Escaping the Camp Fire

The following is the first part of an account from an HCRN homeowner in Paradise, California.

On November 8, 2018, the Northern California Camp Fire ravaged through my hometown and surrounding communities, destroying everything in its path. The devastation included my home, in Old Magalia, taking with it its entire contents; five generations of memories, keepsakes, thousands of pictures, and my livelihood as an artist to supplement my Social Security income. Additionally, it devastated my lifelong goal of owning my own home, without debt, and the life I had dreamed of, near family and friends. 

I’m a single woman and had celebrated my 60th birthday about 7 months prior to the fire. I lived a quiet life. I enjoyed painting, gardening, quilting, and jewelry design, incorporating rocks and beads. However, my grandson, Isaac, the most important focus in my life, lost his “safe place.” Isaac is a beautiful, sweet, Autistic, nonverbal, musically inclined, intelligent child. He was 3 years old at the time of the fire. He lived with me four days, and nights, a week since he was 10 months old. A special needs therapist commuted to my home four days a week to work with Isaac on speech and sign language. Isaac was making incredible progress and recognized it himself. He had begun making eye contact, signing, knew his colors, the alphabet, numbers, and surpassed expectations by using words verbally. He was out of diapers and could brush his teeth. He was proud of himself, and a happy child. He had his own bedroom, race car bed, Lego table, musical instruments, puzzles, and a learning tablet, specifically designed for autistic children. The walls were decorated with my father’s baseball caps that he had collected for over 20 years. The caps were given to me, after my father’s passing, and I cherished them. Autistic children do not adjust well with change. Losing my home meant Isaac lost his home also. And his safe place with me.

On the morning of November 8, 2018, I woke in the throes of a kidney stone attack and had an appointment for post-operative testing to determine further treatment at Oroville Hospital later that morning. I never made it to that appointment.

The morning had an eerie feel that I would describe as unusually quiet, and still, with an orange-yellowish soft glow on the horizon, through the trees, to the east of my property. There was no breeze, or the sound of birds. The deer family, normally meandering through the yard at that time of the morning were absent. It was then that I noticed the large plume of dark smoke rising from the far east side of Sawmill Peak Lookout, and it appeared to be intensifying in size and ferocity.

I texted my next door neighbor to confirm that her cable, and internet, were down as mine were. Unable to get any news channel, I tried calling 911, but there was no answer. I immediately called the Magalia Fire Station directly. I was able to ask if there was a fire, and would Old Magalia need to evacuate. The frantic, male voice simply stated “fire in Concow” and “probably”.  The sound of phone lines ringing in the background made it impossible to hear if he said anything further before the call dropped. With a sense of urgency I woke my tenant, Jeff, living on my property in his 5th wheel. We assessed the situation and agreed the direction of smoke seemed to be moving south, towards Table Top Mountain, and Oroville Lake. The skies directly above us were blue, and clear. The winds were calm. There was no smell of smoke.

Only weeks before I had received an “Evacuation Instruction Notice” in the mail and had tacked it on the back of the door exiting the house. We read it, and following its instruction, he drove us three blocks to the designated meeting place for Zone 7. Magalia Community Church, on Old Skyway. The notice had indicated that fire officials would be available there to advise of evacuation, routes, and protocol, in the case of a fire.

We were two of a handful of other neighbors. There were no officials from Butte County, City, CalFire, CHP, Department of Forestry, Fire Departments, Magalia Sheriff Department, Paradise Police, etc. I took a picture of Sawmill Peak Lookout. The plume, much larger, but still on the east side of the ridge, moving south. I spoke with a neighbor I had never known, briefly, then turned my attention back towards the lookout. With cellphone in hand, I snapped a picture. The image I captured was one of terror and disbelief. What was a large plume of smoke, on the other side of Sawmill Peak, blowing in the direction of Table Top Mountain, had changed direction. It had traveled over the ridge, down the canyon, crossed the West Branch of the Feather River, and was heading directly towards us, with a vengeance.

