Personal Stories Drawn From the Fire Lines : THE SOUTHLAND FIRESTORM: THE BATTLE GOES ON : On PCH: ‘A Large Parrot Sat in a Cage on the Edge of the Highway’

There are stories that you report as a journalist and then there are stories that you tell--to family, friends, maybe to your grandchildren one day.

Covering and living through disaster leaves its mark. What follows are some of the stories that Times reporters, photographers and editors usually reserve for the spoken word. They are personal. They reveal some of the fear, the close calls, the human connections that do not usually make it into print.

Helicopter reporting is easy duty. You get a great ride, a spectacular view and you don’t have to get any quotes.

But after hours over the Malibu fire, word came that the pilot was to set me down beside a church in Paradise Cove. The lofty view of the tragedy was a thing of the past.

Photographer Scott Rathburn picked me up and we drove down Pacific Coast Highway, amid the flames, billowing smoke and cascades of embers that were turning the fabled beach community into a surreal setting worthy of a Fellini film.

Up Stuart Ranch Road, past a sign for the Malibu Racquet Club, young firefighters from a California Youth Authority camp worked frantically cutting a firebreak. Embers rained down the hillside. Helicopters doused us with water.

Jeff Miller, 18, stepped out of the line to readjust his face mask. “It is not all bad being here,” he said. “You get to see things we used to see when we were free.”

At Cross Creek Road, our car was stopped by police. If we wanted to follow the fast-moving fires, we couldn’t take the vehicle. Now I was on foot.

Scott and I walked toward the small fires burning along Malibu Creek. It was an oddly peaceful scene: as night set in, the flames were reflected on the water.

Further down PCH, huge homes on a hillside were in flames. No peace here.

A large parrot sat in a cage on the edge of the highway, its owner nowhere in sight. The bird calmly watched as scores of firefighters scrambled to hold back the inferno.

An exhausted firefighter ran over and urgently asked if he could use my cellular phone. He dialed and began, “Mom, I’m fighting fires in Topanga. That’s why I haven’t called you.”

Down the highway, along a stretch of evacuated homes, we met a woman in a black sequined top and slacks, taking two dogs on a stroll. She has lived here for 30 years and was not about to evacuate. “The newcomers, they run away at anything,” she said.

We walked along the beach to escape the smoke. An occasional transient huddled under the buildings, raised on stilts. Sheriff deputies guarded against looters. Off the shore were the lights of several boats.

About 10:30 p.m., we reached the edge of the fire at Las Tunas Canyon, about nine miles from where we began walking. Flames whipped skyward in spiral patterns and flowed down the hill like a waterfall. But just beyond that, the sky suddenly cleared and we could breathe freely again. The stars were out.

At 1 a.m. we hitched a ride into Santa Monica and checked into a hotel. We never did find out what happened to the parrot.