The Thing About Climate Refugees

(We're Nothing Like the Books and Movies)

Here's a glimpse of our living room from our security camera - December 16, 2017. It looks like some kind of post-apocalyptic Christmas card, doesn't it? Just a decorated 12-foot tree (14 with the star but who’s counting) standing sentinel in an almost empty room, surrounded by winter light streaming through naked windows. We'd already evacuated almost everything else to storage - furniture, artwork, family photos, even our bizillion boxes of shoes and wardrobes. Our insurance company, in a rare moment of actual helpfulness, was practically giddy about paying for the storage units. After all, replacing a houseful of furniture in storage is a lot cheaper than replacing a houseful of furniture that's been turned to ash. It's strange how catastrophe makes you practical about the oddest things. That Christmas tree, though - we left it up and lit, a defiant little symbol of normalcy in a time that was anything but normal. Looking at this image now, it's like a still from some art house film about the end times, except it wasn't art - it was our life.

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Let me tell you something about becoming a climate refugee that they don't show in those apocalyptic movies and books where everyone looks surprisingly good despite the end of the world: it's all about the coffee mug. No, really. Stay with me here.

You see, in my case, it's this Yeti coffee cup, stainless steel and green, that somehow makes the coffee taste better. I realize this sounds insane – and we'll get to my various levels of insanity later, I promise – but when you've had to evacuate your home thirty-something times (yes, I lost count, somewhere between the fifteenth evacuation and that moment I realized I was actually checking Twitter for fire updates like it was my job), you develop very specific ideas about what constitutes an "essential" item.

Oh, you think I'm exaggerating about the thirty-something evacuations? I wish. Between 2004 and 2021, my Montecito home became something of a practice run for the Apocalypse. You know how some people get really good at parallel parking or making sourdough bread? Well, I became an expert at fleeing for my life. It's not exactly the kind of skill you want to put on your LinkedIn profile, but here we are.

The Thomas Fire of 2017 was the one that really did it. 281,893 acres, if you're counting – and believe me, we were. Every night, phones in hand, pretending to watch Netflix while actually doom-scrolling through Twitter. (Yes, I joined Twitter specifically for this purpose. I'm not proud of it, but desperate times call for desperate doomscrolling.) In California these days, "largest wildfire in history" is a title that gets passed around like a bad cold or Covid or RSV – though at least with those, you don't have to watch them crown over the Santa Ynez Mountains, turning night into day with their ferocious orange glow. Let me tell you, when the real estate agent said "dramatic lighting," this is not what anyone had in mind.

Then came the mudslides of January 2018. Twenty-three lives were lost. One hundred and thirty homes were destroyed. These are the kind of statistics that make you feel guilty about obsessing over whether you packed enough underwear and socks in your go-bag. (Speaking of which, here's a life tip you won't find in any survival manual: pack more underwear and socks than you think you need, then double it, then add three more pairs. Trust me on this. It's like the one thing I know for certain anymore.)

Our garage? It became what I like to call the Apocalypse Prep Shrine™. The go-bags stayed packed with this bizarre mixture of practical necessities and completely irrational comfort items. Besides my precious coffee mug (don't judge), there was my favorite pillow (because apparently I thought the end of the world would be more comfortable with memory foam) and a tattered blanket that my cat had once thrown up on. Yes, you read that right. No, I can't explain it except that he's no longer with us, and somehow that blanket, complete with its questionable history, became a talisman of sorts. (I sleep with it every night).

The Evacuation Planner List (capitals very much intended) became and is our family's grimoire – a term I've picked up from reading way too many YA novels during evacuation nights. It's like a witch's cookbook, which felt appropriate given how often we were brewing up escape plans. Sometimes I'd catch myself reading it like a bedtime story: "And then we turn left on Hot Springs Road, unless it's on fire, in which case we..."

Now we live in Las Vegas, where the climate crisis has a different wardrobe but the same nasty personality. Instead of fires and mudslides, we have wind storms that don't just blow through the valley – they redecorate it. And honey, they have terrible taste. The drought here is like that houseguest who doesn't understand "subtle hints about leaving" – you know, the one who's still on your couch even after you've started wearing pajamas at 4 PM and sighing loudly while looking at the clock.

