These Reservists Serve on the Front Line
It is a full-throated moan that jolts you out of deepest sleep. Three times it unwinds, louder and longer each time. Dogs howl from the pain of it, then grumblingly curl back up.
It is one of the most unnerving, yet deeply satisfying, sounds a canyon dweller knows, that air raid siren going off atop the nondescript “barn” known as Station 16 -- the Modjeska Canyon firehouse in the Santa Ana Mountains.
One of five volunteer firehouses left in Orange County, Station 16 has been through 55 years of wildfires, back-country rescues and roaring floodwaters.
A few years back, the Orange County Fire Authority decreed that volunteer fire companies were outmoded in the rapidly urbanizing county. While most were eliminated or turned into medical-aid squads, five in remote or tight-knit communities hung on, including Station 16. The word “volunteer” is no longer used; they are “reserve” firefighters. But in an isolated canyon full of unmarked side roads, they’ll always be the front line.
Bruce Newell, 58, is unofficial chief of Station 16. He joined in 1979 after a neighbor told him he was expected to help out, jumped on the back of an engine and rode out to his first wildfire. A veteran named Doris told him she’d show him the ropes. Now, reserves go through extensive training before they’re allowed to fight a fire, and take emergency medical classes.
What hasn’t changed is the wail of the siren.
When it sounds, a combination of fear and relief surges through you. Fear because someone you know may be in trouble. Relief because help is on the way -- the clarion call of a close-knit community.
If the choppy noise of a helicopter follows, it is probably a stranded hiker in the surrounding mountains of the Cleveland National Forest. If an ambulance shrieks, it may be a call for medical aid in a home, or a motorist has hit a power pole.
While most canyon residents roll over and go back to sleep, as many as 15 men and one woman race down to the station, don heavy gear and head out. Many not only know every canyon resident’s name, they know their pets’ names. That’s of great comfort in a land permanently declared a “hazardous fire zone.”
Most have full-time jobs in other lines of work. Newell is an architect; Greg Bates is a chiropractor; Leo Hetzel is a photojournalist.
So why do they do it?
“These are my neighbors. This is my neighborhood. Who else is going to do it?” says Mike Temple, 54, a truck driver who has been on the force for 14 years.
As simple as that.
As simple as tedious drills, missed family birthday parties or a full night’s sleep interrupted yet again to pull on sweaty gear and face blood, pain, heat ... the intersection of metal and flesh.
As profound as the fact that one of them could well be holding your hand when you die. Oddly, there is great comfort in that notion.
Lying akimbo in her bedroom or bathroom after a bad fall, Joyce Holt used to joke when Station 16 would show up again to rescue her: “I ought to charge you for seeing me in my lingerie.”
Joyce was in her late 80s. They righted her and laughed at her jokes until she died at 90.
On a recent Wednesday-night drill, familiar friendly faces were transformed as they donned fireproof masks, heavy-duty yellow slickers, and steel-tipped boots.
The night’s exercise was a modified “fast attack” drill on a 90-year-old house. The big engine swung deftly onto a tiny side road, dropping off Vickie Scheibel -- the lone woman on the force -- at a hydrant in pitch-black darkness. There are no streetlights out here.
The maneuver is called a “dual forward wet” -- two hoses are clamped onto a hydrant and pulled forward by the engine to save time as it races toward the blaze. A neighbor’s familiar oleander bushes suddenly drip red and yellow in emergency lights.
A glitch: One of the hoses gets caught in the engine bed. Scheibel lets go of her end rather than be dragged at high speed down the dark, narrow road. She hustles to reclaim it as soon as the engine stops. The others are already inside the yard, unwinding more hose, locating electric and propane lines to be shut off, and looking for spots on the roof they could chop through with an ax.
“Water!” hollers Aaron Hamilton as soon as the hose is laid, and a writhing blast shoots out of the nozzle.
The drill itself takes less than five minutes, after 45 minutes of painstaking equipment checks. Afterward, it takes 20 minutes to roll up the hoses.
But it is the practice that saves lives, and everyone knows it.
Back at the station, the crew chatter about some- one’s new girlfriend, about past calls painful and funny -- a neighbor’s baby who died of sudden infant death syndrome, a “screamer” hiker who wouldn’t shut up as they dragged him out of the back country -- and about the weather, never a subject of idle chitchat here.
Once a year, Station 16 holds an appreciation dinner. Paula LaBar, Jenny Owen and Robin Sutton down at the country store sell tickets, and the long-haired backwoods boys, the artisans and the yuppies gather to pay tribute “to the heart of our community,” as pottery maker Roger Seemann put it.
Think Norman Rockwell with wine and beer. Newell reads off the emergency calls of the year past: 99 total in 2002. “Vegetation fires” predominate -- wildfires are a constant, whispery fear in a dry year, and 2002 was the driest ever recorded.
By far the favorite call was in early February: “Motorcycle versus deer,” which quickly became “Roadkill BBQ at the firehouse” thanks to Ted Metzger.
Lori Metzger recalled asking her husband what the call was when he got back that night.
“A motorcyclist hit a deer,” he said, but the man survived.
“What are you doing out on the patio?” she hollered sleepily.
“Dressing the deer,” he said. Everyone enjoyed the cookout.
The combined award for highest number of responses to calls and attendance at drills went to Scheibel, a wisecracking redhead who narrowly edged out the men. Scrub-cheeked Brian Hamilton, 21, won the “Driver’s Award” for hitting the most cars, garbage cans and tree limbs while maneuvering big equipment along canyon roads.
Then comes the one everyone has been waiting for: Firefighter of the Year. The crew members sit a little straighter, square their shoulders, quiet down.
This year, Newell has a surprise: The entire station deserves the award, he’s decided.
“This is my love letter to all of you,” he says softly. Someone lets out an uncomfortable guffaw, the rest of the room falls silent. He recites the roster alphabetically, giving years of service, skills and a few words capturing the essence of each.
Phil Buller, 18 years, the multiskilled construction contractor, praised for his “steady dedication.” Brian Frick, six years, an animal control lieutenant with the county, invaluable on horse and other livestock rescues: “Dedicated, always there to assist, extra work taken on without being asked.” Marc Grossman, 22 years, past station captain, “Long, steady service.”
“And now we move to the Hs,” says Newell, and everyone laughs.
Aaron, Brian, Jimmy and Tom Hamilton constitute a quarter of the tiny department, and each has unique skills -- the boys their youth and strength, father Tom, the willingness to drive into the roughest back country, to fix any piece of equipment or tackle any task. Tom receives special kudos for quitting smoking. A smiling Pam Hamilton says it is a privilege for her boys to live in a place where they can work for a volunteer firehouse.
Leo Hetzel, 26 years; Chuck McKay, seven years; Ted Metzger, eight years; Bob Scheibel, 12 years; Vickie Scheibel, 12 years; Eryk Stacy, 7 years; and Mike Temple, 14 years.
Newell left out one name, of course. His own.
“How many years, Bruce?” Bob Scheibel hollers as he sets up the projector to show slides of Easter pancake breakfasts.
“Twenty-four.”
Monday nights, Newell trains future firefighters. Tuesday and Thursdays, he attends medical training classes. Wednesday is drill night.
“I want to know what he does on Fridays. Who does he think he is taking a night off?” quips Buller.
“He’ll always be our captain,” says Brian Hamilton, confident that the world works the way it’s supposed to, at least in Modjeska Canyon.