Holed Up on the Hot Seat : For the Lone Firefighter at Olinda Station, Challenge of Lifetime Lurks Behind Serenity

The small messenger rapping on the door of the last one-person fire station in Orange County brought the news that veteran firefighter Nick Orcutt fears.

“Mister,” the young boy yelled, motioning to the parched hills surrounding the Olinda Village fire station, “there is some smoke out here.”

Walking outdoors, Orcutt was greeted by black clouds billowing over the tiny enclave tucked inside Carbon Canyon. Jumping into the water-pump truck, he rushed to a vantage point atop a nearby hill to assess the fire’s path. But there was one problem. He couldn’t see it.

“It was really scary. I pulled up to a high point where I could leave in a hurry if I had to. My main concern was did I have quick access out of this area.”

In those first crucial minutes of what turned into one of the worst wildfires in Carbon Canyon history, Orcutt was all alone. As the leading firefighter on the scene on that June day of 1990, it was his job to begin the tricky task of tracking the elusive flames, which eventually raced across 6,000 acres and took nearly 500 firefighters to tame.

He is one of a dozen firefighters who take turns manning the station and often are the first to encounter massive forest fires, deadly traffic collisions, drunken biker gangs and even rattlesnakes.

“It is one of the things you dread about being out here. It is all yours,” Orcutt said.

Located in the hills, the Olinda Village station is a few miles up winding Carbon Canyon Road, just past Hollydale Mobilehome Estates. Cows graze in the brown brush of this quiet hamlet of horse stables and expensive ranches. It is home to about 500 residents who relish getting away from the bustle of nearby cities.

Since 1969, Fire Station 4 has held a significant spot in town, at the end of Olinda Market, the sole evidence of modern-day development in the rural landscape.

The station originally was set up as a “fire watch” or lookout for forest fires. In the 1970s, a successful volunteer operation was started to supplement the one-man operation. Later in the decade, people became busy with their own lives and lost interest in volunteering, officials said.

However, watching the rest of Orange County develop, city planners assumed that eventually the village would follow suit, and the station was left staffed. But so far, the developer’s backhoe has not dug into much of Olinda Village.

Although plans are being discussed for nearby Tonner Canyon, Carbon Canyon has been successful in staving off new construction. Fewer than 30 homes have been added to the enclave in the last few decades.

More recently, villagers successfully fought to keep the station open after fire officials, struggling to balance the city budget, had suggested making it an all-volunteer station.

The village holds tight to its rural roots. Time moves slowly, even for firefighters. With an average of six calls per month, sometimes it moves a little too slowly, they say.

After making the bed, attending to other “housecleaning” and checking the pumper’s gas tank, fire personnel don’t have a lot to do the rest of the 24-hour shift. Even the fire chief admits that reading the newspaper is acceptable.

“It is a great place to be if you are going to school. There is a lot of time to do term papers,” said Brea Fire Chief Albert (Bud) Moody, who during his tenure as a firefighter manned the Olinda station.

Despite the station’s reputation, the firefighters who take regular tours there have a common respect for the assignment. Although they spend many hours waiting, every call could mean saving a life.

Holed away in the small two-room station with its bunk room and kitchen, they consider themselves the “eyes and ears” of the main department in the lowlands below. The primary job of these specially trained fire engineers is to assess the situation and tell others when assistance is needed.

They know there is only so much they can do by themselves. Sometimes this means going counter to their instincts and watching a house or field burn while waiting for help.

“You wish you could pull up to the scene with a bunch of people instead of just yourself,” Orcutt said. “I am just one man in a little fire truck.”

Although the village’s population has held tight, traffic on the canyon road can be treacherous. A few miles up from the village are the San Bernardino and Los Angeles county lines. Carbon Canyon provides the only access to Orange County for people in those areas.

Since 1984, when statistics were first kept, medical emergencies have consistently outnumbered fires. For the firefighters who have to respond alone, the calls can prove particularly harrowing.

Fifteen-year veteran Chuck Sessler still has trouble talking about a call he received four years ago. All the dispatcher could tell him when he set out early that summer morning was that a motorcycle had crashed on Carbon Canyon Road. Arriving at the scene, he discovered that the driver had been thrown from the motorcycle when he hit a pole. His head had been severed.

The female passenger had landed in the canyon, a witness said. While searching for the woman, he also had to console the victim’s brother who had been following the pair home.

Eventually Sessler was able to radio for help, which is not always easy. The rugged canyon countryside can block signals and cause “dead spots” or interruptions in the transmission, he said. Even with his efforts, the passenger also died.

“When I wake up in town, I wake up with three other guys to help me out. Up here you are everyone--fireman, engineer, paramedic, battalion chief. It is a huge responsibility.”

Sitting in the station recently, Sessler said he can never really relax while on duty there. Pointing to the bell suspended above the bunk room, he said every time it rings he can’t help but think of that collision and how helpless he felt.

“The minute you hear that bell, boom!” he said. “Your heart starts going. You don’t know what you are getting yourself into.”