Summer, 2017
Santa Rosa, California is the County Seat for Sonoma County, one of the largest and arguably the most beautiful county in the state. Its Western boundary is eternally washed by the rugged Pacific waves pounding the coastline, the east segues into beautiful Napa Valley, to the North Mendocino County extends the Sonoma coastline and is home to gorgeous Redwood and Sequoia forests, and to the south, Marin county borders San Francisco Bay and is home to the south terminus of the Golden Gate Bridge.
We loved the area. Vineyards as far as the eye could see, each meticulously patterned, the Pacific Coast a short twenty-five mile drive, an economy thriving on Tourism and the wine industry which produced some the finest wines in the world, Napa Valley thirty miles to the East and Alexander Valley about the same to the north.
Our home was located near the north east border of Santa Rosa, perched atop Parker Hill at eight hundred fifty feet elevation. Situated off the main development street, Wedgewood Way, it lay at the foot of a common driveway serving four homes, one to our left, two to the right. A very private location in a tranquil neighborhood of fifty-six homes. It was a large home, two stories, with ver 3,600 square feet.
From our rear balcony our we had a view south and west to the Santa Rosa Valley which was dissected by US 101, the main and only highway to points north and south. The view was obstructed by multiple hues of green from a variety of trees that had slowly reached skyward in the fifteen years of our residence. Only a few of the twinkling valley lights we enjoyed in our early years were visible.
U.S 101 was incessantly under construction; the North Bay area grew and the traffic followed suit exponentially. Commutes became long and frustrating. The cost of living rose on all fronts adding to the many challenges of living in a desirable part of the world.
For several years prior to the summer of 2017, we had contemplated the next chapter of our life, one we hoped would be defined by a simpler lifestyle in a smaller home. Realistically we knew that next chapter would not be in California. So early in the summer we began to aggressively research potential areas for relocation.
In July, we took a short sojourn to South Lake Tahoe to celebrate our 47th anniversary. While three we drove into Reno, Nevada to explore options available to us. We found a home we really liked, one we felt would meet our needs then and well into the future. It is in the Washoe Valley which is bordered by the Sierra Nevada to the West and the Virginia Foothills to the East. The hills and mountains cradled a fifty-five plus community that appealed to us on many levels. The topographic beauty and the friendly, outgoing residents convinced us the area was one we could enjoy for many years.
For the next couple months we weighed the pros and cons of buying the home we favored in the community. The process surfaced a few trepidations, not the least of which was leaving beautiful California, a place we loved and our home for more than twenty years. The sadness of having to say goodbye to friends and family was somewhat mitigated by the fact that the distance between them and us would be relatively short.
So on September 7th, 2017, we returned to Reno, having made our decision to sell our home and move to Reno.
Little did we know that a month later that decision would prove to be a seminal event in our life. We went with our gut, as we had many times when the outcome of a decision could not be known.
Once again it proved to be a reliable guidepost.
October 7, 2018
It was a typical fall day in Northern California: beautiful blue sky, a wisp of clouds here and there, warm temperatures and a mild breeze. It was also a typical day for us, running errands like the cleaners, grocery store and the mall. We also spent some time tweaking the landscaping and arranging the deck. We wanted the house, painted just two months earlier, to be bask in its best light when the photographer arrived at five o’clock to take stills of the exterior.
One of the pictures he took is at the top of the page. He took many more photographs, a collection of which would have made a beautiful collage in our listing, scheduled for February 1, 2018.
As evening approached the breeze was holding steady. The weather forecast for the night and next day was for increasing wind speed that could lead to a Red Flag Warning, though none was issued at that time. The drought-stressed trees, the summer scorched brush, low humidity and a strengthening high pressure ridge off the Pacific coast was potentially a perfect meteorological fire storm.
We went to bed a little uneasy wondering what the next day would bring.
October 8, 2017
We were greeted by another beautiful sunrise, a bit more wind rustling the leaves and swaying the summer grasses. It was business as usual that morning until 11:00 am, when the Red Flag Warning was issued for all of the North Bay and especially for Santa Rosa.
