A Run Seared Into My Memory
Ever see a natural disaster of, say, a raging wildfire unfolding on TV and people are trying to outrun the flames and you’re thinking, “Why on earth did they wait until now to flee?!”
I’m going to tell you why.
It’s possible that you might have woken to the smell of smoke and heavy Santa Ana winds at 5 on an especially warm Sunday morning almost exactly two years ago. And when you went outdoors to shut a banging fence door, you saw the huge thunderheads of smoke. But, when the local news media finally hit the airwaves an hour later, the reporters and talking heads and 911 dispatchers told you the fire, though big, is also 14 miles away and burning in the opposite direction.
You call your training partner and weigh the air quality. You’re planning a 14-miler and, after consulting husbands, decide to do it. So you head out, commenting numerous times on how acrid the air, and how incredibly beautiful a backdrop the giant plumes of steel gray create against sunwashed hillside homes on the horizon. “Gosh, I wish I had my camera,” is spoken more than once. You head into a neighboring suburb, where it’s sunny and less windy. You talk and talk, and you drink your water and consider a Gu. Then you turn and mentally prepare for a huge hill that will bring you back to Scripps Ranch and within about five miles of your house.
But this morning the hill seems steeper than ever. You slow considerably at each block. You’re also slow to notice the skies are now dark, mottled gray and black and orange. The air is dense and ash starts to collect in your hair. You keep spitting specks out, or blowing hard to keep them from clogging your nose. Your eyes burn something fierce.You finally crest the hill and suggest an alternative, kinder course with more scenic views. As you’re running another, less formidable mound, you see swarms of people with cameras and video recorders. You reach them and look at a line of fire consuming empty acres earmarked for million-dollar tract homes. It’s a mile away at most.
You’re in awe of the surreal scene unfolding in front of you. The fire, once 14 miles away, is there. Or, rather, here. Then your running partner tells you to follow the fire line and watches you gasp and go weak in the knees, sucker punched by a sudden realization: The fire’s heading right for your house.
You both start to run like hell, especially given you’re running through hell. The smoke burns as you breath and creates sooty phlegm you constantly cough up and spit out. You rush past cars haphazardly parked on a busy street; kids strain to get out of their carseats, still dressed in their nightgowns; bewildered parents look around for clues on what to do and where to go. Inland roads are closing; the freeway’s on fire. You could be self-conscious that, even at this stage, you appear to be running for fun when you and your training partner joke uneasily about being killed by the flying eucalyptus branches. But instead you focus only on moving fast as you can, when in fact you’re really moving slower than before.
You make it to her house and your car. You arrive home five minutes later to find everyone still left on your street pouring pictures, albums, artwork and suitcases into their automobiles. Your husband and kids are at it too. It’s your younger daughter’s 15th birthday, and you make sure the presents and the homemade cake make it into the car. You reek of ash and smoke and, despite the fact you can see flames on the horizon, you jump into the shower to wash off the soot, dress in the first thing you can find and answer the phone. It’s a good friend who works for KPBS and he asks a big favor: Can he interview you?
Days later, he will call to apologize for exploiting the friendship. But at this moment, he only wants to know what’s going on. There are no police, you tell him as you continue shutting windows and locking doors. No firefighters. Just huge homes and parked cars exploding on the other side of a main road about 200 yards away. You snap a picture just as the eucalyptus grove behind your neighborhood is awash in flames. You will eventually return to your unharmed home, which you later learn was saved by the U.S. Navy firefighters first on the scene.
“What were you doing when you realized you needed to evacuate?” your radio friend initially asked. Your voice is high-pitched and shaky. You blame the quivering on adrenaline, not fear. “You’re never going to believe this, but I was out running….”
And so, for the next hour, as you’re stuck in gridlock on the way to an American Red Cross shelter, you call friends and family. You tell them to turn on NPR. And you publicly giggle and privately cringe each time you hear, “Resident Anne S-- was jogging when the fires broke out and her family was forced to flee their Scripps Ranch neighborhood….”
