by Bobby Akart
Fires need a trifecta of fuel, oxygen, and heat, commonly known as the fire triangle. Once the conditions are right, and the requisite ignition source, that spark, occurs, the fire takes on a life of its own.
External weather and winds cause fires to gain momentum. In addition, the wildfires produce their own winds, known as indrafts, which create sixty-mile-per-hour gusts capable of overpowering the winds caused by the prevalent weather pattern. As the fire builds, hot air rises and cooler air rushes in to take its place. This process adds to the unpredictability of the fire, causing the flames to move in unexpected directions with varied intensity.
The Red, White and Blue Fire Department was so called not necessarily for their patriotism but from their history as three different fire companies formed in 1882 to protect the mining district of Breckenridge after three large fires almost destroyed the town.
RWBFire had issued a HIGH fire alert weeks ago, as was customary during the summer months. Control burns required a permit and constant supervision by the landowner. Campfires were allowed outside the city limits but were discouraged, especially when there was a Red Flag or Fire Weather advisory.
The weather in Breckenridge had remained the same for several days—warm, dry, and mild breezes. The near twenty-mile-per-hour winds experienced around Breckenridge would’ve warranted a Red Flag warning had RWBFire been fully operational. But like the sheriff’s department, fear of the plague had caused most of the firefighters to go into hiding.
The first flames were reported outside the perimeter established by Sheriff Andrews on the edge of town. Families fled the blaze on foot, avoiding the roadblocks established by the sheriff. They warned their neighbors who lived on the lower elevations of Mission Hill as they sought refuge in town.
By the time Sheriff Andrews and Fire Chief Aaron Rice could drive up the mountains to better assess the wildfire, another one was reported to the south at Bald Mountain. Hours later, fires engulfed several homes in the Mount Argentine area. The pattern was unmistakable.
These fires weren’t started by accident. This was the deliberate work of arsonists with the intention of creating wildfires on three distinct and different terrains simultaneously.
Sheriff Andrews and Fire Chief Rice regrouped in town to receive reports from the deputies and volunteer firefighters about the three blazes. The men watched the powerful indrafts generate firewhirls, also known as firenados, where the fire burns skyward, throwing flames and burning debris into the air. This was a sign of the strongest type of wildfire. The three blazes were moving toward Breckenridge and southward toward McCullough Gulch and Quandary Peak.
“If the winds continue to blow the fires toward town, they’ll pick up additional flashy fuels,” started Chief Rice. Chief Rice was offered the position of fire chief after he successfully participated in turning back one of the largest wildfires in Colorado history.
The Hayman fire occurred during June 2002 in Park County, thirty miles to the south of Breckenridge. Named for a ghost town, the Hayman fire burned over a hundred homes, a hundred and forty thousand acres, and displaced five thousand residents.
It took two weeks to completely contain the fire, which was started by a careless technician with the United States Forestry Service. The woman, distraught over her estranged husband, was told to write down her feelings in a letter and then burn it to cleanse her burdens. The small fire she built, during a period of a total burn ban, was left unattended and quickly hopped out of the campfire ring she created and ignited fallen pine needles and eventually torched an area from Pike’s Peak to the Kenosha Mountains.
“Aaron, whadya mean by flashy fuels?” asked Sheriff Andrews.
“The fires won’t burn up the mountains very far because they’ll run out of flammable materials at the tree line,” started Chief Rice. “At lower elevations, especially as the fires approach more homes, flashy fuels like grasses, twigs, wood-framed homes—anything with a high surface-area-to-volume ratio, which provides the material a lot of room to burn, will feed the flames.”
“We agree this is the work of arsonists,” said Sheriff Andrews. “I can’t begin to imagine what kind of sick mind would initiate this. Aaron, how in the world are we gonna fight this thing?”
“Terry, we need everybody. I mean it. Everybody.”
