The Gold Complex Fire

July 22, 2:00 PM: Jim and I stepped onto our backyard deck and into the panoramic view of the Feather River below, which dazzled and danced in the afternoon sunshine. Our five dogs followed.

“Look at that blue-blue sky,” I leaned against the railing and said, “Pretty soon Union Pacific will come rumbling past. How many cars do you think it has? What’s in them do you think?”

“I’ve given up counting the cars,” Jim said. “My guess is they’re full of gravel or other construction material. In about five minutes when the train will pass through Blairsden the engineer will blow the horn three times to alert traffic.”

 An ear-splitting crash of thunder broke our peaceful calm. Several minutes later a grey plume of smoke rose higher and higher into the bright, blue sky.

“See that smoke?” Jim said pointing at the cloud getting thicker. “Wind is pushing the smoke and fire this way. My guess is the fire’s about ten miles away.”

A man’s voice shouted through a megaphone, “Evacuate! Evacuate!”

There was no time to think. Plan. Dally. Only time to grab what was absolutely necessary and run.

Jim acted with the cool demeanor of a person trained to handle emergencies, “Get the leashes, the dogs, your purse, my wallet. I’ll get the truck keys and water jug by the door. Let’s go!”

I thought: This can’t be happening. Where will we go? Everywhere – sirens, red-flashing lights, fire trucks, men in yellow fire-retardant suits, Forest Service guys, in orange suits, everyone directing traffic away from our house. Doggies are panting. My heart’s in my throat. Jim’s headed to a nearby city where we’ll be housed in the local high school gymnasium until it’s safe to return. We’ll have to take our doggies to the Plumas County Fairgrounds where they’ll be transferred into cages. The same cages used to display chickens, roosters, pigs and ducks. Will our house burn down? Smoke is thicker. Another water truck. Another siren. Holy hell.

I tried to fathom what had just happened and how it had happened so suddenly.

One minute Jim and I were standing on our deck looking into that blue sky chit chatting about the Union Pacific freight train coming down the track and in less than ten minutes, we were fleeing – perhaps for our lives – with the memory of the horrific Paradise fire where eighty-five people died (some trapped in their cars screaming for help) fresh in my mind. Could this happen to us? It’s 3:15. Are we going to a shelter or should we take the only way out of Quincy to Oroville down a twisty, turning road on narrow canyon roads.

That means driving at least eleven or twelve hours in the dead of night with truck traffic.

A volunteer fireman described the fire as “raining out of the sky.”

I arranged the dogs in the back seat, grabbed a granola bar and said, “Let’s get out of this here. Who knows when we’ll get home or if we’ll have a home when this is over.”

We knew there’d be a long night, lots of wrong turns and stomach-churning fear ahead.