Lake Mead's bathtub ring grows higher each year, a stark white band marking the water's retreat like the rings of a tree recording years of drought, or like the marks on a wall measuring a child's height in reverse. It's the most depressing growth chart ever: "Look how much water we've lost! Let's celebrate by contemplating our impending doom!"

Here in Clark County, the last bastion of Democrats in Nevada, we find ourselves in what feels like a holding encampment for left-wingers. It's like being the last person at a party who still believes in using coasters – you know you're right, but you also know it's probably a losing battle. And let's be honest, at this point, we're not even sure if we'll have furniture left to put coasters under.

The go-bags and emergency suitcases still sit in our garage, a habit we can't break – like checking your ex-friends' Instagram or believing that this time, surely this time, the Democrats will grow a spine. (Spoiler alert: they won't.) When I think about the Los Angeles fire, I can't help but wonder: what if it had begun on January 21st? Would there be any assistance from the new regime? Or would they just tweet about how fire is actually good for property values? I'd bet all the gold in Fort Knox – assuming there is any left and it hasn't been traded for a certain someone's legal fees – that the regime will abandon everybody and everything in every instance imaginable. Welcome to our new world order: "Where the Thugs Play and the People Pay." (I'm thinking of getting that printed on t-shirts, but I'm worried it might become the official national motto.)

I've survived illness, death (other people's, obviously – I'm writing this, aren't I?), and the kind of bone-deep disappointments that make you want to crawl into bed with a quart of 'Sorry Not Sorry' ice cream and never come out. I'm the kind of person who talks to their pets in full sentences and believes they understand every word – which my wife says is fine as long as they don't start answering in complete paragraphs. I suppose I'm somewhere on the spectrum between "slightly crazed" to "out-of-control crazytown" but honestly, in these times, who isn't? If you're not at least a little bit crazy right now, you're probably not paying attention.

Every time the wind kicks up, carrying dust from an ever-drying lake bed (and let me tell you, that's becoming as regular as my coffee habit), I think about how climate change and political change are mirror images of each other – both slow-moving disasters until they're suddenly not slow at all. Like aging or falling out of love with democracy, you don't notice it happening until one day you look in the mirror and think, "When did that happen?" And also, "Why didn't anyone tell me my democracy was getting laugh frown lines?"

I never thought I'd be this person – writing about climate disasters and democracy in the same breath while my dogs and tomcats look at me with that mixture of concern and judgment that only pets can master. They have this way of staring that seems to say, "Maybe if you'd spent less time worrying about democracy and more time buying us treats, we wouldn't be in this mess." (They might have a point about the treats.)

And if anyone needs me, I'll be over here, loving my country with the desperate intensity of someone who's realized the relationship is not the least bit stable—ok, it's also on Fire—while simultaneously checking the weather reports, the political forecasts, and the level of Lake Mead. Because these days, they all seem to tell the same story of loss, change, and an uncertain future. Though I suppose if nothing else, at least I have my coffee mug from another lifetime pre-2004. It's seen me through every evacuation, every fire, every mudslide, and every political meltdown. At this point, it's not just a mug – it's more like a really well-hydrated emotional support animal.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go reorganize my go-bag. Again. Because apparently, that's what I do now when I'm anxious about the state of the world. Some people stress-bake; I stress-pack. At least my emergency preparedness game is strong, even if my faith in humanity's collective decision-making is getting weaker than gas station coffee.

Meet Edith Elizabeth Sofiamaria Petunia (yes, that's her full name, and yes, she answers to all of it, especially when treats are involved). Here she is, giving me that signature pug side-eye while standing guard over our fleet of cat carriers. That look on her face perfectly captures what we were all feeling: "Excuse me, but where exactly are my five memory foam beds, and what sort of emergency requires THIS many pet carriers?" Poor girl didn't realize she was witnessing what happens when a family with a slight feline pet-carrier-hoarding tendency meets apocalyptic preparedness. Because when you have multiple cats and an opinionated pug, you learn that having enough carriers is like having enough underwear - you always need more than you think, and running short during an evacuation is not the kind of excitement anyone needs in their life.