An Azalea Grows in Paradise
by Ibe Liebenberg
February 6, 2025
Extract:
Read more here: https://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/aza ... mp- fire/(Zócalo) On my first day as a seasonal firefighter in Paradise, California, they took me there…I had always known it as Head Dam, a mile-long, winding gravel road that zig-zags through outcroppings of serpentine rock.
I was living in the same house I had grown up in when I decided to become a seasonal firefighter in 2009. I memorized each turn of the six-switchback gravel road. On the other side of the canyon sat Sawmill Peak, staring down a thousand-plus feet over you and most of the valley. The steep hills were covered with 100-foot-tall ponderosa pine and black oak, and the understory densely matted in leaf litter and mostly open with little brush. I didn’t notice much else. Because I only paid attention to how fast I could make it up the hill...
After a few fire seasons, I started to look around more on the way down. One day, about 20 feet down a steep dry creek bed, I spotted clusters of white flowers on a thin branched shrub with no leaves. I froze. I slid down the hill. I couldn’t believe it: a deciduous azalea. I grew up with an appreciation for plants—I majored in ornamental horticulture in community college—and loved azaleas and rhododendrons in particular. I immediately took out my phone and found out that this was the only azalea native to California. They bloom for a week or two, if we are lucky. I visited the azalea each day after that while it was blooming, and after, making sure I spotted those light green leaves.
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In September 2024, I moved back to Paradise. Our new property was completely bare. We planted MacNab cypress, Whitethorn ceanothus, and Western azaleas—the same plants I see on the station hike. Some of them require fire to reproduce. We still live with the fear of not having insurance and the possibilities of destruction and hear the evacuation test siren on the 15th of every month. But with time and the experience of loss, I am also able to seek out and admire what could be gone again.