Chapter 45
Day Seventy
Breckenridge
The sun began to rise in the east, but the dense smoke obliterated it from view. Those residents who were unaware of the impending blazes during the night were awakened by the sounds of sirens and loudspeakers from first-responder vehicles traversing the streets of Breckenridge. All residents, including children, were ordered on Main Street immediately. They were told to wear protective masks, eyewear, and gloves. They were to bring shovels, rakes, and empty five-gallon buckets.
Chief Rice divided his nine full-time firefighters who were still in town to lead three teams per hotspot. Sheriff Andrews placed his deputies under Chief Rice’s command, who then assigned them to the firefighting teams. None of his men had experience in fighting a massive wildfire, so Chief Rice provided them the benefit of his experience.
“The roads will act as a natural firebreak, so I’ve mapped a plan of attack based upon using the highways and major streets within the neighborhoods. Be aware that the winds could whip up the embers and cross the firebreak. I want you to have plenty of residents behind you, a second line of defense, to douse any flash fires.
“Now, listen up. We’ve got several hundred folks here so far to help. You’re gonna need every last one of them. To fight a wildfire, you have to remove one of the factors of the fire triangle—heat, oxygen, or fuel. The strategy when burning something this hot, under these conditions, is to remove the fuel. That’s our number one priority.
“We’re gonna take a two-pronged approach. Below the firebreaks, use your volunteers to remove the flashy fuels. Have them take away fallen limbs, dead trees, dried leaves, and pine needles. There are a lot of beetle-kill pines around Mineral Hill that need to be removed with chainsaws. The idea is to create a dead zone below the firebreak, which prevents the flames from moving downhill toward town.
“Above the firebreaks, I want you guys, seasoned firefighters, to coordinate building backfires. We’re gonna burn the fuel ahead of the fire’s path so it has nowhere to go.
“We obviously won’t have the help of water bombers, but we do have our tanker full and access to the city water system, which is gravity fed from the surrounding reservoirs. Assign a reliable two-man team to manage your hoses. There are no backups, so don’t let a mistake burn one up.
“Finally, we’re on our own here. Nobody is coming to help us from Frisco or Dillon. That’s a load of BS, but I can’t deal with that today. It’s up to us to save the Breck.”
Chief Rice, with the help of Sheriff Andrews, assigned the residents to the various teams and made arrangements for the children and elderly to be watched after at the Breckenridge Ski Lodge.
His manpower plan focused on saving the town of Breckenridge. If the fire spread down the southern face of Mount Argentine and into McCullough Gulch, Doc Cooley’s ranch would be at risk. He didn’t have the personnel to spare, but he raised Doc on the radio and apprised him of the situation. Those folks would have to mount their own defense against the blaze.
Chapter 46
Day Seventy
Cooley Ranch
West Face of Red Mountain
Hunter and Tommy scrambled to get their gear together after Doc relayed the information about the fires. It was agreed that Barb would stay at the house while Mac and Janie would monitor the checkpoint. The guys had no idea how long they’d be gone. If the fire spread beyond Doc’s place and jumped Route 9 into McCullough Gulch, then it could follow the low-lying areas around Quandary Peak and possibly head up toward Blue Lakes and their home.
Hunter pulled Mac aside before they left. With a coldhearted, levelheaded analysis, the two of them discussed the risks of
fighting fires and whether they should participate. Firefighters face heat, flames, and toxic smoke in the form of high levels of carbon monoxide, not to mention the physical and mental strain.
Mac was concerned for her dad. He was in exceptional shape for his age, but this was a higher altitude, which made breathing difficult on a clear day. Surrounded by smoke and the carbon monoxide, it would be easy to succumb to the inhaled toxins.
She cautioned Hunter about smoke inhalation, who promised to pass on the suggestions to Tommy, Doc, and Derek. The smoke would irritate their eyes, throat, and lungs. She suggested they use the P100 masks, which would provide the best available protection against smoke other than the equipment issued to firefighters.
Before they left the basement, Mac began to cry and hugged Hunter. He did his best to reassure her, but they both knew the risks the guys were about to take. In the end, helping Doc was not only the right thing to do, but it was necessary to prevent the fire from jumping the highway and imperiling their home.
