Clearing the Hillside, Clearing the Mind
This past week was one of the hardest stretches of physical work I’ve done in years. We finally tackled the long-overdue brush clearance on the property — the kind of work that becomes non-negotiable when you’ve lived through losing your own home to a fire, like I did around this time last year. There’s a certain edge you feel in your body when fire season comes back around, even when the sky is calm.
The Crew Arrives
Fortunately, I wasn’t doing it alone. We brought in a team of four guys who showed up with chainsaws, machetes, scythes, and an old-school work ethic that you don’t see often. They hustled all week. By the end, I could honestly tell the rest of the retreat center team: we got our five-thousand-dollars’ worth.
Into the Thick of It
The plan was simple on paper and massive in practice — carve a fire moat along the entire western edge of our ten-acre slope. The idea was to create a clean buffer zone between the wild hillside and the nearest structures, so that if a fire ever pushed up from below, there’d be a wide gap standing between the flames and the homes.
In reality, it was treacherous work: clearing brush on steep hillsides, hauling chainsaws across loose dirt, cutting through thick roots and old chaparral. One of the guys was literally hanging off the cliffside with rock-climbing gear while operating his chainsaw. Watching him work was equal parts impressive and insane.
The Realities of the Canyon
At one point they found a rattlesnake — an unfortunate and unwelcome guest in the middle of heavy labor. For safety, it had to be killed. They hung it over a branch near the path, a kind of sober reminder of where we live and what we share the land with. It ended up becoming the featured photo of this post, because out here, the realities of nature aren’t abstract. They’re immediate.
But the main enemy wasn’t the snake — it was the sumac chaparral. Those plants burn like gasoline. We cut as much as we could. I ran the chainsaw myself for hours, dragging piles of branches and logs toward the compost areas we set up throughout the property. One of the goals was to reveal the old cactus line along the western border — a natural fire barrier planted years ago. Over time it had all but vanished under the brush. Pulling it back into the light felt like uncovering a forgotten shield.
Protecting What Protects Us
By the end of the week, we’d carved out a proper fire moat — wide, clean, and continuous — stretching from the uppermost water tanks down past the second lookout and all the way to the bottom of the property where the cabin Katy and I live sits. After the crew left, I walked the line slowly and filled in some of the gaps, planting a few more cacti where I could. Now, when you stand up there and look across the ridge, you can see one unbroken protective band hugging the contour of the land.
A Quiet Relief
There’s still more to do, always. But the next time someone says “Topanga” and “fire” in the same sentence, I think we’ll all feel a little more peace in our bodies. Not because fire season is any less real — but because we’ve met it with our own hands, sweat, and resolve.
