You may have heard about the Holiday Farm Fire. Newly transplanted to Oregon from the East Coast, I hadn’t until Nancy Ashley, a member of the McKenzie Presbyterian Church, sat down and told me the story while we visited during the opening day of Liberty Walks.
Labor Day, 2020
One of five major wildfires sweeping across Oregon that night. But hearing about it isn’t the same as being there. Not the same as standing in a narrow valley with trees pressing in on every side and fire coming like it had somewhere to be.
This wasn’t a fire you fought. It came down the McKenzie like a freight train. Winds at 70 miles per hour. Homes lighting up like paper. Most of the valley got out. But the community of Blue River was already pinned down with the smoke and flames. Cliff Richardson and his wife tried to evacuate. They were on the road when the message came through. Evacuees were being directed to the high school track. She heard it. He didn’t. Until the smoke got so thick the roads were impassible and they were forced to turn around.
The McKenzie Track and Field wasn’t built for this. It was built for running. Built for pride. The McKenzie River Community Track & Field opened in 2010, but its story started long before that. It was imagined nearly 30 years earlier by a local teacher named Jeff Sherman. It was meant to be a place for joy. For student athletes. For relays and morning walks. For community.But that night, it became a fireline.The track is a wide oval tucked into the forest.
Cliff said the flames came right up to the fence. Licked underneath it. Like the fire wanted in. Firefighters circled the track again and again, their trucks spraying down the grass, the people, the edges. Anything to keep the flames back.
It lasted for hours. Cliff doesn’t know how long. Long enough for homes to burn. Long enough for him to sneak away once, to check on his own house. Smoke-damaged, but still standing. Others weren’t as lucky.
There were several people on that field. Families. Cars. Fear. From one in the morning to three that afternoon, they waited while the fire raged around them. Engines running. Water hissing. No sleep. No certainty.
Just holding the line.
Only one person died that night. Someone who had chosen not to evacuate. The rest were saved.
Cliff had worked in the forests most of his life. He’d seen fire before. This was different. Bigger. Closer. The way he tells it, the track didn’t just survive. It held.
Now, when you walk through that valley, the scars are still there. Charred trees. Empty lots. Half-built homes. But when you reach that track, when your feet land on the edge of that oval, you’re stepping into something else. A space that was built for motion and became a still point in a rushing world. A circle that held when nothing else could.
Call it holy ground. The Blue River community does.