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The Reality of Wildfire
A Mendocino Scenario

   IT’S A HOT DAY in early October. It’s 2:30 and the afternoon wind has just kicked up. There’s been no rain since May, and everything is tinder dry. Our CDF air tankers, command plane, and helicopter are fighting a fire near Santa Cruz. Nearly half our county’s fire engines are near L.A., where160 homes burned earlier this week.

A wildfire breaks out in Mendocino County.

The fire is in a steep canyon, four miles from a paved road and 30 minutes from the nearest fire station. By the time the first local firefighters reach it, the fire is 200 acres, spreading fast, and beyond their control. They radio for more help and start looking for homes in harm’s way.
The Emergency Command Center at Howard Forest leaps into action. Air tankers are ordered, but they’re an hour’s flight away. The nearest helicopter is 45 minutes out. Firefighters who’ve never been to our county are called to help. Sheriff’s deputies are dispatched to evacuate residents.

As the fire grows, Joe and Barbara notice smoke below their property. They call their neighbors and fire station to find out what’s happening. Lines are busy or no one’s there. There’s no news on the radio. Joe gets in his pickup to scout out the situation. He finds that the fire is close to their only road, and heading up the canyon. A hundred homes are uphill from the fire. If the fire spreads, they’ll all be trapped.

Joe speeds home. He’s not sure if they should stay or leave—and wishes they had prepared for either eventuality. The smell of smoke drifts up the canyon. Joe turns on a hose to wet down his home, while Barbara hastily loads children and documents into their car. They try to corral their pets, but two of their dogs run away. Starting to panic, Joe and Barbara try to get their horses into the trailer, but they’re spooked and won’t cooperate. The fire is getting closer. The smell of smoke is thick in the air, and an occasional ash falls on the ground. The sun starts to glow orange. The scene is surreal.

Suddenly the water stops flowing. The one power line along the road has burned, so the pump has quit. Phones go dead too. Now really in panic, Joe and Barbara make one last attempt to capture their animals. With heavy hearts, they leave without them.

The drive downhill takes a long time. In places the road is only one lane, so they must back up to turnouts to let fire engines pass. Other cars are collecting behind them, making matters worse. A huge dozer on a lowboy barely fits on the road at all.   

Now the sun is completely blocked. Joe turns on the headlights. Ashes are falling on the windshield. For most of the drive they can’t tell where the fire is. Luckily, they pass the fire where the canyon is wider. The fire races up the hill. Trees explode like torches. The wind is fierce.

Joe and Barbara make it to the valley floor.
But they are frightened for those who may not have escaped. They wonder if their elderly neighbors got out, and feel guilty. They are worried sick about their animals.

From the valley, they can see that the fire has spread to three neighboring canyons. Flames are leaping from treetops. Houses are burning. The scene is terrifying.

Some residents have stayed behind.

Some have prepared themselves and their property in advance. Their homes are fire resistant and the brush has been cleared. Their gravity-fed water supply has a fire department connector and hose. They know the risks and are ready to meet them.

But some who stay behind aren’t prepared. They think they can evacuate at the last minute. But they don’t realize how fast a wildfire can move. And they don’t know that most people killed by wildfires die while trying to evacuate—too late.

Fire engines from other counties begin to arrive. They check in with the chief in charge. He tells them to stop at the local fire station for maps. In the confusion, the maps can’t be found. Radio waves are jammed and instructions aren’t clear.

A fire chief from Napa is assigned to protect the canyon’s homes. He has five engines under his command. He’s nervous about fighting a wildfire without a map. He arrives at the beginning of the road. It’s narrow and bordered by pines, tanoaks, and French broom, all highly flammable. He wonders how much worse the road is farther up the canyon. He tries to reach local fire engines on his radio, but can’t.

A sign tells the chief the road’s name. But there’s no indication of how long it is, if it dead ends, or if it connects to other roads. He doesn’t know if it has tight curves his fire engines can’t navigate, or if there are bridges that can’t support their weight.

He wonders how many homes there are, and if the owners have prepared them to survive. Have they cleared their brush? Trimmed trees away from roofs? Are the roofs fire-resistant, or flammable shakes? Is there room for fire equipment to turn around? Backing down a quarter-mile driveway is dangerous, and he won’t send his crews into that situation.

He wonders about water. Is there water he can tap? Tanks must have National Fire connections for him to access it. He thinks about all the times he’s come upon large tanks but found no way to tap them.

The chief doesn’t see anyone evacuating. He wonders if everyone is gone, if some people are staying, and if any elderly or disabled persons need to be rescued.

All these dilemnas -- Joe and Barbara’s, and the Chief’s -- could be solved by one thing: Local preparation — by you and me.