Kate MacDonald - Special to the Sun

I spotted the first slim plume of smoke spiraling from the forest Saturday, June 28, afternoon, and instantly knew it would be a bad fire.

It had been shaping up to be a busy and fun weekend at our off-the-grid home in the Piute Mountains above Walker’s Basin. Some friends were spending a few days; we planned to swim and maybe barbeque, if it weren’t too windy.

The first plume of smoke emerges over the peak on Saturday.

As we greeted our friends, some visitors at a campground off Piute Mountain Road apparently were not as cautious about the fire conditions, and according to emergency responders, lit a campfire that got out of control.

3:29 p.m., Saturday June 28: The white smoke twists into the blue sky directly east of our house; it looks just a few miles away, behind a thickly forested ridge. As soon as I spot the fire, we contact our neighbors via hand-held radios and find out the fire has already been reported to authorities. Next we begin preparing for an evacuation, should it become necessary. I look around to count the lives I feel responsible to protect. My partner; our wrangler/caretaker; two girlfriends, one from LA and one from Wofford Heights; six of our dogs and two guest canines; four cats; and most troublingly, four wild-born mustang horses and a mule. The horses concern me because they are all adopted or rescued, and although we spend every spare moment working to gentle and train them, they are not what one would call 'easy loaders'. In other words, we could get them into a trailer, but it would be a scary and possibly dangerous task. We discuss leading two horses several miles down the dirt road - hoping the others follow - where we could pen them at a neighbor’s ranch; or even opening the corral gates and letting them loose as a last-ditch option. I’m not comfortable with the last and marginally okay with the second plan. So we decide to wait until evacuation is obviously needed, then we’ll try to trailer them.

We run the generator to pump the well, filling up the water tanks, and fill our resident fire truck, (a Ford Ranger equipped with a tank, pump and fire hoses).

We tell our houseguests to keep their belongings packed and ready to load back into their vehicles; we herd the pack of dogs inside the house. I gather up computer, papers, photographs, and a bag of clothes. We turn on the police scanner to get information on the location and direction of the fire. The scanner is busy with chatter, this fire is getting a lot of attention.

5:39 p.m. Saturday: Now the fire has split into two. The bases of the smoke columns periodically flare with black and orange. The smoke plume drifts to the north across the top of the mountains. We finish cooking a turkey (safely inside in the oven), eat some dinner, and feed the horses. We will take turns keeping an eye on the fire all night. It seems not to be moving our way, so after dinner, with everything ready to go if we need to leave, we start watching a movie. With darkfall the fire begins to glow and we can now see flames, especially through a friend’s spotting scope. We keep getting up from the movie to check the fire.

As the night darkens the fire seems to intensify, glowing fantastically against the blackness. There is a loud crack- just like thunder ’Äì as a tree explodes into a fireball. My depth perception is disabled; it’s hard to tell whether the fire’s eastern edge is moving closer. Even though the wind’s in our favor, a light north-west breeze that decreases to an almost windless night, we know that between that fire and our place is only a few hundred acres of tinder dry brush, oaks and pines, sticky with super-flammable resin.

11:00 p.m. Saturday. As a precaution we send our houseguests down the road to a neighbor’s in Thompson Canyon. I follow, my car loaded with dogs, planning to come back for the horses. At the neighbor’s a small crowd is gathered on lawn chairs as if in a theater, watching the show. The canyon ahead is filled with flames, and sparkling spot-fires spread out on both sides of the canyon walls. The smoke is invisible except where it blocks out the stars. As beautiful and awesome as this view is, I’m reassured by more experienced neighbors that our place is out of harm’s way for the night.

We caravan back up the mountain and one by one, fall into an uneasy and too-brief sleep.

Sunday, June29: Sunday morning we blearily arise and survey the spread of the destruction. Smoke now billows from east to north, filling the sky. At just after 7 a.m. helicopters begin to circle and later the air support begins. All afternoon a spotter plane followed by a behemoth jet cruise directly over the house and then circle the mountain and dive into the smoke. We see some the orange spray of fire suppressant and cheer.

