The Eaton Fire started at the location of my first kiss.
We used to park on the shaded lane across from the mountains and sneak past a cliffside house, through a fence, and between some brush to perch on a concrete slab that overlooked the canyon. There, above the narrow watershed, we drank peach schnapps, listening to the Cure, or Prince, or Eric B. & Rakim, and fooled around. Beneath our feet was some unidentified infrastructure, but “the lookout,” as we called it (obvious, I know), offered a glorious view. Beyond the mouth of the canyon, sharp ridges followed the tight turns of Eaton Wash. Somewhere back there were waterfalls. If the moon was out, the river rocks glowed. Along the highest peak were the lights of Mt. Wilson, 4,000…