*****
The Jeep roared up the driveway to Doc’s house, spinning gravel with every curve. There were no guards at the gate today, only Doc’s wife, who reluctantly raised her shotgun as their Jeep approached the Cooleys’ front yard. When she saw it was Tommy, she lowered her weapon and ran to the driver’s side door.
“Tommy, thank God for the two of you.” She began to cry. “Caleb, Derek, and the guys left an hour ago on their four-wheelers for the base of Mount Argentine at Pennsylvania Creek. They said for you to meet them there.”
“Honey, are you okay up here alone?” asked Tommy.
She wiped away her tears and smiled. “You all have made me feel better. Doc’s too old for this, Tommy. He talks a big game, but he’s tired, you know. Derek is strong, but he can’t do it alone. Thank you both for helping us.”
Hunter was growing impatient. “Yes, ma’am. Glad to help. Tommy, we need to join them.”
Tommy raced down the driveway and tore onto Route 9 as the Jeep tilted toward the left-side wheels. Hunter held on to the dashboard grab handle and attempted to raise Doc or Derek on the radio, but he was unsuccessful.
“If they’re down in the valley, trying to create a firebreak at Pennsylvania Creek, they’ll never be able to hear us,” said Hunter. “Do you know where to look for them?”
“I think so,” said Tommy. “There are about fifty homes around the base of the mountain near the highway. A washed-out road stretches up into the valley between Doc’s ranch and the southern face of Mount Argentine. Based on what he told me, one of the firefighters from town who lives down this way has mobilized the locals to fight the fire along the highway and at the north end of their neighborhoods. Sadly, they wouldn’t assign anybody to help along Pennsylvania Creek.”
“Why not?” asked Hunter.
“The road, Coronet Drive, runs parallel to the creek and up the valley between the two mountains. It eventually dead-ends at the tree line. My guess is Doc’s gotten started without us.”
They approached Blue River Road, and several vehicles were parked around the entrance. Women and children were huddled under a stand of pine trees, talking to one another. They turned to stare at the Jeep as Tommy roared past.
He wound his way through the neighborhood and eventually found Coronet Drive at the back. After the last McMansion came into view, the asphalt road turned to gravel and the full-time four-wheel drive on the Wrangler did its job.
“Are there homes up this way?” asked Hunter, who held onto the grab bar for stability. Tommy did his best to avoid potholes and places where water runoff had created ruts in the gravel.
“Yeah, maybe half a dozen, all full-time residents. These are mountain people who’ve lived up here for years, unlike the residents we just passed. Because their properties face south and they’re tucked in the forest, they might not know what’s going on.”
“There!” exclaimed Hunter. “I see the fire coming down the mountain.”
“That’s Doc’s John Deere six-wheeler. Hunter, are you ready for this? It’s gonna be brutal.”
“Tommy, as long as we’re standing, we should lend a hand to those who need it.”
Chapter 47
Day Seventy
The Fire
Pennsylvania Creek
High mountain gusts of wind forced the smoke down towards Pennsylvania Creek like bolts of jet-black velvet unfurling—heavy layers rolling and folding in unison. It was easy to lose your perspective in the smoke clouds, the vapors dense and oily, weighing heavily upon your body.
Through his goggles, Hunter could see a dirty orange glow in the grayish-black haze, brighter when the smoke puffed during an updraft and dimmer when the dark fog closed in again. If he trusted his eyes, which he didn’t, the flames might have been forty feet away, or sixty, or maybe they were only twenty. He wasn’t sure, so Hunter called on his other senses.
He trusted his skin, what little of it was exposed. His neck, cheeks, and ears became sensory receptors, warning him of his close proximity to the flames. The intense heat was his gauge of distance to death.
