Apocalypse looming — axes are packed
Lately, I’ve been preparing for the apocalypse. Jugs of water? Check. Canned food? Check. Flashlights? Check. Ax throwing? Check. An online deal enticed a group of us to try AxeVentures in Berkeley, which opened earlier this year. Bad Axe Throwing in Daly City is another chain. They’re just one of dozens of such venues across the country, part of a trend that kicked off at an indoor arena in Toronto in 2011 before spreading to the United States.
Our instructor demonstrated how to throw the ax, offering a few words of wisdom before we began: “Release at eye level … keep elbow close to your body … don’t pull out the ax from the target at eye level … use an upanddown action to remove.”
Friends threw the axes, which landed with a satisfying thunk onto the wooden target. When my turn came around, though, the flat of the blade smacked against the splintering target and boomeranged off, sliding through the sawdust down the lane until the ax came to a rest near my feet.
“Pretend you’re pulling it out from your back,” another coach told us. “The concept behind ax throwing is distance plus form.”
She suggested where I should lunge from, and I tried again and again until at last the blade sank into the target. Like a gymnast sticking her landing, I threw up my arms in a V, in exultation.
This venue doesn’t serve alcohol, which is perhaps wise. Last year, HUB Stadium, located in a suburb of Detroit, had its liquor license suspended briefly after patrons threw axes at bottles of spirits and hurled two axes at once, among other questionable behavior.
In the lane beside ours, two firsttimers sank their axes with a fierce finesse. Eventually, the women upgraded to a premium target that featured a zombie embedded with bubbles of dye; when struck, red and blue blood dripped down its undead face. “I love zombies so much,” one said. Her friend nodded. “What is it about zombies?”
With the approach of Halloween, and longer nights, it’s a zombie time of year. Even the sunniest of autumn days has a chill in the air by nightfall, when all that creeps and slithers and rustles comes out to play — a notion made all the more real last week. PG&E’s planned power outages threw an estimated 2 million people — or 738,000 customer accounts — into darkness, which the utility deemed necessary to avoid the risk of another wildfire.
I tried to prepare my sons. “Everything’s going to be fine,” I said, even though the uncertainty weighed heavily on me.
“Nothing’s going to be fine,” Didi replied. Crickets chirped madly through the open window. “If I can’t charge my iPad, I’m going to throw myself into a volcano.”
We assured him and his brother that my husband could take the tablets to charge at work in San Francisco. A problem easily solved, but the preparations forced me to consider what would happen in a fullon emergency, when power wasn’t a BART ride away. When we might go days without electricity, the internet, mobile phone service or running water — a prospect that sharpened even more this week, with the two recent earthquakes in Pleasant Hill and the 30th anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake.
Just before the outage, both Didi and Gege had trouble sleeping, and so did I. I incessantly refreshed the news and social media online, my thoughts circling not only around this outage, but also the ones that surely will come in the future as climate change fuels wildfire risk.
Two summers ago, when a blaze forced us to cancel camping plans in the Sierra National Forest, I wondered how global warming would shape their memories of childhood.
Last summer, we had to call off a trip to Yosemite because of wildfire smoke and ash. That November, the devastating Paradise Fire led to a thick, choking cloud of toxic air over much of the Bay Area. Our family holed up as much as possible, sealing windows with painter’s tape, blasting air filters, and wearing masks if we ventured outside — all of which took a mental toll.
“Ecological grief ” is the chronic fear of environmental doom, according to the American Psychological Association. Its report lists suggestions on building resilience among individuals and in communities, which includes developing and maintaining social connections, and coming to the assistance of neighbors.
When the nights are darkest, it’s the knock on the door, the sound of another voice, the touch of another hand that makes us feel less alone, speeding us through the hours until dawn.
Just before the outage, both Didi and Gege had trouble sleeping, and so did I.