Sandra Millers Younger - The fire outside my window: a survivor tells the true story of Californias epic cedar fire

T HE F IRE O UTSIDE M Y W INDOW

A Survivor Tells the True Story of Californias Epic Cedar Fire

S ANDRA M ILLERS Y OUNGER

Copyright 2013 by Sandra Millers Younger

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Globe Pequot Press, Attn: Rights and Permissions Department, PO Box 480, Guilford, CT 06437.

Project editor: Lauren Brancato

Layout: Sue Murray

Map: Melissa Baker Morris Book Publishing, LLC

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN 978-0-7627-9931-2

For my father, who understood why I live in wildfire country.

And in memory of those who died in the Cedar and Paradise Fires, San Diego County, California, October 2003: Galen Blacklidge, Gary Edward Downs, Nancy Morphew, John Leonard Pack, Quynh Yen Chau Pack, Mary Lynne Peace, Ashleigh Roach, Steven Rucker, Christy-Anne Seiler-Davis, Stephen Shacklett Sr., James Shohara, Randy Shohara, Solange Shohara, Jennifer Sloan, Robin Sloan, Ralph Marshall Westly, and one unidentified man.

Barns burnt down...

Now I can see the moon.

M IZUTA M ASAHIDE (16571723)

C ONTENTS

P ROLOGUE

Sergio Martinez didnt set out to cause a catastrophe. He only wanted to have a good time with a friend, drink some beer, smoke some weed, maybe shoot a buck. It didnt turn out that way. Hed never once hunted deer before that Saturday, October 25, 2003. But despite anything else he might have done in his thirty-three years, despite anything else he might do in the future, from that day on, Sergio Martinez would be known as the lost hunter who started the Cedar Fire, the biggest wildfire in Californias recorded history.

Under normal circumstances, Martinez and I wouldnt have had much in common. He was a young construction worker in Los Angeles. I was a fifty-year-old magazine editor working for a university in San Diego. If not for the spark that jumped from his hand and took off running straight toward my home in a canyon fourteen miles away, Martinez and I never would have met.

But then there was nothing normal, or so it seemed at the time, about what happened after Sergio Martinez got lost in the Cleveland National Forest and made a desperate decision to light a signal fire amid critical wildfire conditions. Spurred by a rare confluence of ominous circumstances, Martinezs spark took hold in a patch of desiccated native brush and exploded into a perfect firestorm. Timing, location, and weather conspired against air tankers, fire engines, and bulldozers, giving the flames a chance to gather strength.

And then, almost at the stroke of midnight, the Cedar Fire broke away on a swelling wind and galloped west toward the Pacific Ocean. Moving faster than firefighters had ever seen a wildfire move before, it devoured two, three, sometimes four acres a second, spitting brands and embers miles ahead of itself, rearing up into hundred-foot towers of flames. In the course of its weeklong rampage, unstoppable waves of fire took the lives of fifteen people, incinerated 2,232 homes, and ravaged a chunk of San Diego County nearly twenty times the size of Manhattan.

When the Cedar Fire first flickered to life, a far-away circle of flames, neither my husband nor I could have imagined it would touch us. And when it rose and thundered in our direction, we did not perceive its coming. Instead, like every other creature living in our backcountry canyon, including the bobcat that would save our lives, we carried on unaware, lingering in our dreams until flames began to light the sky and devour the land outside our windows.

CHAPTER 1

A Sinister Brilliance

At first I resented the alarm in my husbands voice.

Whoa! Its time to get out of here.

I was so asleep. Why was he waking me? What could possibly be so important? I opened my eyes to a strange yellow light that cast his naked figure into relief against our broad bedroom windows. What was going on? In another instant I understood. The canyon was on fire. Perfectly framed by our open draperies, a huge swath of flames stretched across the mountain opposite us. At its edges, fountains of fire shot high above the ground, surging and swaying in a ragged dance, vivid orange against surrounding darkness.

Oh my God! I reached for a pair of jeans thrown across the foot of the bed and pulled them on. What do we do?

Dont panic, Bob said, but his voice sounded thin and forced. We do what we need to do. First get some clothes. We dont know when well be able to come back.

He turned on the lights and disappeared into the bathroom. I opened a dresser drawer, grabbed some underwear, put on a pair of socks, and then dashed into the closet and stood for a moment looking at the line of hanging clothes. What should I take? My mind couldnt focus. Fire. There was fire outside the windows. I ran back and looked out again, as if to make sure. This time I noticed an orange glow deep below us, near the entrance to our neighborhood road. A spike of electricity surged through me as I pieced it all together. The flames on the mountain across from us must be only part of a bigger fire, a massive beast closing in.

Bob, its on our side! I said, my throat closing around the words.

He was standing by the bed over an open suitcase, but rushed to join me.

Its on our side, he repeated, almost in a whisper.

At that moment, something shifted inside me. A distinct sensation. Bob felt it, too. We talked about it later, how thinking and doing slammed together in an instant, in a rush of adrenaline. From then on we were caught up in a current of pure instinct, obeying without question some kind of primitive knowing that moved us step by step toward safety, kept us from lingering too long on any one task. Above all, we knew we had to leave. We should have left already.

Wed both managed to throw on jeans and T-shirts. Next I needed some usable shoessneakers or bootsbut all I could see in my closet were heels. And on the top shelf, beyond my reach, an almost empty plastic laundry basket.

Give me that, I said to Bob.

What?

I couldnt think of the word.

That! I pointed toward the closet shelf.

Bob understood then and tossed me the basket, and I started filling it with framed photographs snatched off the walls and dresser. My grandfather in his Sunday best, a favorite dog at the beach, and our two daughtersin ruffled pink baby dresses, blonde pigtails and giant hair bows, tasseled caps and graduation gowns. At the same time, my mind jumped ahead, trying to visualize our escape. Judging from the glow below us, the fire had reached the intersection between our private neighborhood drive and Wildcat Canyon Road, the only way out. For all we knew, we were trapped.

What if we cant get to Wildcat Canyon Road?

Well get to Wildcat Canyon Road, Bob said.

His voice suddenly sounded so normal, so reassuring, that I simply believed him and turned my full attention to the task of filling the laundry basket. I noticed my favorite silver bracelet lying on the dresser, but decided not to take it, thinking I didnt have time, and that it would still be there when we returned. Yet I squandered precious seconds running downstairs to look for shoes. Opening the closet by the garage door, hoping to find my hiking boots, I looked right at them, saw them as Bobs instead, and then ran back upstairs to check the bedroom closet one more time.