Highly unlikely, we thought, given the nature of Fountaingrove, a community of hundreds of hillside homes with light forestation and typical development foilage. At an altitude of 875 feet with a partial view through a lightly-treed slope to the valley floor, we were confident that any fire that did erupt could be easily and quickly contained: less than six hundred yards from our home stood Santa Rosa Fire Station No.5 which had been strategically relocated from the foot of Parker Hill to the pinnacle to help assure quick response to any fire or emergency.
About 10 p.m., the smell of smoke began to appear, getting stronger as bedtime approached.
A check of the news informed us that a fire had erupted near Tubbs Road in Napa, about 27 miles to our west, and was moving quickly. There were no evacuation orders near us.
I’ll never know for sure what prompted me to decide that we needed a plan just in case we had to evacuate. In retrospect I think it was a lesson I learned in Vietnam during my one-year tour. The unexpected was always expected, and a plan to find safety quickly was a necessity, one which served me well on many occasions.
So about 10:30 p.m., Jane, Lusi (Mom’s live-in caregiver) and I got together to talk about what we would do in case we needed to evacuate. Convinced that was highly improbable, an opinion based on the distance of the fire from us and the proximity of the fire station, the plan was simple: Lusi and I would get Mom into her wheel chair and out to the car, while Jane would corral the dog Pogo and our cat Minnie. No thought was given to gathering any possessions as we felt evacuation would just be a temporary inconvenience.
We went to be bed concerned but also convinced that our urban setting would surely be spared by any fire. We never suspected that a fire that far away could reach us at all, let alone during this night.
As we drifted off to an uneasy sleep, the wind speed began to pickup whistling through bent tree tops, rattling windows and our nerves. We had high wind many times before, so it was not particularly alarming. We gave into sleep that came begrudgingly a little after 11.
October 9, 2017
Midway through the night, nature called, or perhaps it was the intensity of the smoke aroma which triggered the call. Whatever the reason, I woke up, and as I walked toward the bathroom, the smell of smoke seemed stronger with each step.
I glanced at my watch.
It was 2:56 a.m., and there was no electrical power.
As I reached for the water closet door I saw Jane’s phone, with a message displayed that stopped me in my tracks: a mandatory evacuation had been issued for the Fountaingrove area by the SRPD at 1:41 a.m. More than an hour had passed since the notice, the only one we got that night. No bullhorn, no knock on the door, just the happenstance of waking up.
I immediately yelled to Jane to get up and get dressed as we were in imminent danger and had to leave now.
Just how imminent it was became clear when I hurried to the front door where Lusi had arrived a few seconds earlier. We briefly froze. The sky was an angry combination of red and orange, embers were swirling in every direction, some small, some baseball size and larger. The wind was swirling around a medium-sized Red Maple in the front yard, creating what appeared to be a vortex.
It looked as if we were standing on the floor of hell looking skyward.
I told Lusi to get her stuff from her room downstairs and meet me in Mom’s room as quickly as she could. I ran back to the bedroom where Jane was nearly dressed by the light of an emergency lantern. I slipped on a pair of jeans, tucked in my pajama tee shirt, put my bare feet into my running shoes, grabbed my wallet and car key, forgetting my glasses, and headed toward Mom’s room. Jane tried to call our neighbor at the top of the driveway and our friends two blocks away, but neither answered.
About six minutes had elapsed.
I woke Mom gently from a sound sleep, telling her we had to get up and leave right away. Though confused, she sat right up at about the same time Lusi arrived with her wheel chair. We lifted her gently but quickly, got her settled in the wheelchair, put on her slippers and a warm top, then Lusi and I and Mom headed for the front door.
Meantime, Jane had finished dressing, grabbed our passports and cash from the wall safe, her glasses, her purse, her phone and phone chargers and was in the process of gathering the dog, an easy task, and corralling the cat who remained a few steps ahead until cornered trying to slip under Mom’s abandoned bed.
