I arrive home to an August clear blue sky, with east and west mountain ridges that parallel each other in our rectangular-shaped valley. Down its center, three glassy-smooth lakes mirror the images of thick Douglas fir and pine forests. No man-made sounds, just nature, pretty much as it has been for thousands of years. When I am allowed to return to collect valuables, I see—maybe a thousand yards away from our ashram behind the east ridge—a tsunami-like wall of crackling, jittery red, orange, and yellow fire. A giant plane flies low almost touching the treetops and drops blood red retardant powder in huge swathes and then, as if on cue, two helicopters appear and drop water on the flames. The firefighters are true heroes, working tirelessly around the clock to contain the massive blaze (one of hundreds that year in British Columbia), yet the fires continue to accelerate in almost predictable bursts. At the same time, the police are waiting for us to collect our valuables and evacuate. What items should I save? I stun myself when I fill three garden-size plastic bags with everything I have collected over the years to write a memoir—the journals, taped interviews, original letters, boxes of photos and slides, unedited videotape footage, and a few stabs at chapter first drafts. Along with a pillow and quilt, I throw the bags in the back of the pickup, and drive off to safety through clouds of choking black smoke. For the next two weeks neighbors help neighbors, and everyone helps the firefighters, but in the end, it’s the wind that saves the valley. Amazingly, it continually blows north away from the valley. This incident helps me understand that the memoir project means more to me than I have been willing to acknowledge.