But despite the air assault the fire continues to move.

In the late afternoon we go swimming and joke about being scooped up by the helicopters. Luckily, it doesn’t happen.

Monday June 30, 2008: Monday morning, the fire is still burning from area it was started to behind the top of the mountain to our north, and relentlessly moving onward. There are a few passes from the aircraft, and we’re visited by a Forest Service fireman from Colorado. He wants to know how many permanent residents live above us on the mountain. We tell him we’re the last but there are a number of weekend homes further up atop Red Mountain. He sends a crew up to scout the buildings and the progress of the flames.

More aircraft support and helicopters begin dipping water from the ponds in the Basin. We pump the well and refill all water tanks and water the garden, which feels like a hopeful gesture.

7:20 p.m. The main fire seems to have split mostly to the north leaving behind a troublesome child: smudgy smoke is still billowing from a dozen hotspots lining Thompson Canyon. We just heard on our radios that our neighbors that were our evacuation point have themselves been told to be ready to leave. Atop Red Mountain, mandatory evacuation orders are in force.

Later that night: The dogs go off: it’s KCSD Detective John Nobles and Senior Deputy James Stratton with our Evacuation Notice. They say that unless the wind changes direction we’re okay. 'If you see the smoke coming over the house, it’s time to think about getting the horses out of here,' he advises.

In addition to the top of our mountain, Claraville, Valley View off Saddle Springs Road, Rocky Point and Lieble Ranch are recommended evacuation areas, meaning, 'the fire is an imminent threat and all persons in the evacuation area are strongly advised to leave and seek shelter’Ķ'

Behind the mustang’s corral, the hills smoke; the sun’s going down, and soon we’ll look again into the orange-hot heart of the fire’Ķ

PART TWO

Fire, Unabated

’ĶI wake to the sound of hotshot buggies bumping up the dirt switchback above our house. It’s Sunday, July 6, and the Piute Fire persists in its ninth day, relentlessly moving north while stubbornly flaming still in the canyon near its origin, two miles or so from our home in the Piute Mountains.

One hundred firefighters: men, women, convicts, subcontractors, and fire professionals, have descended on our ranch in the Piute Mountains, called Red Lodge. The growl of Forest Service chain saws and the crack of falling trees are the background chorus to which I write this update.

(I left off last Sunday, the day after the fire was started.)

Sunday, June 29. It’s dusk, and our adrenaline has been used up, we’re tired, but still apprehensive. The whine of firefighting aircraft has become constant. I hear another vehicle come up the road. I look and it’s a white truck with galloping horses along the bed sides. 'We’re saved,' I say, 'It’s Lifesavers!' It is Jill Starr and Dave Pistone, our friends; Jill is the founder of Lifesaver’s Wild Horse Rescue. They have come to see if we need help. We catch up on the latest mustang news, and assure them we’re okay, and that we have a plan for the mustangs: we’ll evacuate them when the fire bosses tell us it’s appropriate. 'We’ll come up with the trailer, just tell us when,' they say. As they leave we talk about how lucky we are to have such unparalleled friends. And watch as the sky turns dark and the horizon flickers with flames.

Monday and Tuesday, June 30 and July 1: 'Life goes on', I declare, and we clean, do laundry and sweep as the planes, helicopters and Forest Service, BLM, Kern County Fire Department and Hotshot buggies from as far as Louisiana descend on our normally dead-quiet, peaceful mountain. We are told that for the time being, there is no need to evacuate, 'everyone' knows we are here.

We share information: road conditions, residents, structures, who is where, and when, with any one who asks, from whatever jurisdiction they represent. 'This road’s no good. This road, you can go down to avoid the upcoming trucks'. Etc. We give away our big map! And then can’t remember who we gave it to.

