Oakland, California—On Tuesday, September 8, my husband and I were hiking along Pelican Bluffs Trail near Gualala, a tiny coastal town in Northern California’s Mendocino County, to which we’d come to escape from the heat and the wildfire smoke already plaguing the Bay Area. It was a dramatic walk, with views of white cliffs, pristine beaches, and the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean, whose intense blue was rivaled only by the skies above it. As a flight of pelicans vanished into the patch of ocean fog, I reminded myself of how lucky I was: seventeen years into my life in the great state of California, it still felt as if I’d barely scratched the surface. Then I glanced up and noticed a gray halo around the suddenly orange sun. It’s just sea fog, my husband told me; it doesn’t get smoky on the coast. The nearest fire, which had erupted over Labor Day at Willits, where we’d been planning a ride on the Skunk Train through the redwoods, was an hour and a half away—surely too far to cause this.