New bride confronts losing canyon aerie

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Modjeska Canyon, east Orange County:

Los Angeles Times reporter Janet Wilson, who has lived in a creekside stone house in Modjeska Canyon in Orange County for nearly nine years, returned from her wedding Monday evening to find her home threatened by the Santiago fire. Today, she gave this account to Times staff writer Tony Barboza:

‘I got married on Saturday, and there’s a good chance my home was destroyed this morning.
I was married in a lakeside chapel in my mother’s small town in New Hampshire. It was fantastic. Two weeks ago, 40 of my women friends held a wedding shower in Modjeska Canyon. We sat out on my friend’s porch staring at the blue sky and beautiful chaparral-covered slopes that we all knew and loved so well. Today I saw that same area engulfed in 75-foot flames.

The good news is as far as I can tell nobody has been hurt. Three of my neighbors were among the 12 firefighters that were required to deploy their emergency fire-retardant tents as flames overtook them Monday, but they also escaped injury.

My mom told me the day after the wedding that there were seven fires in Southern Californa. At first it seemed like my house would be okay, but each time I changed planes I received increasingly disturbing messages on my cellphone about shifting winds and fire trajectories.

By the time I was on the tarmac in Denver, a neighbor told me that people were being evacuated. I called an editor, who told me that Modjeska Canyon was in danger, but the fire hadn’t reached the homes.
As the plane took off, I started to cry. Both my husband, the man I love very much, and a kind elderly lady from Newport Beach, also got emotional trying to comfort me. But soon I straightened myself out. There was no point crying and collapsing now.

I am not the most religious person in the world, but I just glued my eyes shut and started praying for my neighbors. When the plane took off, I just tried to sleep.

As we flew into John Wayne Airport at around 6:35 p.m., we tried to make out Santiago Peak and Modjeska Peak from the plane window. But we couldn’t see through the smoke and darkness.
Driving to Modjeska Canyon, we had to travel through thick smoke near Foothill Ranch and Portola Hills. But as we entered the canyon, the air was clear and even smelled sweet. I was relieved that my house was OK and my animals were out of there, thanks to my neighbors.

I started to pack some essentials -- insurance forms, one piece of my grandmother’s china -- but I wasn’t too worried. I didn’t even grab any wedding presents -- or gift list for thank you notes. In the canyon, everything seemed fine.

But then sheriff’s deputies arrived, calling fom voluntary evacautions from their car’s loudspeakers. I looked out my sideyard and saw the dull red glow getting brighter and brighter. Having covered fires before, I became extremely anxious and wanted to go. My husband wanted to stay. I told him we’re married now so we need to go together. In the end, I waited longer than I wanted. He stayed longer than he wanted.

Just before we left, I leaned against the wall at the top of my stairs and quieted my mind. It’s a little ritual I do each time I go on a trip. Someone once told me this would allow me safe journey and protect my home.

This morning, I grabbed quotes from fleeing neighbors for the newspaper. I saw the head of the volunteer fire department standing by the side of the road, helpless.

It was an eerie experience as a reporter because you’re trained to observe areas you don’t know. But I knew every inch of what I saw today. I know the hills and the houses. It’s an extraordinarily close-knit community. People who live outside the canyon joke that it’s a cult.

We see it as our little bit of heaven away from all the rest of Southern California. And at the same time, we know that fires are the hazard of living here.

Now, I’m on Santiago Canyon Road, which I’ve driven thousands of times. The familiar view that has always made me feel safe and let me know that I’m home is now blotted out by a gray and black cloud.