Document text
CLEAR Temp: 70 °F Wind: NNW at 9 mph Saturday, August 3, 2002 SECTIONS Home Page Local News Sports Business Obituaries Life Opinion - Politics AP News Weather Classified Archives Site Map EXTRA Cyberchef E The People Golf Job Network Headbone Zone Wellness Connection Movie Times Newspaper in Education Oregon CarZone Outdoor Journal Personals Prime Times Real Estate Tempo A & E TV Times W3 Magazine CLASSIFIEDS Find a Car Find a Home Find a Job Find Everything E SOUTHERN OREGON Destinations Automotive Communities Employment Entertainment Publications Real Estate Recreation Shopping Calendar ABOUT US FAQ What's New Advertise Home Delivery Classified Ad Contact Us Media Kit Jobs @ Mail Tribune Email Story to a Friend July 21, 2002 Commentary Reporter’s wildfire coverage becomes personal By PAUL FATTIG Mail Tribune As a journalist for more than two decades, I’ve warmed my pen on a few fires along the way. I’ve covered massive wildfires in the Alaskan bush, the deadly Oakland Hills fire in California and the 100,000-plus acre ’87 Silver Complex fires here in Southern Oregon. Related stories: � Thinking thin to reduce danger from wildfire . � Wall Creek, Lost Lake fires still burn . Yet nothing scared the bejesus out of me like the Squire fire. You get a whole new perspective on wildfires when you feel the dragon’s hot breath at your own door. You’re no longer a detached journalist walking away from the story at the end of the day. The old cabin Maureen and I are restoring is on the 7000 block of Sterling Creek Road south of Jacksonville. Our 44 acres was smack in the middle of harm’s way this past week. It began late on the afternoon of July 13 when a lightning storm rumbled into the area, zapping Squires Peak. We saw smoke rising from the small peak as we headed down to Eureka, Calif., that evening to visit my elderly mom. We figured there was no danger. It had rained hard at our place. And firefighters were already mustering to attack the fire atop the peak. We figured wrong. When we drove home Sunday evening, we were confronted by a towering plume of roiling smoke looming over the eastern end of the Applegate Valley. At that point the sinking feeling in my gut dropped in for a long stay. Unknown to us, we had just hopped onto an emotional roller coaster of utter dread to immense relief, only to have dread return triumphantly each afternoon. Unfortunately, we’ve been focusing on restoring the historic cabin since buying it early this year. As a result, scant attention has been paid to building a defensible space around the cabin. Each day was a repeat of the other. The fiery dragon would lay down early each morning before dawn for a short nap, then come roaring to life as the wind picked up in the afternoon. After a smoke-filled night we awoke Monday morning to the eerie calm of what could have passed for a nuclear winter. By late morning my lungs burned as though I had smoked two packs of Camels. Nonfilter. The heat of summer returned by noon, despite the smoky haze. By late afternoon the wind began to pick up. Ash began floating down like dry snowflakes. The ash was followed by blackened yet unburned madrone leaves drifting upon the wind. The leaves appeared to have been stripped from trees, testifying to the power of the fire’s updraft. We didn’t need the testimony. The mushrooming column spoke volumes. At times you could hear a low rumbling sound like a jet engine in the distance. Tendrils of smoke were sucked back into the base of the column that grew to Biblical proportions. But we didn’t want the apocalypse now, thanks just the same. I went to work Tuesday but dashed home twice to check on the fire. It seemed to have calmed down a bit, at least enough to allow the gallows humor hanging around the newsroom to come to life. One co-worker suggested that the old cabin, which had partially burned a decade ago, wants to burn like something out of a Stephen King novel. You are probably on pins and burning needles, quipped another. Firefighters assigned to Sterling Creek also got into the act. One structure firefighter noted that if the fire did burn into nearby Ruch — pronounced "Roosh" — they would have to change the name to "Woosh!" Thanks, guys. The humor helped. Gawkers didn’t. Cars drove slowly past, their drivers and occupants staring at the column. I gawked at the gawkers. But I understood, having gawked plenty over the years. Yet I wasn’t ready for the KOBI Channel 5 vehicle coming down the driveway. The reporter wondered if I was on assignment. Good question. I realized then that I hadn’t yet separated my private life from being a journalist