This is the third part of Hayes' personal account of being evacuated from Jasper.
For the first part, read: : Jasper reporter shares day leading up to heartbreaking evacuation
For the second part, read: Jasper reporter shares personal account of evacuation
Denied at what we thought would be the evacuee reception centre in Prince George, my partner Tessa Nunn and I first stopped at a Starbucks. That was for one obvious reason but with another being that I needed to check into work for the first time in what seemed like days. It was about 14 hours since we left Jasper.
We were told that the shop had to close early because of low staffing, and the WiFi on the patio was not strong. Patiently, I waited for the signal so I could send some brief notes to colleagues. My sense of helplessness was battling my sense of responsibility. Thankfully, Great West Media’s team of reporters province-wide had me covered.
Soon on the long road back to Alberta, we tried to stay upbeat by admiring the beauty of the scenery and remarking on the industries and energy infrastructure that we passed. We promised each other to come back again on a better, slower note in the future.
We arrived at the evacuee reception centre in Grande Prairie around 10 p.m., only to find the doors locked shut. A sign on the opposite side of the building told us it would reopen at 9 a.m. The first hotel we went to was full of other evacuees. We talked about sleeping in the truck again. Luckily, the next hotel a block away had one room left. We paid and checked in.
In the morning, the evacuation centre people were friendly as they typed all of our information into their computer and wrapping bright orange wristbands on us.
There were no care packages, no questions about how we were doing, if we needed anything.
They sent us to a hotel where we can stay for up to two weeks. Every day, we get vouchers for meals at the onsite restaurant.
By Wednesday, we started to see and hear reports and video snippets from Jasper taken by firefighters driving around. The Maligne Lodge was ablaze, as was our favourite café – the Wicked Cup. Our hearts sank for our friends there.
Our minds wandered to where we lived only two blocks away. We expected the worst, especially after hearing that the same gas station that people were suddenly lining up on Monday evening was also gone. We are, or were, in the middle of that. Not knowing is horrible.
We spent hours mentally walking through our suite, seeing Tessa’s incredible paintings that were still left behind, things forgotten. I was devastated to remember her painting of a scene in Italy that she gave to me. It was still hanging on my office wall. I don’t care about my satchel of all of my creative writing, stories and poems that I sweated over. That painting is irreplaceable.
This torture went on and on, leaving me mostly sleepless. The first night in our new room, I stayed up till 3:30 a.m. My mind was far too active. Instead, I started to write this first-person account of being an evacuee by request from my colleagues. Perhaps it would help make some sense of things.
It’s difficult to be coherent amid all of the informational needs of my colleagues coupled with the emotional scenes being thrown at you on the internet: videos of the flames, houses burned down, people telling their tales, others offering their support, newspapers from around the world asking me to be interviewed. I wish I could shut it all down, but I cannot.
Amid all of this, beyond all of my own turmoil, I reflect on bigger picture things. How is that evacuees from a rich mostly white community like Jasper get hotel rooms offered, no questions asked, while there are hundreds of mostly Indigenous people living on the streets here in Grande Prairie. We’re all homeless. What’s the difference?
I also reflect on how well governments really take care of people in crisis. We were sent out of province with misinformation about Prince George receiving us. We arrived in Grande Prairie to a closed evac centre. At the hotel here, I happened to pass by a sign offering psychological services for evacuees in one of the meeting rooms. Why isn’t this information communicated directly to me, to us? Why did we even bother to register if it wasn’t important to have our phone numbers or email addresses?
I tried to make sure that Tessa and I were also signed up on the Alberta Emergency Registration System. The online form offered a space for extra notes, and so I tried to ensure that it was recorded that Tessa is hard of hearing and has environmental and dietary sensitivities. The form wouldn’t accept any of it. So I left it blank. To finish the registration, I had to input my driver’s license number with the 17-digit audit control number in small print on the back.
It wouldn’t accept that number either, so the entire registration failed.
I tried to call to have the issue fixed but was flummoxed by the automated voice system. I sent an email instead, asking for someone to call me directly. It’s been a day now with no response.
I watched Premier Danielle Smith choke back tears on television. I wonder where her tears were when the beautiful people of the Little Red River Cree Nation were evacuated from John D’or Prairie, Fox Lake, and Garden River. What about the people of Chipewyan Lake or the Municipal District of Bighorn? They deserve her love too.
None of this is fair. Nature always wins. Fire is an element. Everything reduces down at some point.
