After the fire…LOVE still stands.

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.