This week in Portland has been quite challenging due to wildfire smoke. It’s gotten to the point where going outside is actually prohibited. I can feel a tightness in my chest, and my eyes are starting to burn.
This situation brought back memories of the 2020 Great Portland Smokeout, which followed some of the most devastating wildfires in Oregon’s history.
I tried to relax on a lounge chair by the hotel pool, but as I lay there, I could see the sky shifting from blue to a dull yellow, then to a reddish gray.
This time around, folks seem more prepared. People are staying indoors, wearing masks, and sealing up their doors and windows.
Since 2020, Oregon has invested almost $200 million in wildfire prevention and preparedness. The state has promised measures like increased prescribed burns and creating more resilient forests. Yet, six years later, it’s unclear what any of these initiatives have accomplished.
It seems like people rarely talk about “climate change” anymore. I mean, regardless of one’s stance on it, there is definitely a problem that needs addressing.
Now we just refer to it as “wildfire season,” as if it’s become an inevitable part of life, like how snow melts in the mountains or leaves change color in the fall.
We’ve essentially normalized wildfires.
worst year ever
Back in 2020, we were already dealing with protests when the pandemic hit. Then, terrible fires broke out, and a thick veil of smoke enveloped Portland.
The smoke was unbearable on the first day, and by the second day, it felt like a nightmare.
I woke up early that day with a burning sensation in my lungs. Given my past respiratory issues, I knew I had to escape the smoke. I jumped out of bed, quickly packed my things, and turned on the radio while browsing smoke maps on my laptop. It still looked clear in northeast Oregon, so I hopped in my car and headed east toward Pendleton, a 320-mile drive.
Thankfully, we found a place to stay until the smoke cleared.
The smoke felt like fog as we drove through downtown Portland. Once we hit the Columbia Gorge, visibility dropped drastically—at one point, we couldn’t even see the Columbia River, which was just 50 yards to our left.
The air felt toxic. The smoke blocked out sunlight, making it hard to gauge the time. I had to glance at my watch.
they didn’t see it coming
When I finally reached Pendleton, the skies turned blue, but the weather radar on my phone indicated the smoke was right behind me. The teenage staff at the Burger King seemed clueless about it. I had to explain that the smoke was going to catch up with them soon.
I got back in the car and continued driving another 320 miles to Boise, where the skies were clear. I had outrun the smoke, at least for the moment.
I checked into a hotel and thought, Okay, I’d spend a few days here.
I relaxed by the hotel pool, yet I still noticed that the sky was gradually shifting from blue to dull yellow, then to a reddish gray. How could the smoke catch up to me so fast? I was driving at 80 miles an hour!
The next day, we traveled to Pocatello, and then on to Salt Lake City.
Salt Lake was eerily quiet due to the pandemic, so I ended up in a small two-star hotel—the only one open.
Eventually, the smoke reached Salt Lake City, but it was nothing compared to what we experienced in Oregon.
I kept thinking, I’ll be back in one more day, but when I checked the air quality in Portland, it was still rated as “very dangerous.”
Friends in Portland were posting on Facebook about sealing their homes, taping windows, trying to stay sane while trapped inside with pets and kids. They looked fine online, but I could see the stress building.
Meanwhile, I was just bored in Salt Lake. I wandered around a lot. My hotel was filled with eccentric characters, some long-term residents who seemed oblivious to the chaos happening outside.
I kept tuned into the weather channel, becoming an amateur smoke tracker myself. My bookmarks included everything—obscure NOAA wind maps and a detailed Swiss-based air quality site.
Through it all, I kept reassuring myself: This will last only a few more days. But, of course, it dragged on for another eight days.
Finally, when I returned to Portland, it took days to clear the air in my apartment.
homecoming
I felt a strange guilt about surviving when my friends and neighbors looked like they had just come from a battlefield.
This recent bout of smoke was clearly not as devastating as the 2020 crisis; it only lasted four days. Most people didn’t feel the need to tape their doors and windows this time, but they certainly could if it came to that—they’ve done it before.
Portlanders appear to be accepting this challenge, just as they did with previous mask mandates or other new norms.
They even named our new WNBA team the Portland Fire, as if that’s what we’re asked to do: embrace it.
