Page 96 of Until We Come Home

We catch three more spot fires over the next hour as the wind builds, the gusts growing stronger and pushing the smoke column west toward the valley.

Every few minutes I check on the lookout above us, then scan down the mountain toward Dark River through the gaps in the trees. I can see the church steeple, Front Street curving along the inlet, and the bluff where Calvin and Maren’s place sits.

It all looks too close.

The lightning strike that started this hit an old dead tree near the crest last night, probably while Mia and I were curled up listening to the thunder over the water. The rain never reached the ridge, and the strike smoldered in the dry needles until the morning wind fanned it into open flame.

It was a single acre when a hiker reported it. By the time I arrived, it had grown to twenty. Now, three hours later, it’s spreading faster than we can track.

The easterly winds are driving the fire straight downhill toward the town.

My radio crackles, Holloway’s raspy voice breaking through the static. “All units, spotting is getting close to Bear Creek Road. Repeat, spot fires approaching the road. Kessler, fall back to the Hendricks property for structure protection. Engine One and the water tender are heading your way.”

Kessler comes jogging back down the switchback, circling a hand above her head, and the four of us toss our gear into the truck. She takes the wheel and bounces us down the rough logging road, the rig jolting over the ruts.

“Is it going to reach the houses?” Tyler asks, his voice tight.

“Not if we hold the line at the road,” I tell him.

The Hendricks place is an old farmhouse sitting at the top of the valley, flanked by an apple orchard and a large timber barn, with three other properties lined up along Bear Creek Road below it. The sheriff’s deputies have already cleared the area, and the neighborhood is deserted. In one driveway, a kid’s bicycle lies abandoned on the grass.

Engine One pulls in behind us with the water tender. Kessler and I walk the grounds while the rest of the crew pulls lines. This is the hardest part of the job—triage. You can’t save every structure, so you make fast calls on what’s defensible and put your resources where they count.

The barn has a cedar shake roof and is packed with dry hay, with overgrown brush pressing right against the siding. The main house has a metal roof, clear gravel borders, and a well-watered lawn.

“We have to write off the barn,” I say to Kessler. “There’s no defensible space. If we waste time on it, we’ll lose the house too.”

She takes it in and gives a firm nod.

“We can hold the house,” I add.

We work fast. Tyler and Jim drag lawn furniture, stacked firewood, and a propane tank away from the porch and out onto the gravel driveway. Kessler backs the brush truck into position, nose pointed toward the road for a quick exit if we get overrun. Engine One’s crew sprays down the roof and siding while I set up the owner’s lawn sprinklers to soak the grass around the foundation.

Then the wind shifts.

A gale roars down the ridge, and the fire crests the hill above the orchard. It’s no longer creeping—it’s a thirty-foot wall of flame, torching the apple trees one by one. The heat hits us from two hundred yards away, thick and suffocating.

“Jesus,” Tyler mutters beside me.

My mind goes quiet, focus narrowing to what needs to be done.

“Lookout, what’s your status?” I call over the radio.

“Front is moving through the orchard,” the radio crackles back. “Embers are throwing far ahead. Bear Creek Road behind you is still clear.”

Our escape route is open.

“Tyler, you and Jim work the fence line with backpack pumps and smother anything that lands in the grass,” I order. “Stay on this side of the fence. Kessler, I’ve got the back of the house.”

Embers rain down like glowing hail, skittering across the driveway and catching in the dry grass. Tyler and Jim chase down every one. I stay at the rear of the house with the hose, spraying down the roof, eaves, and deck to keep the embers from catching.

The barn ignites, as expected, the dry timber going up in a fireball that radiates fierce heat. But with the perimeter cleared, the flames have nowhere to spread, and the house holds.

We hold our ground for over an hour, time losing all meaning as we douse spot fire after spot fire. Sweating through my Nomex, throat raw from the smoke, I keep moving until the main body of the fire passes us by.

The house is saved, though the barn and orchard are ash. Farther down Bear Creek Road, two other homes are lost despite North County’s best efforts. The evacuations were complete, at least, and no one was hurt.

Once the front is past, I take a moment to sit on the tailgate, drinking water and looking out over the valley.