October 20, 1991 was a hot, dry windy morning I will never forget. In many ways it was the defining event of my life.

It was an Indian summer Sunday in the Oakland/Berkeley hills. People went to the beach or Lake Tahoe or the 49er game. Those who stayed home experienced the fire the way my family did — as an unexpected battle for our lives, a battle we survived but 25 others did not.

My wife and I and our little dog had taken a walk that morning. The wind was blowing from the east, a Diablo wind that only occurs during the fall. The temperature was near 90º, the humidity was 6%, we were in the sixth year of a drought.

We ate breakfast on our deck, sipping coffee and reading the Sunday paper. We had been remodeling our kitchen, and were taking a break from the clutter.

Bonnie saw a black smoke cloud coming up behind us on the ridge line. She and our 10-year-old, Daniel, jumped in the car and drove to Lake Temescal to investigate. Ten minutes later she called, telling me to get the video camera and come to the parking lot. I grabbed my still camera as well.

The scene was overwhelming. Fire swept like orange liquid down the slopes north of Highway 24. Houses exploded one by one. As we stood transfixed, a bush 50 feet away burst into flames. It was a bright sunny day and we could not see the firebrands floating down from the sky.

In California, when the Santa Ana (or Diablo) winds are blowing from the east and a fire occurs in a susceptible area, there is very little that any fire suppression forces or technologies can do to resist the spread of the fire. The results will depend mainly on the fuel that is downwind from the fire and the length of time that the wind continues to push the fire in that direction.

The Oakland fire was not stopped by the firefighters from 36 jurisdictions, or by CDF, or by local volunteers. It topped because the wind reversed and the fog rolled in that night.

The East Bay hills have experienced destructive fire every generation since people began building their homes in the Wildland Urban Interface. Most of the Mendocino County homes outside the city limits of Ukiah and Willits are built in this zone.

After I arrived at the lake, Bonnie jumped back into her car and raced home. With my background as a journalist I felt more excitement than personal danger, and I raced around taking photos, as the wind whipped up whitecaps on the lake’s surface. A CDF helicopter dipped water from the lake.

It was just one week after CDF’s contract with their pilots and planes had ended for the season, but one pilot who happened to be around flew down from Santa Rosa to drop retardant on the fire. But then he had to make the round trip back to reload, so the effect was minimal.

My wife had more sense than I, an experience that many couples repeated. She packed armfuls of clothes into the

car and corralled the animals — our dog, cat and a rabbit. One cat, my Himalayan named Fudge, was never seen again.

She grabbed a new computer and a few family photo albums, and we packed over to her sister’s house, thinking we might be gone overnight. We tried to get back into our neighborhood that evening, but police had it blocked off. We couldn’t get within a mile.

The next day, Monday, we returned by police van to our smoldering ruin. We found a few warm pieces of ceramic that crumbled to the touch, and an 1890s vintage cast iron bank that had been my grandmother’s as a child.

The 150-foot redwood tree in the front yard was naked of foliage, charred from bottom to top. I lost thousands of books and a huge collection of jazz records. My mother asked for years if the bronze baby shoes survived.

It took us three years to rebuild, with predatory contractors and insurance adjusters crawling over the hills, and a city permit process that was clogged with the needs of 3,000 families.

I still get shivers every time I return and drive up Highway 24 and look at the hills, now mostly rebuilt. We moved away in 2001 for fear of earthquakes and came to Mendocino County. And where did we buy a home? You guessed it. In the hills west above the Ukiah valley. In an area that burned to the ground in 1959.

The lesson here is clear. Anyone living away from the cool coastal fog is in danger of eventually being burned out by fire. We are in a drought year this summer, and don’t think droughts last only for a year. Next year could be just as dry, and the next year, and the next year.

Certainly, homes in the hills are most at risk, but inland towns aren’t safe, either. A massive fire in the hills will sweep down and take homes like mine, and will rain hot embers on homes and schools and businesses in the flat areas of towns. There will never be enough resources to prevent disaster. Only rain or a change in wind direction will save us.

Or good prevention and preparation.
The fire will eventually happen.

My experience in 1991 led me to get involved in the Mendocino County Fire Safe Council. Now, I find it difficult to get my friends and neighbors interested in doing what they could to save their homes in case of fire. They are in denial.
So were we.

Homes will burn. Family photos and treasures will be lost. Pets and livestock will die. People, especially the old and infirm, will be trapped and die.

Count on it.

It’s hard to think the unthinkable, but please try.

Robert Bruce is a freelance writer and board member of the Mendocino County Fire Safe Council. You can reach him at rbruce@pacific.net.