An Emotional Earthquake, August 27th, 2025
An Emotional Earthquake
The American journalist Dan Rather once described the aftermath of 9/11 as an “emotional earthquake.” That’s the only way I can describe the impact of the Long Lake Fire. Not the sudden shock of a single event, but a quake that built day after day as the fire spread—fear, dread, panic, helplessness, and, woven through it all, gratitude. Its hard to untangle it all.
In the first week, the fire was a distant menace. A steady stream of smoke rose from South Mountain, and like everyone else I prayed for the rain that never arrived. Then came the first screeching evacuation alert on my phone. My cousin Janice and her family had to leave their home, and with each new alert the knot in my stomach pulled tighter. I packed an emergency “go bag”—a small act that felt like its own trauma.
On Sunday, August 24, the perfect storm that all had feared, hit and hit hard: drought, hurricane winds, and endless forest for fuel. Despite all the planning and heroic effort to hold the line, the fire doubled in size within hours to approximately 8,000 hectares. From town, it was clear things had gone terribly wrong. Up until then, no homes had been lost. But as massive plumes of smoke rose high into the sky, I felt certain that comfort was gone. That night I drove to the shore, unwilling to look back at the horizon. The distant red glow of past nights would be replaced by something far more sinister. I didn’t see it with my own eyes but the many images posted on social media will stay with me forever.
And yet—even in the middle of this hell—I feel overwhelming gratitude. For the courage of the firefighters: 57 departments from across Nova Scotia, plus crews and equipment sent from across Canada. For the legions of volunteers organizing meals and shelter for families and first responders. For the countless offers of help from businesses, organizations, governments, and neighbours. The outpouring of support has been staggering.
Monday, smoke blanketed Bridgetown and grounded aircraft. The smell was suffocating—like a million wood stoves burning all at once, in the summer heat. Premier Houston called a news conference to provide an update on the fire. He used words like “devastating” and “breathtaking” as he delivered the hard news: homes had been lost. Many more, thankfully, were saved. Jim Rudderham, Director of Fleet & Forest Protection told us another painful truth: Sunday’s extreme conditions would have been impossible to fight, no matter the resources on hand.
Today—Wednesday—the sky is clear and blue. I tell myself that Sunday was the climax, that the worst has passed, that now the firefighters actually have a fighting chance to tame this beast. I wish them Godspeed. I pray for rain. (minas the lightning) I keep the faith.
And here I am, back in my shop. On Sunday night, I would have bet hard against that possibility.