When Lusi and I reached the door with Mom and the wheelchair, my heart sank: the ramp we had used to take the wheelchair from the porch to the sidewalk wasn’t there. I had moved it into the garage the night before so the exterior photos of the front would look their best.
While standing at the doorway plotting our next move, I called 911 to see if there was any help available to ge Mom down the stairs.
We were on our own.
I ran to the car, a Lincoln MKZ sedan, thinking I could open the garage door from inside the car, grab the 50-lb. ramp and get it set up.
Then I remembered the power was out so the garage door opener in the car was useless, so I ran in the house, went to the garage and released the electric door opener manually. I grabbed the folded ramp and got to the steps as fast as I could. I put the ramp in position and opened the first of three folds.
The wind had increased by this time, being driven by the firestorm created by the fire itself. I had to brace myself as I tried to extend the ramp through the second fold. Between the wind and the flying embers, I had to abandon that effort, and I left the ramp in place, creating a steep decent that Lusi and I would have to negotiate to get Mom off the porch.
About nine minutes had elapsed.
The wind had increased again, and the embers were everywhere, so I turned on the front garden hose and began to knock them down as best I could to prevent them from landing on Mom or Lusi who were now ready to get down the ramp.
I dropped the hose, and we backed Mom down, then Lusi pushed her to the car. Somehow she managed to get Mom in the car by herself, a task that usually required two. She stayed with Mom, who by this time had sensed that something was not right.
Jane came out, carrying the dog in her arms and cat in her carrier and deposited them in the back seat while I folded the wheel chair and slammed it in the trunk. We were ready to go, but Jane suddenly headed back to the house.
I went after her and told we had to go now. She had returned to successfully gather up the week’s medications for Mom, me and herself, a courageous move that would prove to be critical in the days ahead.
She climbed into the back seat crowded with two pet carriers, a walker, Lusi’s backpack and Jane’s bag. We never considering caravaning with Lusi’s car — time was just too critical and we didn’t want to risk the possibility of getting separated. Jane’s car was left in the garage.
As we headed up the driveway, flanked by recently ignited tall grasses, I glanced at our house through the rearview mirror: the 60-foot Redwood in the back was ablaze, as was the 75-year-old Olive tree. The front fence was flattened by the wind, the rear fence under attack. We were getting closer to disaster.
In my heart I knew that our housed was doomed, and it was with just the slimmest of hopes that I glanced away.
As we turned left out of the driveway Jane again called our neighbor. I paused briefly in front of her house while we waited for her to answer. This time the call was successful, and Jane told her it was critical that she leave immediately, leave everything and get out.
Anguished we didn’t have room for her in our car but hopeful our neighbor could evacuate, we turned right onto Parker Hill Road. The fire was everywhere, and we had no idea whether we should drive east or west on Fountaingrove to find safety. There was just no way of knowing, so we headed east.
It was 3:17 a.m.
In the rear seat, Lusi sent an email to her boyfriend telling him we were evacuating and wishing him safety.
After about a quarter mile, we rounded a slight bend and could see traffic was heading west, so we u-turned at Newgate — the road that housed the fire station just a few yards in. The station was dark but intact. Why weren’t they on our block fighting the neighborhood fire? We would later learn that the crew had been dispatched to Napa to help contain the Tubbs fire.
We started west on Fountaingrove Parkway. A tree-lined median separated the two sides of the meandering road. As we came around a slight curve near Thomas Lake Harris road, the two sides of the road ahead appeared to have merged — in a wall of fire. With no option but to continue, I sped up, and in a second we were driving through it. The median and the right shoulder were ablaze, but the roadway was clear. It only took a few seconds to navigate through the area, but the intense heat we felt in those few seconds was like nothing we had ever experienced, will never be forgotten, and one nobody should ever have to go through. (As we later learned, the temperature of the fire was near 2000 degrees.) How our car didn’t somehow spontaneously combust is a subject we will discuss for a very long time.
As we continued down the hill, we could see fire on both sides of the road, blazing in some areas, while leaving others unscathed. Such was the nature of the wind- driven fire: its next victim was not necessarily the adjacent tree. Its wild embers were landing everywhere, and nowhere.