Jeff and I were standing alone in the parking lot of the church. I was paralyzed with fear. The same people I had been speaking with, only moments before, were running for their vehicles and screaming. Their words were directed towards Jeff and me. They were telling us to run. Get into our vehicle. To leave now. The skies had grown dark, and black. The blue sky directly above had changed to a dark black/grey, the wind was blowing from every direction, and there was a deafening sound as the fire blazed directly towards us. We ran for Jeff’s truck and knew we must evacuate immediately. We drove back to the house. I grabbed the small dog, Taz, that I was taking care of for friends while they were vacationing, a cell phone charger, a pillow and blanket, and evacuated wearing the clothes I would wear for the next 2 weeks.

Jeff was rushing to try and load some tools he needed for work in the back of his truck. I remembered that the Evacuation Instruction Notice had advised to open electric garage doors and drive cars out, in the event of a fire, before PG&E would cut power. I then tossed my key ring to Jeff from the deck overlooking the driveway and garage, and he rushed to pull my car out as the garage door was rising. The power went out at that time, leaving only inches of clearance, allowing my car to pass through.

I realized that I had not seen my next door neighbors, with three special needs children, and a fourth child due in a few weeks. I called and told them of the fire. Within minutes they were loading their children and a few items in their car. We exchanged well wishes, quick hugs, and said our goodbyes. I remember the surreal feeling that I may never see them again, as they pulled out of the driveway. The children that called me “OG”, for Other Grandma, were crying and waving out the back window.

Jeff and I talked briefly about which way to evacuate. He wanted to go downhill, taking Skyway to Chico. It was a shorter drive, under normal circumstances, but I speculated that the traffic was already jammed. We knew that the town of Paradise was already burning, and the Kmart and Safeway shopping center was already gone, through calls we were getting from out-of-town friends watching the news. Feather River hospital was threatened, the whole town, and surrounding communities, were under mandatory evacuation orders.

My father had taught me the different escape routes from Upper Skyway; routes from DeSabla, Stirling City, and Inskip. I was a teenager, learning to drive. He had instilled in me the necessity to know how to drive on dirt, rough, and mountain roads. “You should always have a back-up plan on how to get out of a situation safely, especially if it’s a fire”, he had told me. He spent a lot of time teaching me those back roads, a manual transmission, and when to use four-wheel drive. Forty-four years later I was in a position to decide on a back-up plan. I felt confident, yet terrified, to take the rough backroads, but we had no time to consider another option. I drove down my driveway, Taz and Toby, Jeff’s small dogs, in the passenger seat, Jeff following close behind me in his truck.

Jeff’s truck was very low on gasoline and needed to be fueled before we could go off-road, So, we decided that we would stop at a small market/gas station three miles up from where we were. We were about half a mile from the house, approaching the intersection of Skyway and Old Skyway. The traffic coming down the hill was very congested, the traffic light was out, and the cars were unwilling to let anyone into the lane to turn right, down the hill. I motioned that I was turning left, to go up, along with the truck behind me. They let us through and we headed up hill. 

My cell phone rang; a good friend was calling to make sure we were getting out, NOW. He had gotten a call from someone close to my neighborhood reporting that the flames were approaching there fast. I assured him we were safe, for the moment, and heading his direction, up Skyway. He, his expecting wife, and their two boys, ages 1 and 3, needed help loading their cars. We stopped at the gas station. I drove to the back parking lot and waited for Jeff to get the $20.00 limit allowed, per person, of gasoline. The 4 lanes to the pump were backed up about 1/4 mile down the road. There was chaos everywhere, and tension was high with most everyone. I witnessed fighting, crying, screaming, animals howling, cars running into each other. Everyone had only one mission to accomplish that morning: Get out with family, pets, cars, and whatever they had time to pack into the car before leaving their homes, jobs, schools, appointments. Nothing seemed real.

