soul at the door to extravagant wealth years ago. A man who belittles the free press, our allies, war heroes, and common decency with his indecent tweets. He also belittles science, not because he disagrees with it (for deep in his heart, he knows it's true), but rather because it is incongruent with his political agenda. He wants to enrich himself - damn the planet, damn its people.
That man sits in air conditioned rooms indulging in lies, disdaining the fact of global warming like a child who states that he didn't steal the lollipop that sits firmly in his mouth.
Yet still, the Southwest is burning.