Wednesday, July 2: The fire has been burning for five days. I have been going out of my mind with anxiety about whether or not ’Äì and how and where - to evacuate the horses. I show at 6:30 a.m. up to help out at the Piute Meadows Trading Post, my usual Wednesday morning mission . Mike Lamb, proprietor, tells me, 'I didn’t expect you to come in.' Meanwhile friend CJ Hedges calls and says she is on her way. She zooms up to the store, and we head back home, towards the fire.

Neighbors 'Mako' and 'Memphis', take CJ, her mom, and me, way up Thompson Canyon Road to look at the fire line. Neighbors are there, with a bulldozer crew, at the head of the 'Wolf Lady’s' drive. I ask, Are all the wolves evacuated? and am told yes. How many? 'Fourteen or fifteen'. From behind the burnt-black, twisted tree trunks from the recent Walker Basin Fire, we peer at the current conflagration. It fills the canyon and both sides of the ridges and seems to be topping the ridges alongside. I ask long-time neighbor Milt Davis how far the fire’s western edge is from Red Lodge, hidden behind the ridge. 'Three, maybe two miles,' says the Iwo Jima veteran ’Ķ I believe him.

As we head back to CJ’s place, I beg her to help me make a decision about my horses. She recommends I ask the guy in charge down there. Several fire engines and crew are camped at CJ’s and her moms’ adjoining ranches in Thompson Canyon. I talk to Mike Estep. 'There’s going to be a lot of activity and crews coming in here tomorrow,' he says. He recommends taking the horses out today 'as a precaution'. I look into his calm and compassionate, smoke-shot eyes, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. The decision has been made. CJ informs me she has been trained in equine evacuations. We take a quick drive and make some calls to confirm the horse’s destinations, then we hitch up the horse trailer and head up the mountain. The sides of the road are lined with fire crews wielding hand tools and chain saws. This crew has faces from a spaghetti western ’Äì the bad guys, plus two smiling girls. The chains scream and the brush flies - and our road is transformed. We wave and say thanks to all the crews as we pass. Our friend Lindy White and our wrangler-caretaker 'Cam' are at Red Lodge to help load the horses.

We attempt the mustangs first, backing the trailer to the round pen gate. Captain Call, my big, 3-year-old Wyoming colt, trusts me. And hundreds of hours of training pay off as he calmly leads into the trailer. We shut him in and let Gus into the round pen. Gus is still half wild; I have barely been able to halter him. Yet he sniffs the ramp, nibbles some spilled hay, and steps inside all by himself. We slam the ramp home and start off down the road. We unload them into the bullpen, throw some hay and go back for the other horses while the mustang colts stare inquisitively at the range cows and truck traffic.

The second group of horses and Millie the mule load just as nicely. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude that none of the horses have not been hurt; and awash with pride that they trust me to do this scary thing. I breathe deep when the last three are safely in the trailer. On the way down I take some pictures of the crews, who cheer, wave and throw us a peace sign. They are the Tatanka and Cheyenne River Native American CDC crews from South Dakota.

Fire crews continue to be around every turn. From Louisiana, Colorado, and Kernville.

As we unload Rosie, Stella Vega and Millie into their temporary corral, I feel a great weight is lifted. Now that the horses are safe, I can quit freaking out.

Thursday through Friday, July 3rd and 4th:

On Thursday, I have to work and for the first time sine the fire started, drive to Isabella and see the smoke shroud surrounding the lake and Kern River communities. I jam through my duties, slowed a few times with questions like, 'Are you anywhere close to that fire?' I answer, 'Um, yeah!', and try to answer their questions. I arrange feed for our evacuated horses, and all our friends help back us up.

On the Fourth, no need to drive to town ’Äì we have fireworks aplenty, the mountain throwing up sparks into the starry, starry night ’Äì so there’s a barbeque, and the unflappable Thompson Canyon residents take a few hours off to eat and socialize.

Later, the news is sobering. The various jurisdictions are arguing over strategy. Some are proposing setting a backfire. Some argue against it. 'Where would they set a backfire?' I ask Thomas. 'The whole mountain,' he says.