Leaving the gas station, we went up Skyway, turning right onto Steiffer road. We were met by Sean in the driveway. He was frantic, trying to get his young boys, wife, and a few necessities packed up, and get out. We helped them get on the road, and again, waved goodbye to a much loved, young family, with a new baby on the way. Not knowing if I would see them again, I turned away. I ran back to my vehicle, prepared myself to lead the way through the back roads, and prayed that these two special families would find their way to safety, and hold their newborn daughters in a few weeks. I knew that we had to escape and do it fast. The fast-moving fire was being driven by high winds that seemed, again, to be coming from every direction at once. The skies were becoming darker with every moment. The smell of smoke was thick. The fire itself sounded evil, wicked-like, howling, with deeper sounds of growling. I remember thinking to myself; “it’s alive, and it wants to kill all of us”. 

That is when my mom called, frantic. She had seen on the morning news channel that Paradise, and surrounding communities, were on mandatory evacuation, due to a fire. She wanted to make sure that I was aware of the orders. I talked with her, briefly, trying to reassure her that I would be safe.  I told her that Jeff would be following me, going up back roads to evacuate, the way Papa had shown me. I told her how much I loved her, not to worry, and we would talk soon. She was saying the same to me. I knew then that neither of us were convinced, as the cell service towers went down, and the call was dropped.   

As Jeff and I were leaving Sean’s house, Jeff realized that his close friend, Myra, who was home alone, without a vehicle, and in poor health, would need help getting out of Magalia. She lived only a mile from where we were, down Skyway, the opposite direction of our intended escape. We discussed the plan of him heading down, with a quick pick-up, and turnaround. I would wait for his return, and we would continue up Skyway to the dirt roads and evacuate. We agreed, and he left. Rapidly, those plans went wrong. Within minutes, a man, wearing what appeared to be a casual officer uniform, came to my vehicle window and instructed me to “get moving.” I was parked to the side of the residential street, out of any traffic. I tried to explain that I would only be there a few minutes, waiting for my traveling companion, so we could caravan uphill together. He remained adamant that I move on, turning left, going downhill, and unless I was getting in line for gas, I could not turn right and go uphill, against traffic that was coming down. I felt terrified that Jeff and I were separated and feared he would turn back downhill if he was unable to find me waiting for him where we agreed. The officer left me no other option except to surrender to his orders. I turned left, merged into slow traffic, and began the descent downhill, into chaos, and life changing events.

As hard as I tried to stay focused, and maintain an optimistic attitude, I knew, in the deepest part of my being, that this was a bad situation. A true emergency, and life or death decisions were necessary, immediately, with only one directive. My father. He had been very deliberate in what he had taught me about the risks of a fire, and the absolute, only option to escape, without delay, was to evacuate uphill, on dirt roads. I knew I had to turn around and go back. Cars, trucks, RV’s, vehicles pulling travel trailers, or boats, or utility trailers were backed up in the small streets and main roads. There were people on motorcycles, off-road quads, and bicycles. People were running while pushing wheelchairs, or a gurney, young parents running with a stroller while balancing a toddler on a hip. Men on horses, while leading more horses tied to a rope. A pregnant woman on horseback, holding a very small child seated in front of her.

I continued in stop-and-go traffic downhill, entering Paradise limits. The roads feeding onto Skyway were creating a traffic bottleneck situation, barely moving, or not at all. I saw unfamiliar, and some familiar, faces. They were frantic and crying. There were vehicles on fire, people inside screaming for help, but it was too hot to approach close enough to open the doors to free them. Dogs in the beds of trucks, on fire from the burning embers the size of salad plates falling from the sky.

I witnessed events that no one should see. Things that will haunt me until I die. Human instinct to survive overtook me, and without hesitation, I made a sharp left U-turn, and was going uphill again.  Drivers who were still maneuvering their way downhill were eager to allow me to make the turn around.  I was one less car in front of them, and their evacuation.  I was eager to find a safe place and starting to panic about finding Jeff. I began to head back uphill, trying desperately to erase the images I had witnessed.