As we cleared the wall of fire, Jane’s cell phone rang. It was ADT telling us that our smoke detectors were going off. As she explained to the operator that it was to be expected this night given the smoke that permeated the air, she did so hopeful that it was just smoke in the house that had triggered the alarm. The operator interrupted her to tell her that all of our lower level window alarms had just tripped.
The fire had breached the lower level. We knew in our hearts that we had lost our home.
It was 3:24 a.m.
I continued down Fountaingrove through a thick blanket of smoke. I could barely see ahead. As I approached what I thought would be the Bicentennial cutoff, the sign was obliterated. To my right I saw an image I will never forget: the historic Round Barn was engulfed in golden flames, the burning structure still intact, struggling to stay upright. We later realized we were probably one of the last to see it standing. The next time I saw the structure, it was a circle of ash, all that remained of the iconic barn.
I continued down Fountaingrove, startled by an oncoming car that appeared to be my lane but in fact was on the opposite side of the road. Disorientation seemed to be my only guide until we reached a less dense smoke cover. Thinking it was Bicentennial, I turned right and quickly realized that I had turned north onto Redwood Highway but the entrance to 101 North was nowhere to be seen. It was evident almost immediately that I had made an egregious error: the fire was burning on the hillside of the horse ranch to our right, and further down the road the flames were attacking Cardinal Newman High School.
I made a u-turn at the Kaiser-Permanente complex and headed south. When I reached the northbound entrance I had missed just minutes before, a Highway Patrol car was blocking it, lights flashing in psychedelic fashion through the smoke.
I stopped and asked him for directions to get away from the speeding fire. He told me to get on southbound 101 via Bicentenial. I thought he had said “northbound” but soon realized that mistake. I looked down Redwood highway (Mendicino Avenue) and didn’t see any fire. The “Journey’s End” mobile home park, later destroyed, was intact at that time.
I turned right when I reached Bicentennial, crossed over 101 and headed south on the freeway, not sure if where I was I going was taking us out of harm’s way. The smoke was like a thick fog that began to dissipate as we made our way south. Our angst was also beginning to lift. We passed a Mercedes Benz on the shoulder, completely engulfed in flames. Visions of what could have happened to us in the wall of fire us flashed through my mind.
While I was navigating our escape — there’s no way to call it an evacuation — Jane was on the phone contacting my sister, telling her we were safe and heading to Graton Casino in Rhonert Park, about 10 miles away. We were confident the fire had not spread south, yet. We suggested she call my brother and that both of them evacuate immediately. The unpredictability of the fire’s path could trap them in minutes. We agreed to meet them at the casino, an oasis of lights and amenities we all needed.
I parked near the entrance. When I got out to stretch my legs and take a deep breath I looked north and stared in disbelief as the entire outline of the hills was being devoured by the Tubbs Fire.
It was 3:37 a.m.
Forty-seven minutes that changed our lives forever.
A fire that took more than 40 lives in Sonoma County, destroyed more than 5,000 homes and structures, shattered dreams and aspirations and left physical and emotional scars that will last a lifetime.
This video was taken by The Press Democrat.
What Now?
Throughout the escape, Mom remained awake and seemingly awestruck by the events. She may not have been sure of what happened, but I’m sure she knew it was something terrible. Looking at her sitting in her pajamas, wondering what was going on, she looked very tired and fragile, and we knew we needed to get her someplace to rest. Jane began calling hotels in the immediate area, but apparently our delay in realizing the need to leave was a window of opportunity others from the area used to book rooms. None were available.
The parking lot at the casino saw a steady stream of cars arrive filled with people and their animals who had evacuated or escaped. They mingled outside their respective cars staring northward, wondering about neighbors and friends, looking intently at their cell phones for a reassuring text or email. It was like a scene from an alien invasion movie.
