In Idyllwild, controversy crackles over fire department

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It was a sight that makes wilderness firefighters shudder -- waist-high brown weeds, dead tree branches over the chimney. For several years now, Idyllwild has been on an "abatement" kick to protect homes from forest fires and, conversely, to protect the forest from structure fires. The cottage was a reminder that there is still work ahead, and Kunkle would need to have a serious talk with the owner.

For now, though, there was no one home. Perhaps that was for the best, because these days, being a firefighter here is a delicate matter -- "like the old Frankenstein movies," said Capt. Jim Manietta, "where the town is approaching with pitchforks."

Criticism of the department has been building for months, and by now, some in town say their firehouse has degenerated into more of an uncurbed fiefdom than a professional department.

Fire officials have been accused, at one time or another, of throwing a trash can at a moving vehicle during a fire call, stealing department records and haranguing a school principal until she moved off the mountain -- because, she says, she dared question them.

This summer, a Riverside County grand jury suggested that the critics weren't far off. The grand jury even raised the possibility -- a heretical notion, historically -- that Idyllwild cede local control and allow its department to be absorbed into the network of county, state and federal stations that protects the rest of the mountain region.

The department describes itself as the aggrieved party, the victim of a smear campaign by a handful of cranky people, particularly don't-tread-on-me mountain types who don't like to be told that they need to pick up their pine needles.

"A very small amount of people are making a big noise," said Paul Riggi, a retired firefighter and a member of the department commission. The commissioners operate as a board of directors; they have been accused of violating open-government standards and have failed to approve a budget this year.

"We're not perfect," Riggi said. "But the public loves us. All of this is stupid."

The conflict might be dismissed as harmless, provincial politics, considering that the department covers five square miles and has an annual budget -- when there is a budget -- of roughly $1.7 million. But on "the hill," as the locals say, there is a catch: Idyllwild is terribly vulnerable to fire.

The town rests in a dry forest peppered with chaparral and oily manzanita trees, not to mention thousands of trees killed by bark beetles, though officials have removed many of those. Authorities have said that under the worst conditions, the town could go up in two hours. Many residents keep "go boxes" of food, belongings and documents they could grab as they fled.

Time and again, Idyllwild has been spared, but someday luck will run out, so the town's identity is forged in the integrity of its fire protection.

The ups and downs of Idyllwild, once little more than a sawmill, can be marked by advances in fire protection and by fires -- the construction of the area's first fire lookout tower in 1914; the loss of the Idyllwild Inn to the flames in 1940.

After World War II, the area population had stalled at 450; businesses had gone belly-up and real estate was a bust. Then, in 1946, taxpayers created the Idyllwild Fire Protection District. Not coincidentally, many believe, a "golden age" began.

Today, there are 3,500 full-time residents, 10,000 more on busy weekends, a thriving artist community and a commercial core where you can dine on bacon-wrapped sea scallops and buy aroma-therapy bath crystals.

Over the years, however, murmurs began percolating: Firefighters, the unassailable heroes of Idyllwild, seemed to be running the place.

"They became macho. Cliquish," said Marge Muir, 76, a Realtor and a former volunteer firefighter who is among those pushing for the department to be folded into other agencies. "But this is a funny town. No one would confront them."

Then, one morning in 2006, a 6-year-old girl at Idyllwild School developed a 103-degree fever. When school officials could not find her parents, the district nurse told them to call 911. Idyllwild firefighters arrived -- they operate the ambulance service -- but refused to transport the girl to a hospital.

Riggi explained the rationale: "Let's say somebody up the street has a heart attack. Where's our guys? Down that stupid hill with an unnecessary transport."