Saturday July 5: I meet Lyle Klenski, Branch Director, from John Day, in Eastern Oregon, where the Keiger mustangs roam free. He updates me as I drive back from feeding our evacuated horses. There are over 200 firefighters on our side of the mountain.

As I water the garden Thomas comes home from work with provisions. I light the barbeque, with Kingsford and a few bits of oak - safely under our veranda. Just as the coals catch, and smoke is billowing -seemingly from our porch - two Forest Service buggies arrive. It’s a little embarrassing to have a raging barbeque going on, but I smile and fling liquid on the flames and cook up several dozen burgers and wieners and beans and sweet corn and we feed whoever we are allowed to feed. Then we deliver icy cold drinks to the convict crews along our road.

We feel like we’re getting special attention when just as we’re ready to head back up the driveway, Jerry Serabia, BLM Medford District Fuels Technician and Branch Director of this fire, drives up. He unfolds a big map and spends several minutes filling us in on the firebreaks, dozer roads, movement of the fire and what to expect for tomorrow. I look into Serabia’s dark lined, clear as a pond steady gaze. I get the picture. It’s not good for our beloved mountain.

Sunday July 6, 2008 : The scanner and the handheld radios have been on, constantly, for nine days. Most of the conversation we can now understand as it refers to us, our Red Lodge, our neighbors in Thompson Canyon, the folks up on Red Mountain. We are in an action adventure movie ’Äì no, a mini-series, because it just goes on, and on, and on. We are in adrenaline hangover stage; and the weight of the ash and particles in the thick air is taking its toll on our lungs and energy. We need Starbucks! And figured the firefighters might too, so this morning we took a cauldron down our gate where our pals the Stanislaus Forest Service Strike Team had pulled in -while I was pulling on my not-too-clean clothes.

They showed up last night as my barbeque was rocking. Jill the boss, Laura and Becca and the men. They had 1,000 gallons in their trucks, to fill our pond. We swilled coffee and Red Bulls and drove to the pond where they laid hose like a ballet. Then dumped that water and moved on. I admired their restraint ’Äì so far I’d not caught anyone swimming. Whether 32 or 20, girl or boy, felon or lifelong public servant, county or state or federal; whatever crew or strike force of station or engine; whoever, from wherever. Firefighters are truly superhuman! I am inspired. My deepest thanks for your skills, hard work courage and compassion.

There are 100 up here today. From Cobra, Porterville, Forest Service, Black Eagles CDC 3 and 5. Every 20 minutes new buggies and trucks roar up our drive and the dogs bark. I am hoarse from hollering at the seven dogs.

Today on my friend Sonja Roth’s advice, I packed up a few more things from Red Lodge. She was here when the fire started a week ago along with another friend from Wofford Heights, who just came back up the road a few hours ago. 'If they tried to stop me, I’d just tell em ______!' she declared, pulling into the drive next to Forest Service tenders.

Then the dogs go off again. It’s Kelnski, who lives near the Keiger mustangs in Oregon.

'I guess you’ve noticed the commotion,' he says. He explains the new cuts by hand and machine, designed to protect our Red Lodge from the fire. He fills us in on the latest predictions of fire movement weather, and numbers of crews. He thanks us for letting the teams cut down our trees. We assure him, as we decided last week, 'whatever is necessary' is okay with us.

Then the real news. 'Sometime next week, we’ll bring the fire down,' Klenski said. Aha. Now the new cuts and roads between my home and the smoking mountain take on new meaning. I try to picture my 'back 40' filled with leaping flames. My single-track trail through oak and ponderosa and up to the yucca and gossip rock spotted saddle, burnt, charred, the trees husks, the mud boiling.

Still - I am filled with gratitude for the forces of nature that gave us time to get our horses out; that have blown the fire away from us this entire week, giving us me time to move beyond panic to observing and meeting some great people. And giving me time to make another pass through the house, pack the little trailer; and now we are really ready to go at a second’s notice’Ķ

To be continued.