In wildfire's way: 'We've got to get out of here now'

E-mail this article Print this article Other links Part III: In wildfire's way: Keepers or losers? Part I: Sizzling heat and dry land were a recipe for disaster Part II: Suddenly, three are inside an inferno

This is Part 4 in a five-part serial. The story so far:

The Sierra wildfire has turned on its tail. Ray McCarty and his son manage a last-second escape with the help of an engine crew, but fire swallows up their house, trucks and prize hunting hounds.

Nearby, Norm Williams rants at firefighters for not trying to put out brush that is aflame at the road's edge. The water is too precious, firefighters say.

Then Williams sees McCarty and remembers another neighbor. Both men look across the street: Beverly Brooks' house is ablaze.

CONCOW, Calif. - The life of the party, her friends call her. A drama queen, her sister says.

At 67, Beverly Brooks is slowing down - blame the emphysema and extra pounds - but she still possesses an intensity that seems outsized for a woman just 4 feet 11.

She gets obsessed with things. While others collect antiques, Brooks piles up boxes of them floor to ceiling, leaving paths for herself and her Chihuahuas.

While others in these dry Sierra foothills worry about wildfire, Brooks has apocalyptic visions. One day, watching a Western, she shrieked to see a frontier family's cabin set afire by Indians.

"Oh, my God! That's my horrible fear!" Brooks told a friend. "I can't watch that. I'm going to die in a fire someday."

A drama queen. If she really believed it, wouldn't she keep the weeds in her pasture mowed? Wouldn't she have someone clear the brush behind her house?

Friends nag her about those things.

It's 2:30 a.m. Wednesday and 84 degrees. Beverly Brooks awakens to an orange glow outside that's like a sunrise.

At the front door looms a man dressed for battle: helmet, goggles, gloves, neck shroud, soot-stained yellow pants and shirt.

Brooks, in a cotton nightgown and slippers, peers around him, her eyes widening. The pasture is a sea of flame. In the distance, Ray McCarty's house is a bonfire.

She'd gone to bed hours ago, assured by friends that she was safe from the wildfire raging since Tuesday across the Sierra foothills. They had told her the fire was blowing northeast, away from her.

"Please stay inside, ma'am," the firefighter says. "We're going to do our best to save your house."

This is Capt. Darryl Sanford, a 27-year veteran with the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection. A tidy mustache and hair parted in the middle give him an old-fashioned, barbershop-quartet look. Friends know him as pleasant, unassuming. But on a fire, colleagues see another Sanford: intense, focused, the guy you want by your side when all hell breaks loose.

He and his fellow firefighter, Will Krings, barely made it up here. Minutes earlier, they'd watched from their engine as flames from the thistle-choked pasture sheeted across Brooks' 300-foot driveway.

They'll never get through, Sanford thought. Then he noticed a pattern. When the wind blew hard, 15-foot flames leaned over the driveway. When it eased, the flames would straighten up and shrink down for a few seconds.

The fire was breathing.

On its next inhale, Sanford punched the accelerator, and the truck bounced up the hill, flames licking the sides.

Now the men walk around the three-bedroom ranch, sizing it up.

The roof is metal, and the lawn is mowed. Good. A half-dozen trees surround the house, including an enormous oak out front. Not good, but at least no branches hang lower than 15 feet.

The fire will race across the unwatered lawn, Sanford knows, but if they can keep it from jumping into the trees, they probably can save this house.

Krings heads left, around the garage. Sanford goes right, past the front door. The wildfire is pressing close, from both the pasture in front and a brushy draw to the left.

Hosing down some burning brush, Sanford gets his first hint that protecting this house won't be a snap. As flames leap up into oily leaves overhead, he realizes this tree, and some of the others, are live oaks, which burn like kerosene-soaked torches.

He twists the nozzle to a straight stream and knocks the fire out of the tree, then walks around behind the house to see Krings having his own problems at the other end.