Without a cell phone signal, Jeff and I were unable to contact with each other. He had returned to Steiffer Road, where he last saw me. When I wasn’t there, he also began to panic. Remembering how determined I was to evacuate on the back roads, he found a safe place to pull to the side of the road, free of heavy traffic, and waited until he saw me approach. I saw his truck and pulled over. After a quick exchange of our feelings of fear and frustration, we headed up a long, dirty, dusty, rough, washboard, switchback, 4-wheel drive, mountain road, hoping to find safety in a burning hell. Jeff following close behind me.

It took hours to finally reach a paved road. We were met by a CHP and CalFire uniform. They were placing orange cones and tape barriers across the entrance to the paved road.  They wanted to know if anyone was following behind us, as they were preparing for a rescue mission if there were.  We were unaware of anyone else, and they instructed us to head west, on the paved road, towards Chico, and shelter. I was able to find a radio station in the car that was reporting that the Neighborhood Church, on Notre Dame Blvd., Chico, was housing fire victims, and to go directly there. Jeff and I pulled over and decided this would be our plan. Unfortunately, we were unable to get to that shelter. All roads leading there were closed, allowing vehicles still evacuating the fire the priority.

Detours for the closed roads led us in the opposite direction. It was during one of those detours that we found the East Avenue Church setting up for evacuees. They opened their doors to provide shelter. For those of us who were fortunate enough to escape the inferno, it was our only “home.” It was my refuge for the following 7 weeks. 

Hours later, I was still alone, in my car, in a dry dusty field, behind that shelter. I remember thinking everything looked blurry again. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. My face was blackened with dirt and smoke, and streaked with dried tears. I wondered if my tears had blurred my vision. That day is a nightmarish blur, yet very clear in my memories. I was one of the fortunate evacuees. I had confirmation that my home, and its entire contents, was gone the following day, unlike most of the other evacuees at the shelter. They wandered around aimlessly, sobbing, asking each newcomer if they had any information regarding their neighborhood. Or worse, had they seen a family member while holding out a picture, trembling, fighting back more tears.

The scene resembled a refugee camp, as makeshift tents, nap sacks, sleeping bags, and rolled up blankets became a safe place. I was hungry, cold, scared, lost, and I was alone. Sleep eluded me as I watched the horizon continue to glow orange at night, and the blackened skies on smoky days made it almost impossible to breath. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t escape the images of people, and pets, burning in their cars. I had been surrounded by the sound of screams, children crying, dogs howling, swearing, and prayers. All of that, and more, echoed in my head. The smells still remain unfamiliar to me, yet all too familiar. Images embedded in my brain. Images no one should see.

The recall of the evacuation may seem melodramatic to some. I assure those people, unless they were there, experiencing what it is like to run for your life, with only minutes to decide which direction to escape, is unimaginable. There was no warning. No alerts were issued on my cell phone. No knock on the door. There were no officials at intersections directing traffic, or at designated meeting places, with instructions. There was no time to pack my computer, laptop, external hard drive, the dozens of thumb drives. Multiple tubs with 5 generations of photographs, marriage licenses, death certificates, love letters from WWII, wedding dresses, jewelry and coins were lost.  I was the keeper of our family history, the safe place. As I drove away from my home, on November 8, 2018, I had wanted to believe the family history would be spared, like the times before, when evacuated. I remember praying that I would return home, grateful for the false alarm. I was terribly mistaken.

The Camp Fire engulfed my town, my home, my memories, my livelihood, and my dreams for Isaac. It took our friends, family, pets, physical and mental health. And it did not fall short in destroying the lives of children, men, women, and seniors. 

To this day, it still feels surreal. When I wake, since the fire, I force myself to not open my eyes for a few minutes. I listen, smell the air, and try to imagine that none of it happened. I tell myself, when I open my eyes, I will be in my own home, waking up on the antique iron and brass bed I’ve had since early childhood. Isaac will be sleeping in the next bedroom, dreaming sweet dreams.

The second part of this story will be published next week.

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