The Wildfire Drill This Time
Village Farm residents keeping eye on wildfire in East Austin
Another page in the scrapbook of Austin’s farming history went up in smoke yesterday. An “abandoned structure” was how fire officials reported it to the media. For those who have lived here long enough, the 1900s Swedish farmhouse on Hog Eye Road was one of the last remnants of traditional agriculture still standing in Austin City Limits. Its abandonment is the sad yet familiar story of how progress, like wildfire, is leaving nothing in its path.
When the fire broke out on the ridge across Decker Lane, a handful of Village Farm residents were meeting for garden club in an identical Queen Anne farmhouse down the road. Another day of red flag warnings was fraying nerves already rubbed raw by this summer from hell. By the time we stepped onto the wrap-around porch, plumes of yellow and black smoke were billowing up and pushing North at an alarming pace.
Our red flag was the old cotton wood still hanging shade over this high-pitched roof of Carl Bergstrom’s historic home. The hot gusts shaking its leaves— a dry sickening rattle —confirmed the wind was coming directly out of the South. We were far enough on the fire’s western edge that this would be more a fire drill for us than the real deal for those brave firefighters rushing toward it with red lights flashing and sirens blaring. A terrible race had begun: the forces of nature unleashed against these men and women weighted down by heavy helmets, bunker gear, and blistering sun. Someone checked the phone to tell us what we could feel down to our bones — the slow crisp burn of 108 degrees breaking another record.
All that stood between the explosive line of fire and the Travis County Expo Center was a 100-acre tinderbox of shriveled Johnson Grass, brittle mesquite and stunted Junipers. From our secure perch, nature seemed to be winning. Orange flames leapt above the tree line — another dying cedar here, another post oak there — swallowed up and spit out. More fire engines rushed down Decker Lane, followed overhead by a yellow helicopter weighted down by a massive bucket of water. The yellow bird circled back and forth, swooping through coils of angry black smoke, like a fly pestering a horse. Once it found an opening, it zeroed in and let loose its load. A white curtain of water cascaded down to its target. The fire barely shrugged. Someone got a text saying we should plan for evacuation.
Built at the turn of the 20th century by Bergstrom’s cousin, the farmhouse on the ridge now engulfed in flames was another patch in the quilt of Swedish farms up and down these farm to market roads. Woods were cleared, stumps removed, corn and cotton planted in their place. Bergstrom’s great nephew would be Austin’s first native son to die in World War II and was honored by having its airport bear his name.
Unlike his cousin’s, Carl’s farmhouse was destined to be restored by future owners. We were the last of a long and colorful line of tenants who made their home in what little remains of his family’s original 250-acre spread. Covered up behind a fresh coat of white paint in the hallway are the growth lines of our kids from our 13-year stay. Today, these tall-ceiling rooms with transoms and sliding pocket doors have a second life as community center for the 150 tiny home residents that make up Village Farm.
The last owner of the abandoned farmhouse on the ridge finally sold out last year. On the 60 acres where cattle grazed for the past century, earthmovers are clearing juniper and mesquite for the next phase of Community First. An additional 500 tiny homes will provide shelter for the city’s growing homeless population. As the unrelenting sun rose the next morning, the blackened field on this side of the ridge was still smoldering under the watchful eye of a fire crew. Tomorrow, a warehouse or freight yard or convenience store will be standing on this cleared slate of history.
We were lucky this time. By nightfall, residents returned to their tiny homes with a sigh of relief. We had the fate of the wind and the agility of our fire crews to thank. A few degrees this way and Carl’s farmhouse might have suffered his cousin’s fate.
The recent pace of what is called progress has become a constant wear and tear on the wellbeing of those in its path out here. Not even the humility of a punishing drought or a scorching wildfire has much staying power. Another day and the pace is back in high gear. By afternoon, the wind will pick up and once more rattle this cottonwood but for now I am trying to stay focused on our good fortune.
Four years after the 2011 drought, Bergstrom’s homestead seemed destined to be swept along as well in this racing tide of urban sprawl. Today, it is history’s anchor for Village Farm residents who have chosen, for various reasons, an alternative lifestyle. Smaller footprint, closer community, and a hands-on experience with this little patch of farming history. Far from being abandon, Bergstrom’s legacy is as solid and comforting as walking over these floors of long-leaf pine. This farmhouse, the red mule barn, the fields growing vegetables — these are the constant reminders of our interdependence on old and new, urban and rural, past and present.
As the planet heats up and nature responds to its immutable laws, which we persist in thinking we can break or bend, we need urgent acts of preservation and restoration. We need these solid and sturdy reminders of how we got here to help guide us where we need to go.
