Sunday, September 19, 2010
As we ran a few errands in town at around 1:00 p.m., we noticed a plume of smoke coming from the mountains behind our neighborhood. We really didn’t think anything of it because we back up to a military camp, which frequently sets fires and promptly puts them out. But, by 3:00 when we returned home, it was clearly a much larger blaze than we had witnessed in the past.
I was driving and noticed two SUV police vehicles behind us as wee got closer to the neighborhood. They started to pull in our street behind us, and then made a U-turn and blocked the neighborhood from anyone else getting in behind us. We weren’t sure if they were trying to keep looky-loos out, keeping access clear, or preparing us for something bigger. It would turn out to be the latter.
As we drove up the hill toward our house, the entire ridge was engulfed in smoke. While I started going door to door (or rather, yard to yard since most people were outside watching) letting folks know they had closed our street and I suspected we'd be evacuated soon, Dave and the kids moved our most-precious belongings into priority piles – 1st Priority, must go in the car; 2nd Priority, will go in if there’s room; 3rd Priority, after this is over better organize things so this pile goes away.
What do you take? Well, obviously everything that breathes goes. A few days worth of ‘stuff’ to keep those things breathing also goes – medicine, a couple changes of clothes. We each got a small suitcase. The kids’ instructions: Pack 5 outfits & everything you can fit in this suitcase that is important to you. So, what did they choose? Sarah got yearbooks, pictures of her friends, a few stuffed animals, her friend’s dress. Brian packed his pinewood derby car, a basketball trophy, a PlayStation game borrowed from a friend. Dave grabbed the computer CPU & legal documents. I took photo albums, my wedding dress, and the kids’ baby blankets. Everything was stacked up in the garage, just in case. In between loads, we took turns being ‘the strong one,’ offering comfort to each other in the forms of hugs, Kleenex, and prayers.
About an hour later, a police car drove slowly through the neighborhood, blasting an ominous message from the PA. “Residents of The Cove, Prepare for evacuation by order of the Fire Marshall.” Wow. Really? Dave was out front talking to a neighbor. He stopped the officer and asked what exactly that meant. Get ready, because you may be asked to leave and won’t be given much notice if you are. The stack of Priority 1’s was moved into the cars. What fit of the Priority 2’s was shoved in, too. And, the wait began.
It was a short wait. About twenty minutes after the warning, a brigade invaded. Three fire trucks with lights on and sirens sporadically twerping, several police cars, and about 20 uniformed men carrying rolls of caution tape were walking methodically door to door telling residents their worst fears were realized. We were being evacuated from our homes. In fact, the fireman who came to our driveway bore an even more foreboding message.
“Are all of the people out of your house?”
“Yes.”
“Are all of the pets out of your house?”
“Yes.”
“We expect to lose at least 100 homes in this neighborhood. Do you have everything out of your house that you will need?”
With a sad look at each other, our packed cars containing our whittled-down existence, and our beautiful home, which we built ourselves and moved into just 11 months before, we nodded. No words would come.
The firemen waited outside while we closed everything up, locking the doors in case a miracle was granted and to protect our hopefully-standing home from potential looters later, piled our two- and four-legged family members into the cars, and drove away. One last picture was snapped as we pulled out of the drive. The fireman tied a piece of caution tape to the door to indicate the house was vacant.
As we headed out of the neighborhood, we saw people leaving by every means: Trucks, trailers, RVs, cars stuffed to the brim with people and belongings, horse trailers filled with personal effects and with their occupants tied and walking slowly behind.
Our first stop was Brian’s middle school, the Red Cross evacuation shelter. Never in a million years would we have imagined ourselves needing to go to such a place. We saw lots of scared neighbors, city officials, volunteers, and news crews. Finding a spot as far away from the latter as possible, we and our dogs hunkered down for what was proving to be a long and scary night. That ended quickly when, about 30-minutes into our wait, we were told that the fire was dangerously close to the school and it, too, was being evacuated. The new shelter was being set up at our local high school, which had barely opened a week before.
Brian and I climbed into the van, Sarah and Dave got into Sarah’s car, and headed in that direction. When my car arrived at the school, the other was nowhere to be found. I started to panic after about an hour of not being able to reach either Sarah or Dave by
phone since all of the cell phone circuits were busy. They finally arrived, explaining that they had snuck down a side road to try and get a better view of the fire, had to stop for gas, and got caught in a huge line of traffic making its way out of town. That’s what they get for dilly-dallying!
Once we’d all found out way back to each other, we made a plan for the rest of our evening. It was quite clear that we would not be going home that night, if at all. After a few quick phone calls, Dave secured some beds for us at his sister’s house, and we headed out. Our first several hours there were spent watching the news, which they already had turned on. I don’t think any of us slept for more than a few minutes that night.
The firemen fought long and hard that night. Crews were brought in from all over Utah and neighboring states. We even saw a truck from Lake Tahoe, California, as we were leaving town. Just like in other disasters, these heroes were heading up the hill while we were heading down it, racing in to save everything we had left behind. Brave residents drove their backhoes along the mountainside where the fire trucks could not reach in order to carve home-saving fire breaks. Winds that topped 50 miles per hour and steep terrain that prohibited truck traffic made it a difficult task and sent many first responders running to save themselves from the flames. We heard later that the last of the neighbors to leave the area were accompanied by herds of deer running out of the forest.
We both called in to work the next day to excuse ourselves indefinitely, and I notified Sarah’s school. Of course, Brian’s school was closed and would remain so as long as we were all unable to return to the neighborhood. We found out that afternoon that winds had shifted, rain showers had cooled hot spots, and it appeared our particular neighborhood would be spared. It took three full days for fifty-percent of the fire to be contained. We were finally let back into the neighborhood on Wednesday afternoon. And the clean up began . . .
The next several months, until the snow flew, we were faced with daily ash storms as the winds blew in the remains of our mountain. We cleaned everything in the house multiple times – from walls, to floors, to clothing, to linens, to furniture, to carpet. Unfortunately, every time the wind blew, we had to do it all over again. We also had to hear and watch planes flying low over the mountain dropping fire retardant to keep hot spots away.
Once the snow came (and boy did it come!!), we had some relief from the dust. Until the flood warnings started to – pardon the pun – flood in. The city provided a free analysis of each property to determine if we would be in danger of mudslides and flooding. Thankfully, we weren’t. In fact, following a re-seeding project (which the kids participated in) that added fast-growing non-native grasses to the mountainside, virtually no flooding or mudslides occurred. We felt very lucky.
Today, we celebrate. We have each other. We have a home. We have a neighborhood. We have a mountain, albeit bare. We are thankful for the firemen who risked their lives to save everything we walked away from. We are honoring them with dinner tomorrow night as a very small and seemingly insignificant token of our thanks. Thank you United Fire Authority and all of the other first responders who helped fight the Herriman Machine Gun Fire on September 19, 2010.