He’d been separated from the group as he attempted to remove another fallen tree limb from the path of the fire. Their plan was to clear the sixty-foot swath of land between Coronet Drive, which was just up the mountain, and the thirty-foot-wide Pennsylvania Creek at the bottom. They felt certain an eighty- to one-hundred-foot firebreak would stop the fire before it climbed up Red Mountain toward Cooley Ranch.
Hunter was down on all fours, crawling across the pine-needle rug that covered the ground. He stayed low, ducking under the worst of the heat as it blew over his head. He’d become disoriented, trying to use the terrain to find his way back to the gravel road.
He’d made his way to a low spot in the ground, giving him hope as the temperature dropped from one hundred fifty degrees to maybe one hundred twenty. He paused to listen. From the sounds, he determined the blaze was to his left, so he immediately scrambled to his right. Up and over a small rise, Hunter attempted to regain his footing.
He cursed himself for taking the risk and venturing across the road earlier. The clearing process was going well. It wasn’t necessary to tackle the debris on the uphill side of the road, but he had, and now he was in a fight to survive.
He shuffled his feet forward, first the left and then the right. He unknowingly kicked at embers, ignoring the scorched earth beneath him and focusing instead on a flicker of light dancing through the smoke before him.
Is it the clearing? Have I finally emerged from the wrong side of the road?
Then he saw another glimmer of light, a shimmer that brightened and blossomed into a deep yellow glow.
Is it a flashlight? Maybe the sun is peeking through the cloud? Am I finally out of the trap I placed myself in?
The sound came next, a low rumble through the hiss and snap of the fire, like the Harleys rolling down Route 9 or thunder tumbling across the prairies of Kansas in advance of a vicious thunderstorm.
Instincts took over and he hit the ground. He needed the force of gravity to guide him. Hunter tucked his arms close to his sides and began to roll like a log down a hill. Over and over again, his momentum began to carry him to a low spot on the side of the mountain just as the rumble swelled and quickened into a trembling whoosh over his head.
Moving as fast as a breaking tsunami wave, the flames passed over him, searing his skin and burning the hair exposed on his wrists. As quickly as the flames had shot past him, they danced into the sky.
Blue sky! I see blue sky!
Then Hunter heard the rumble again.
Chapter 48
Day Seventy
Coronet Road
Mount Argentine
Tommy was tasked with notifying the residents of the half-dozen homes located along the sparsely populated stretch of Coronet Road. The first few homes had been vacated except for one home, which had left their horses behind in a stable. Tommy opened the gates of the penned-in area and smacked the ge
ldings on the backside, sending them racing down Coronet Road towards the neighborhood.
The fire was advancing toward the last home he encountered, a two-story tucked into the trees near the tree line. There was a barn at the rear of the property and a small cabin tucked in the woods to the left. The fire had reached the barn and the cabin. Several hay bales had ignited and rolled down the yard toward the house.
He drove the Jeep into the driveway with the horn blaring. He gave it another minute and honked again, hoping to draw anyone out of the home before the flames engulfed the house. Just as Tommy was about to leave, the front door opened slightly and a young boy who was barely as tall as the doorknob peered out.
His disheveled jet-black hair and sullen eyes pulled on Tommy’s heart. The boy was afraid to open the door.
Tommy hopped out of the Jeep and walked slowly towards the door. The boy closed it a little more as Tommy approached. Tommy removed his goggles and mask to avoid frightening the young boy as he moved closer. The crackling sounds of the fire behind the house gave him a sense of urgency.
“Where are your parents?” shouted Tommy. “Please, open the door. Son, where are your parents?”
Just as Tommy arrived at the door, the child, who was around five years old, attempted to close it. Tommy stuck his hand inside and forced it open.
The house was dark inside. All the curtains and blinds had been closed. “What’s your name?”
“Marcus,” the boy replied sheepishly. He began to cough and he retreated into the shadows of the windowless dining area.
“Okay, Marcus. Where are your parents? Are you home alone?”
“Momma and Pa said they’d be stayin’ out in the cabin for a while. They told me to stay here or go down to stay with my aunt Paula. She lives down the road.” The boy pointed toward the neighborhood.
