When a wildfire threatened my hometown, I realized the places you love can disappear in an instant

Globe and Mail

3 days ago

Hilary Faktor is a writer based in Calgary and author of the forthcoming novel Pretty Bird.
'Should you still be in town if you can see fire in the distance?'
I was on the phone with my mom, checking in on the rapidly changing forest fire situation near her community of Flin Flon, Man., when her neighbour burst through the front door hollering, 'It's time to go! We need to get out!'
Linda, the neighbour, had been listening to the radio as the evacuation alert rolled in and made sure my mom knew. They've been next-door neighbours for 20 years. I'd called Mom after she texted me a picture of her home taken at 3 a.m., where behind her front yard, an eerie orange glow filled the sky. The forest fire crept in, like an invading army. 'It was surreal seeing that,' she said. 'Like something out of Hollywood.'
In the days preceding, Mom and I had gone over a list of items she should have on hand in case the fire came closer. As an organized worrier with a steady feed of natural disasters on my timeline, my checklist was rapid fire:
'Passport, driver's licence and wallet?'
'Packed with my will, marriage licence and your dad's death certificate,' she replied.
'What about Auntie Susan's quilt and the children's books?' I asked. We began a quick back-and-forth on precious family keepsakes. The vintage picture books and novels of my mother's youth as well as the quilt a friend made for my aunt before she died of cancer, sewing our family's life stories into each square.
Last summer, when a nearby forest fire caused the evacuation of Bakers Narrows, a lake community only a 15-minute drive from Flin Flon, I proactively took my great-grandparents' photos and two patchwork Norwegian blankets back to Calgary.
'I have everything. I need to go.' Mom's voice was laced with panic, but she had a plan, and a little of the tension left my shoulders knowing that she was getting out of town. She'd join the convoy of vehicles fleeing the approaching threat. Before we said goodbye, she whispered, 'It's not only your things, you know, it's your sense of place.'
I know now that I didn't fully comprehend the gravity of a fire which recently threatened my hometown – and which, at the time I write this, threatens it once again. Like all Canadians, I've followed past summers' infernos in Fort McMurray, Alta., Kelowna, B.C., and Nova Scotia. But reading about them or hearing news on the radio is nothing like the searing panic you feel when the blaze threatens the places you thought were safe.
Then my sister blew through the door of my home, two toddlers in tow, and her cellphone ready. Michelle is an HR professional on maternity leave and, within minutes, had brought me up to speed on the problem thousands of people evacuating forest fires in the North faced – a lack of hotels. She handed me a notebook and said, start with The Pas.
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Meanwhile, my mom was driving alone. With fires in Manitoba and Saskatchewan blocking new roads daily, she felt uneasy about the eight-hour drive to Winnipeg (where we have family) as the evacuation alert had recommended. Mercifully, Mom's friend tracked her down at a gas station along the route and suggested they make the drive together.
Amid the adrenalin, a slow, painful thought crept in. Would the fire breach town? The night of May 28, the day Flin Flon was evacuated, people misread a NASA heat map and believed the fire had burnt half the town. In disbelief, I tried to visualize that much loss. A few hours later, we learned the truth. The town was safe, but mighty hot. I struggled to internalize how the places of my childhood – towns, parks and well-loved wilderness, can change in an instant.
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Flin Flon has a population of around 5,000 people. The 777 mine, which produced copper, zinc, gold and silver, closed in 2022. What if the high school burned, or the community centre? Would there be money to rebuild? Local favourites like the hockey arena – the Whitney Forum, named for H.P. Whitney, the New York financier who along with his son, Cornelius Vanderbilt ('Sonny') Whitney, made Hudson Bay Mining & Smelting possible – might not be replaced, leaving a hockey town homeless. I worried about the fate of the Big Island Drive-In. One of only a few dozen left in Canada, this old-time charmer is a favourite of my kids when we visit.
The weeks we spend in Flin Flon each summer are a precious connection to this part of the country for my husband and me. My grandparents and dad are long gone now, but my mom's house holds cherished memories: climbing the bald rocks behind the house as a child, walking my toddlers through my dad's garden. Each stone statue and piece of petrified wood holds a memory. My mom's kitchen, where five generations have eaten our family's Ukrainian/Saskatchewan borscht. Who are we without the physical foundations of our lives?
Miraculously, the communities of Flin Flon and Creighton were spared, and on June 25, the evacuation order was lifted. The incredible efforts of more than 200 volunteer and professional firefighters held the line. But not so for the nearby village of Denare Beach.
Denare Beach is a special place to me. Chat with a local and they'll tell you about a sweet fishing spot or the storied limestone crevices: remains of an ancient sea now compacted into limestone with caverns and crevices perfect for adventurers to explore. Denare's was the last beach my dad visited before he passed away.
I had doom-scrolled late into the night on June 2 as word of a forest fire racing across treetops burned parts of Denare Beach. People watching on home security cameras saw the fire burst through doors and windows with the cruelty of a violent home invasion. The Ridge on Amisk Resort, a hotel and restaurant with a world-class view of Amisk Lake, burned down to the studs. My aunt and uncle married at this hotel, I had high school retreats there, and too many family dinners to count. People in Denare learned of this devastation when the volunteer firefighters, many watching their own homes burn, texted heartbroken condolences or snapped photos showing proof of life to the homes left standing.
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People returned to clean the remains of places in Denare, or marvel at how their house made it through, but the kayaks or ATVs in the yard burned to ash. Citizens of Creighton and Flin Flon returned to overgrown lawns and mouldy leftovers, but with a deep sense of gratitude for all that was left. Precious memories in the form of everyday objects.
The relief was temporary as this week, Manitoba issued a second provincewide state of emergency, and people braced for the possibility of another evacuation. Flin Flon is not currently on alert, though conditions are still such that the risk of fire isn't over yet. But with recent rainfall and ample firefighting support, there is hope.
Manitoba is experiencing one of the most destructive wildfire seasons in recent decades, but this story could be from many places in Canada. My beloved hometown, or yours. This summer, I planned to return home, and I'm hopeful that I still will. To be in my hometown, grateful for all that was spared from the fire. All the everyday things we take for granted, not understanding their value until they're gone.