September Storm

September Storm

In the early hours of that September morning, I was jolted awake by the ear-piercing wail of an air raid siren, cutting through the calm of our secluded cabin community in the California mountains. It was the 1970s, and we were in the final days of our vacation before school beckoned us back in mid-September. Our grandparents, permanent residents of this tranquil haven just two hours from Fresno, were about to reveal the indomitable spirit of courage and survival.

As I stumbled down the wooden staircase, my bleary eyes met the sight of my grandmother, tirelessly assisting my grandfather in his preparations. Grandpa was no ordinary man; he was a dedicated member of the volunteer emergency community response, a role known as the "Volunteer Fire Department" back in those days.

"Go back to bed, sweetheart; Grandpa needs to lend a hand and will be back soon," my grandmother reassured me as I joined my brother, who had also been roused by the commotion. Little did we know that this night would etch an unforgettable story of resilience into our memories.

The darkness outside was oppressive when Grandma once again shook us awake, clutching an electric lantern. "Get ready to leave; we're being evacuated," she urged, her voice laced with urgency. I fumbled for the light switch, only to find darkness. "The power's out," she informed us, handing me a flashlight. My older brother seized it hastily, leaving me in the shadows. In the midst of the chaos, I did my best to gather our belongings, and when I attempted to light a candle, Grandma swiftly extinguished it, cautioning me, "No fires."

We ventured into the eerie night, a palpable scent of smoke hanging in the air. My brother's flashlight pierced through the smoky haze as we circled the cabin, revealing the ominous presence of the forest fire encroaching upon us. In the backyard, Grandpa worked diligently, donning a hard hat adorned with a miner's light, wielding a portable manual pump fire extinguisher to combat the encroaching flames.

"We need to alert the neighbors to evacuate," he instructed, and my brother accompanied Grandma, while I stood by Grandpa's side. Most neighbors heeded the call, but there's always one defiant soul. I overheard Grandpa's grim advice to this stubborn man, "I can't make you leave, but do me a favor and write your Social Security number on your belly with a magic marker so we can identify the body later. Don't write it on your arm, as your arm most likely won't survive the fire." The man, unwavering, replied, "I'll take my chances," and we reluctantly left him behind, heading back to the truck.

The descent down the mountain road was a perilous journey, with winds whipping thick clouds of smoke across our path and burning embers falling ominously from the sky. Ahead, a wall of fire blocked the road, forcing a halt.

Cars ahead began to turn around, retracing their path up the mountain. "We'll have to take the back roads and trails to get out," Grandpa resolved.

One by one, cars followed our lead, but each eventually succumbed to the unforgiving terrain. Grandpa, recognizing the gravity of the situation, aided these stranded souls as they climbed into the sheltered truck bed, which boasted four-wheel drive, unlike their vehicles. The journey down the mountain's unforgiving trails was fraught with challenges, but it was a sacrifice we were willing to make.

Upon reaching a safe distance upwind from the fire, we halted and let our passengers disembark. The relief of breathing cool, smoke-free air was palpable. It was then that a terrified gasp emanated from one of our passengers, and I turned to witness the inferno in the distance, painting the night sky with an ominous canvas of orange and yellow, punctuated by pulsating flames.

Suddenly, a monstrous 500-foot plus vertical funnel of swirling flames and glowing embers materialized, mercilessly carving a path of destruction through the burning landscape, consuming homes and trees alike. My grandfather, worn and exhausted, stood in silence, finally uttering just one word that encapsulated the horrifying spectacle before us: "Firestorm."