We, too, wondered about the fate of our friends and neighbors. We were able to contact our friends and found they were safely situated in their daughter’s home. Shortly after 4 a.m we got a call from our neighbor and friend. She had managed to get out of the house but could not get her car out of the garage, unable to reach the manual disconnect on the garage door. She wandered toward the fire station hoping to find some way to escape the flames that were now consuming homes along the entire block. The station was ablaze. She told us she thought she was in hell and was going to die there and then.
The smoke was overwhelming her asthmatic lungs and was about to bring her to her knees when two lights appeared through the thickening smoke. She waved her flashlight; the driver spotted her, stopped and drove her to safety. He was an off-duty fireman who was in the area to check on his home. She was reunited later that morning with her daughter.
The night was just beginning to fade when we left the casino and headed south in search of a hotel anywhere, even as far away as San Francisco. As our frustration mounted, a stroke of good fortune came our way: our neighbor, who was temporarily living in Spain, had just returned to the country to attend a meeting in San Diego. He saw the fire coverage on TV after landing and immediately called Jane to see what she knew. It was not good news, and she told him there was nothing he could do this a.m. She shared that all the hotels she had tried were booked and that we were still searching for rooms. A short while later his status as as a very frequent traveler paid off as he was was able to book two rooms at the local Hyatt Regency, available for check-in later that afternoon. We agreed to meet him there later in the day.
Meanwhile, my sister returned home, assured by neighbors and the news that the fire had not reached southwest Santa Rosa. We were about 20 miles south of Rohnert Park when she called to let us know she was home and that it was safe, so decided that we would take Mom to my sister’s house to get her a bathroom and a bed. What a trooper she had been.
As we approached an exit to head north, an unforgettable site unfolded in the northbound lanes: a parade of ambulances, two dozen at least, lights flashing, sirens blaring were traveling at breakneck speed toward the fire area. Our worst fears welled up. Our hearts went out to the victims. (We later learned the caravan was dispatched to the Kaiser Permanente Hospital to evacuate patients.)
We arrived at my sister’s home a little before 6 a.m. The smell of smoke was very heavy, and the sky to the north and east was a deep shade of grey and black. With the help of two neighbors we were able to get Mom out of the car, into her wheelchair which they carried into my sister’s home. She was “home.”
While Mom slept on the sofa bed in the living room, the rest of us gathered in the family room, watching the news coverage of the fire, which was still totally out of control with no containment in sight. We were numb. We shed tears for ourselves and others who were going through an unimaginable experience. Jane and I held each other. We feared that we had just lost everything we had worked for, planned for, sacrificed for. Our 47- year personal museum was likely gone, along with every artifact, every photograph, every stitch of clothes, everything.
Our new “everything” was on our backs and in our possession. At 73 and 70 respectively, it was a devastating blow to which our only response was “What Now”?
The Morning After
We mostly stared, like deer in oncoming headlights, totally unsure of what our next move should be. There was no way for us to get to the neighborhood. The fire had moved on, leaving smoldering homes and hotspots everywhere in its path. We felt like we had just lost a loved one, but until we were notified and could see the body, we held out a slim hope that somehow our house had been spared.
As the adrenaline wore off, fatigue set in. We answered and made a few calls assuring friends and family we were all safe but that we feared the house was lost. Offers of help punctuated every conversation, but, really, what could anybody do? It was totally in our hands.
The rest of the day is largely a blur. Check-in at the Hyatt. People everywhere in the lobby, dogs and more dogs, a few cats in carriers. Glassy-eyed men and women anxiously talking and texting.
Going to dinner at Jackson’s Bar and Oven, Pogo safely ensconced at the hotel in his carrier beneath our table. A compassionate, complimentary meal. People offering condolences. Drinks to ease the pain. Walking Pogo around the hotel.
Finally crashing.
We crawled in to bed sans the usual sleeping attire: no night gown, no pajamas, just Pogo snuggled between us providing warmth and comfort. A frightening realization set in: all of our worldly possessions were in this hotel room (except for Minnie who stayed at my sister’s home). Staring at then ceiling, holding hands, tears trickling down. After some time we mercifully dozed off.
