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WILDLAND FIRES – PLANNING, PLANNING, PLANNING (page 2)
Firefighter
Debbi Hudson sent me her first-hand account of wildland firefighting and
what can happen if horse owners are not prepared for the possibility
of a wildland fire coming their way. When it comes to the absolute
importance of having defensible space, here’s her first-hand account of what
she experienced in that fire:
“This
fire occurred in the summer of 1980 when I was working for the U.S. Forest
Service, assigned to a 4 man engine company. I was the newest addition to
the crew, green as the summer grass, even though this was my second year
with the USFS. I look back now, and am in awe at how clueless I really
was in those days. Fighting fire was fun. We would work hard, chase
the fires, put them out and then go drink beer—lots of beer. Most of us lived
at the stations, so it was convenient. We lived to fight fire and we fought
lots of ‘em. As a result, we got
to know each other pretty well, to know each others strengths and weaknesses.
Most fires were
ordinary. They had a lot of things in common, but each one was different
in its own way, even if they were pretty much all the same.
This one was
different. We had been dispatched with a strike team (5 engine companies)
to somewhere in southern California (I can’t remember where). I do
remember it was in November, because the governer was invited to eat a turkey dinner
with the firefighters. We had been there for days already. They had a big
feast laid out while the governor was there. We all stood in line, but by
the time I got up to the serving counter, there was no sign of the Thanksgiving
feast I saw parade past us!
We were experiencing
Santa Ana winds in the region. It was too windy for air support, so it was
just us ground crews. Most of us were forestry crews, with not much structural
experience.
We had been
tasked with protecting a home on a hill. The fire was still some distance off,
but approaching us fast. Real fast. We had two trucks, eight firefighters,
and were from the same station, so we knew each other well. We had a small
truck and a Model 60; all together, maybe 750 gallons of water. We headed
up the hill. On the way up, the owner passed us going down. He never
said a word to us, just smiled and gave us the thumbs up sign. I guess we
gave him high hopes that his homestead would be well guarded. After all,
not all the homes were assigned fire trucks. I don’t know who made the decisions
as to which dwellings would receive protection and which wouldn’t.
When we got
to the top, we got out of our trucks, searched for water hoses, (that was my job)
and brought them to the trucks. I had no idea how useless they would turn
out to be. The hoses were old, cracked, tangled up, and I had to literally
dig my way through the overgrown bushes around the house so we would have easy
access. The sky was red from the glow of the approaching fire. It was
an eerie feeling. I’ll never forget the way everyone just kept gazing around.
I looked up
to these guys. They were veteran firefighters. Rough, tough, older than me. They
looked really worried. I remember comments like: “who would put shake
shingle roofs out here?” “Look at the piles of wood everywhere” “You
can’t even tell where the outbuildings are”. And then the embers came. A
few at first. My rough, tough, buddies were buttoning up their shirts, and
actually putting their goggles on! Embers started to come faster, and then
there was the roar. Embers were landing on the roof of the house. Our
hoses were no match. Michael noticed fire in the house. We kicked open
the door and went in on our bellies. I wasn’t used to this. I was always
on my feet when we fought fire, my whole two years of experience! Now, I
was on my belly, in a house on fire. I remember looking at the pictures on
the piano. Horses everywhere. I thought to myself, even then, we will
be the last ones to see the inside of this house. It is going to burn down. I’m
scared to death. I don’t know what to do. Michael is yelling at us to drag
more hose in. It’s all I can do to breathe. But I keep pulling in the
hose. Another fellow, Mike (who really was our first aid man—fire scared
the crap out of him) was helping me pull. He told me he was going outside,
he couldn’t breathe anymore. Michael, ahead of me, was now yelling to get
out! The whole house was going up. No kidding. Out we went. I turned around
looking for the pictures again, but it was too smoky.