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I met Father Peter-Damian in late August. He had returned my call asking to interview the monks about their fruitcake operation for a story I hoped to write in time for the Christmas season. He told me most people had to book months in advance to stay at the retreat house, but a last-minute cancellation had just freed up a room for the following day. I set out on the four-hour drive, hoping my years in Catholic school would help me look more knowledgeable than I felt.

As agreed, I met him at the bookstore at 9 a.m. after arriving late the previous night. He looked about my age -- late 40s -- although his buzz cut and conspiratorial expression reminded me of boys I'd been friends with in school. For the next two days, I interviewed Father PD and we toured the property. I finished up my notes, drove home and sent flowers a few days later to thank the monks for their hospitality.

I heard about the fire the next day when Father PD e-mailed a thank you for the lilies I'd sent: "There is a forest fire burning just four miles south of us and we are on alert. About 200 firefighters and a few huge planes are trying to put it out or bring it under control, but the air is heavy with the smells of burning nature. Keep us in your prayers. We live with this constant threat, but it only becomes painfully real once every so many years. Thanks again for the lovely gift which was unnecessary but a delightful surprise! Father PD."

He'd said earlier that the monks paid a price for their seclusion. They had lost access to Monterey for several months last year when rock slides blocked Highway 1, eliminating their usual Friday trips north for food and other supplies -- "everything from sheetrock to underwear," as Father PD had put it. The alternate routes -- east, over the mountains to King City, or south, to Cambria -- took precious additional hours away from their prayer and work commitments at the hermitage.

I assumed the firefighters would soon control the blaze. However, on Sept. 15, my correspondent sent another message: "Just a quick note to let you know that the fire has worsened and we have been making contingency plans for evacuation. I have volunteered to stay behind, should it come to that, and help the professional firefighters in any way we (3-4 monks) can do so. If you do not hear from me for awhile, it is because I have no access to e-mail or I am gone temporarily or the phone lines have been burned out. Please keep us monks on the mountain in your prayers."

I prayed, then pounded out a quick response, suddenly self-conscious. I barely knew Father PD, yet I felt a stake in the fate of the peaceful mountainside oasis. Perhaps most visitors did. People of all faiths -- and some with none -- came to the hermitage to experience its acceptance and simplicity. I'd noticed the effect even though mine was a work visit. At several points during our interview, I fought the urge to set aside my note pad and say, "Can we just talk about the real reason I'm here?" -- even though I didn't know exactly what it was. I got the feeling Father PD knew. He'd said that quiet walks, meditation, even baking fruitcake and repairing furniture, let the mind "tune in" because there was no need to tune anything out. I assumed you also needed to be ready to hear what your mind had to say.

The thought of sending an e-mail to Father PD over potentially burning phone lines made me squeamish so I called the small Camaldolese monastery in Berkeley on Sept. 17.

"Yes," a monk answered, "someone just called from Big Sur five minutes ago. The firefighters think they can contain it. They'll know for sure by tomorrow."

I got back on my computer, cautious but relieved. Under "Contained?" I wrote, "If you think of anything I can do, please let me know ... Maybe the timing of my visit was for a purpose I didn't know about at the time. Catherine."

Next page | "Please keep us in your prayers"