When asked, I describe the afternoon sky on that February day as eerie. A blizzard of wild glowing embers rained down like giant luminous confetti as the darkness of ash and smoke descended. Through that fortress of haze and horror we could see the massive walls of flame that lined the silhouette of the surrounding mountains, and the ominous dusty glow of the fires at Chum Creek and elsewhere looming ever closer. The scene seemed apocalyptic, but it was real nonetheless. Try as I might, I can't remember exactly the thoughts that ran through my mind on Black Saturday. But I remember being irrevocably detached from that inflated sense of hope for the future that most young people—as a general rule—relinquish only subliminally, if at all, later in life. (MAEVE MCGREGOR)

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