The dawn of our new life appeared just a few hours later.
New Days Of Our Life
We immediately started to plan our day. We needed everything, so we headed to Target for shoes, clothes, underwear, socks, jackets, reading glasses, toothbrush, deodorant, and on and on, each item a reminder of just how little our “everything” now was.
Other victims of the fire roamed the store, their plight revealed by the contents of their respective carts and dazed looks. Gazes met, hugs exchanged. The city was in shock.
The inescapable toxic smoke was thick enough to cut with a knife. Ash rained down on cars and buildings. Coughing and sneezing, red eyes, tears – smoke the culprit.
As that day unfolded, questions came pouring out. How do we replace our vital records? When can we visit our site? What to do about debris removal? How do we get living expenses?
Answers to these and other questions we didn’t know we should ask would surface over the ensuing days and weeks.
Definitive proof that our home was gone came on the morning of the 12th. Our former neighbor, an energy company executive, was able to use her credentials to gain access to the neighborhood. Her former home was the one at the top of our driveway. It was gone.
She called to tell us the news we dreaded: all was lost. She sent us these pictures of what was left of our house.
I lost it. We both cried, really cried, sobbing for the first time. How could this happen to us? What did we do? What will we do? Seeing what the fire did to structures, I shuddered to think what our fate would have been but for the simple plan we had executed. The photos were s a gut punch that left me nearly breathless. The stress was palpable.
We returned to the Hyatt that evening to meet up with our neighbor who had made it up from San Diego while his wife watch the horror unfold on television in Spain. The three of us numbly went to dinner, all glassy-eyed, pain etched on our respective faces. Realization had arrived in full force.
We had only one option–to start our recovery.
It would be a recovery fueled by our love for each other, Jane’s positive attitude, our resolve, love from our neighbors and family, even total strangers. We leaned on all the love that came our way to help keep us upright and steady in the weeks and months ahead. Inspiration and encouragement came for all directions as the community came together. “Sonoma Strong” became a rallying cry.
But perhaps the most inspirational statement came from a photograph of one of the sculptures at a local winery. Paradise Ridge, a favorite winery located on a hill a couple miles from our home, lost nearly all of their structures, including the tasting room, but not the LOVE sculpture.
This poignant photograph from their sculpture garden, taken by the Press Democrat and overlaid with the title words from this post, is now iconic.
Photo: Santa Rosa Press Democrat.
The LOVE sculpture has even more significance in our journey: it’s from the 2007 Burning Man Festival held in the Reno area every year.
It was to be a long, difficult journey as we traveled three stressful, parallel paths on the way: dealing with the minutia of the insurance requirements, coordinating the myriad of detail we had to manage for the construction of our new home in Reno, and helplessly watching Mom’s decline. She passed on March 28, 2018, her passing no doubt accelerated by the trauma of the fire. She was 99 1/2.
Her passing put the loss of our home in perespective: nothing compares to losing a loved one. Without an abundance of love to lean on, I don’t know how we would have gotten through all that we lost.
In my next post, I’ll talk about some of the highlights and lowlights of our recovery, lessons learned, and how we got through this seemingly impossible burden by leaning on love.
Epilogue
The October fire in Sonoma/Napa counties had the dubious distinction of being the worst wildfire in California history. No one could imagine how another fire could destroy 5,643 structures, more than 2800 of which were homes, leave more than 40 people dead and scorch more than 36,000 acres.
But a little over a year later, another fire re-wrote history: Paradise, CA, a small town of about 27,000, was completely destroyed by the “Camp Fire.” More than 80 people died, more than 200 are still listed as missing, 18, 804 structures were damaged or destroyed, of which more than 14,000 were homes. Countless pets and livestock were lost, and thousands of people were displaced.
The recovery there is in its nascent stage. The help that is needed spans every imaginable category.
You can help the people of Paradise claw their way out of the depths of despair by donating time or money.
Let them lean on your love.
Learn how you can help here:
https://www.kqed.org/news/11705542/how-to-help-camp-fire-victims