[Top photo of Scripps Ranch fire along Pomerado Road: KWC.org. Second photo titled "View from My Front Yard as We Fled" by me]
I’m going to tell you why.
It’s possible that you might have woken to the smell of smoke and heavy Santa Ana winds at 5 on an especially warm Sunday morning almost exactly two years ago. And when you went outdoors to shut a banging fence door, you saw the huge thunderheads of smoke. But, when the local news media finally hit the airwaves an hour later, the reporters and talking heads and 911 dispatchers told you the fire, though big, is also 14 miles away and burning in the opposite direction.
You call your training partner and weigh the air quality. You’re planning a 14-miler and, after consulting husbands, decide to do it. So you head out, commenting numerous times on how acrid the air, and how incredibly beautiful a backdrop the giant plumes of steel gray create against sunwashed hillside homes on the horizon. “Gosh, I wish I had my camera,” is spoken more than once. You head into a neighboring suburb, where it’s sunny and less windy. You talk and talk, and you drink your water and consider a Gu. Then you turn and mentally prepare for a huge hill that will bring you back to Scripps Ranch and within about five miles of your house.
But this morning the hill seems steeper than ever. You slow considerably at each block. You’re also slow to notice the skies are now dark, mottled gray and black and orange. The air is dense and ash starts to collect in your hair. You keep spitting specks out, or blowing hard to keep them from clogging your nose. Your eyes burn something fierce.You finally crest the hill and suggest an alternative, kinder course with more scenic views. As you’re running another, less formidable mound, you see swarms of people with cameras and video recorders. You reach them and look at a line of fire consuming empty acres earmarked for million-dollar tract homes. It’s a mile away at most.
You’re in awe of the surreal scene unfolding in front of you. The fire, once 14 miles away, is there. Or, rather, here. Then your running partner tells you to follow the fire line and watches you gasp and go weak in the knees, sucker punched by a sudden realization: The fire’s heading right for your house.
You both start to run like hell, especially given you’re running through hell. The smoke burns as you breath and creates sooty phlegm you constantly cough up and spit out. You rush past cars haphazardly parked on a busy street; kids strain to get out of their carseats, still dressed in their nightgowns; bewildered parents look around for clues on what to do and where to go. Inland roads are closing; the freeway’s on fire. You could be self-conscious that, even at this stage, you appear to be running for fun when you and your training partner joke uneasily about being killed by the flying eucalyptus branches. But instead you focus only on moving fast as you can, when in fact you’re really moving slower than before.
You make it to her house and your car. You arrive home five minutes later to find everyone still left on your street pouring pictures, albums, artwork and suitcases into their automobiles. Your husband and kids are at it too. It’s your younger daughter’s 15th birthday, and you make sure the presents and the homemade cake make it into the car. You reek of ash and smoke and, despite the fact you can see flames on the horizon, you jump into the shower to wash off the soot, dress in the first thing you can find and answer the phone. It’s a good friend who works for KPBS and he asks a big favor: Can he interview you?
Days later, he will call to apologize for exploiting the friendship. But at this moment, he only wants to know what’s going on. There are no police, you tell him as you continue shutting windows and locking doors. No firefighters. Just huge homes and parked cars exploding on the other side of a main road about 200 yards away. You snap a picture just as the eucalyptus grove behind your neighborhood is awash in flames. You will eventually return to your unharmed home, which you later learn was saved by the U.S. Navy firefighters first on the scene.
“What were you doing when you realized you needed to evacuate?” your radio friend initially asked. Your voice is high-pitched and shaky. You blame the quivering on adrenaline, not fear. “You’re never going to believe this, but I was out running….”
And so, for the next hour, as you’re stuck in gridlock on the way to an American Red Cross shelter, you call friends and family. You tell them to turn on NPR. And you publicly giggle and privately cringe each time you hear, “Resident Anne S-- was jogging when the fires broke out and her family was forced to flee their Scripps Ranch neighborhood….”
[Top photo of Scripps Ranch fire along Pomerado Road: KWC.org. Second photo titled "View from My Front Yard as We Fled" by me]
