Reasonably Educated Bumpkins

I just closed the outside door to the office, and it's after 1:00 p.m. Usually our air conditioner has been on for hours by this time of day, doors and windows shut tight against the heat, but not today. Today the valley is somewhat cool, insulated from the punishing late summer sun by a thick white blanket. Not clouds -- smoke.

A large fire in Plumas County, which started on Labor Day, has pushed enough smoke into the air and down over the whole valley to block out the sun. Usually the first light of dawn through my northern window wakes me, but this morning the sun was thin. I was thankful for the dove hunters who woke me up at first light -- BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! -- otherwise, with the sun all but blocked out, I might still be asleep.

Driving into Chico was surreal. Most cars on Highway 32 had their headlights on, and the sun was a neon orange-y pink ball, casting a sinister one-eyed glare over the commuters. I listened to NPR on the drive in, as I always do, but, as often happens with breaking news, the local news report contradicted what I'd heard elsewhere about the fire. The Moonlight Fire, as it has been named, has charred anywhere from 3000 to 15,000 acres, depending upon which news you believe. The fierce north winds which kicked up last night fed the fire, turning it into a monster.

The air was orange. My shadow was brown against the concrete, with a sickly orange halo. The acrid smell of smoke, borne 50 miles or more by the relentless wind, wafted into my office.

This isn't L.A. -- is this L.A.?