The strengthening wind is fanning flames up from the brush and into the trees. Krings opens his nozzle full-bore, but the jet of water reaches just 10 feet before being knocked back by the wind.

And now Sanford sees something he's never seen in 27 years. Flying sparks are normal in a wind-driven fire. But what's shooting down from these trees is more like rain - liquid fire pelting the house.

We may lose this one, Sanford thinks, hurrying back around the house to join Krings at the truck.

Stay or go? Sanford sees his answer through the breezeway. The back of the garage has started to burn. His engine's 500-gallon water tank, full when they arrived a few minutes ago, has less than 100 gallons left, not enough if the garage catches on in earnest.

It's time to abandon this house.

"Shut down the pump. Disconnect the lines," he tells Krings. "I'm grabbing the lady. We're taking her with us."

Without knocking, Sanford strides into the living room.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I can't save your house. You've got to come with me."

Brooks recoils.

"No! What do you mean?"

"You've got to come with me. I can't save your house."

"No! My dogs!"

"We've got to go, now."

Brooks kneels by a coffee table and picks up one of the three Chihuahuas skittering underfoot. Sanford grabs the dog from her hand. She picks up another, and he takes that one, too.

"We gotta go! Now!"

"I can't leave without Juanita!" she cries. The third dog bolts under another table, and Sanford brusquely flips the table over.

Then he glances toward the back. There's fire in the kitchen.

Brooks must see it, too.

"OK. Let's go," she says, standing up.

Outside, Krings is glad to see them come out the front door. In the two minutes since Sanford went inside, Krings has shut down the pump and uncoupled the

hoses, and now the garage is fully ablaze.

Krings heads up the walkway. He's within 15 feet of Brooks when a 30-mph blast of wind and flame shoots through the breezeway.

Thirty seconds earlier, they would have made it out easily. Now they're caught in a blowtorch. The air fills with flame. Grass ignites. Krings dives over a fence and crawls toward the engine.

Brooks, terrified, darts around Sanford and back into the house.

Sanford turns and follows her, two dogs tucked under his arm.

There's no time for him to explain that getting burned while dashing to safety is better than being incinerated inside. No time to argue against her panicked instinct: The world outside is burning, so I'll stay here.

There's time only for urgent instructions.

"We've got to get out of here now," he says. "Get right behind me. I'll block the flame."

They try again, with Brooks at Sanford's heels.

They make it onto the porch, and the wind gusts again, stronger than before. Flame swirls around them. Radiant heat pulses down from the tree above. One terrified dog twists from Sanford's grasp, and as he bends to pick it up, he sees Brooks hurrying back inside.

Once more he follows, this time closing the door to keep the flames at bay.

They're in the living room now. The power has gone out, but there's plenty of light. The kitchen is filled with fire. Glass is popping, timbers are cracking. Overhead, Sanford hears the roar of fire in the attic. Above boxes stacked in the living room, he sees flames rolling across the ceiling.

Normally, a firefighter in a burning house would have a water hose, an air pack and insulated clothing. Sanford wears only his wildland gear: thin fire-resistant shirt and pants, helmet, gloves. Brooks, in her nightgown, is even worse off.

"We gotta go out a window!" Sanford yells. A dark hallway lies to the right. Maybe it leads to a way out.

But Brooks is paralyzed by fear. Sanford drops the dogs and starts pushing her down the hall. She moves slowly, gasping for breath.

Sanford can hear Krings shouting outside, but he may as well be miles away. The truck's hoses are disconnected, and no other engine can make it up the flaming driveway.

The hallway is heating up. Smoke is pooling overhead. As Sanford pulls a dust mask over his mouth, a stray thought stops him in his tracks: A few hours ago, during a lull in the fire, he did something he never does. He called home, just to chat with his wife.

Now he understands why. It was his chance to say goodbye.

To be continued.

David Foster is The Associated Press' Northwest regional writer.