thinking about the unfolding story. Until Tuesday night, that is. I was back at my desk when static word came over the scanner that they were evacuating folks in our neighborhood. I was out the door, pad and pen left behind in the dust. The scanner was premature, at least in Gilson Gulch where early-day arrivals apparently appreciated alliteration. There were no evacuations. Not yet, anyway. But there would be precious little sleep that night. You don’t sleep much when you can see the orange glow of a forest fire on the edge of your property. Nor is it comforting to hear wildland firefighters yelling in the dark, trees crashing to the ground and the steady clank of a bulldozer building a fire line. No complaints about the noise, mind you. It’s just damned difficult to snooze when folks are fighting a dragon within earshot. The worst part of it all was the waiting. The reptilian beast seemed coldly calculating, as though looking for ways to get past the firefighters. The best part was the firefighters in their canary-yellow, fire-resistant uniforms that came to battle the dragon. There were the wildlands firefighters, the ground pounders who fought the fire face-to-face. The structure firefighters stood guard at home each afternoon, waiting for the fire. Each had a vital role to play in this Wagnerian drama. Overhead came the cavalry in the form of air tankers dropping retardant and helicopters carrying huge buckets of water the size of small swimming pools. Meanwhile, clouds formed over the column as it literally created its own weather. It looked surreal, like something out of Dante’s Inferno. Wednesday morning — the days were all running together by this time — came another false calm, only to be followed by another hellish ordeal. Ash and debris began raining down again. A structure firefighter arrived to warn us to be prepared to leave. Before heading to the next house, he told us to wet down what we could, remove as much woody building material as we could and leave our ladder against the roof so firefighters could use it. It was a helpless feeling, facing evacuation. What to take, what to leave. The first thing, of course, are the pets. Dogs Aly, Ona and Rajah and cats Spud, Tom and Amby sensed our fear. Their 12 eyes — actually 11 since Rajah is blind in his right eye — were wide with alarm amid the smoke and helicopter clatter. They needn’t have worried. They were tops on the list. Next came photographs, important papers, a book I’ve been working on and countless items still in boxes from our move to the cabin. Friends and relatives helped us pack, protesting pets and all. We evacuated to daughter Amy’s place in Grants Pass, then Maureen and I came back that night when the fire calmed a bit. Once again we awoke to a gray dawn. Once again we employed ax, pruning shears and scythe to cut brush and dry grass while we waited. We knew it was too little, too late. Yet it made us feel like we were helping in the battle. Those who were really making a difference, in addition to the firefighters, were folks like neighbors Pete Bedingfield, his son Pat Bedingfield and grandson Matt Cook. They fired up Pete’s bulldozer to charge the dragon and carve a fire trail. The dragon scorched about 20 acres of their property but wisely backed off. Helicopters periodically buzzed by to drop a bucket of water on the hotspots. Their fire trail held. I wasn’t holding up so well. By week’s end, I was as rummy as a sailor on a week-long drunk. I was tired of the constant worry, of breathing smoke, of living on the run. I wanted the dragon dead-out, his butt kicked but good. The end of the dragon’s tale began Thursday, thanks to favorable weather and a week of hard work by firefighters and neighbors alike. When the smoke had cleared, only 3,038 acres were burned and four outbuildings lost. Truly amazing. Only hours earlier I figured our cabin was toast. It was fitting that Sterling Creek resident Janet Bruno brought her alpin-horn to the site of the first evacuation on Sterling Creek Thursday evening. To a quiet group of weary firefighters and neighbors, the talented musician played "Amazing Grace." It’s a tune I’ll be humming when I clear brush. You can reach Paul Fattig at 776-4496 or e-mail him at [email protected] Printer Friendly Version Email Story to a Friend Subscribe Archive: Click to Search Mail Tribune Home Local News | Sports | Business | Obituaries | Life Opinion - Politics | AP News | Archives | Site Map E Southern Oregon | Classified Copyright 1997-2002 Mail Tribune. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy web master feedback A D V E R T I S E R S