Fury of ’03 Fires Still Fresh in Their Minds

San Bernardino County Fire Capt. Glen Bales and his crew were fighting to save a horse ranch from the Grand Prix fire in October 2003 when 200-foot flames exploded and “lay down” on top of them, Bales said, whipped sideways by Santa Ana winds.

“I thought I was a dead man,” he said.

Bales often replays those harrowing moments in his head, analyzing every split-second decision in case he finds himself in that spot again.

“I’ve just learned to be a lot more wary of my surroundings,” Bales said.

A year ago this week, 14,000 firefighters battled California’s worst recorded wildfires, which killed 24 people, destroyed 3,361 homes and burned 739,597 acres in Southern California. One firefighter died, and hundreds more had unforgettable close calls. This year, as the men of Station 78 in Fontana make their rounds in a new fire and flood season, they watch weather reports closely and keep an ear cocked for the wind and the rain. The memories of the biggest fires and flash floods of their careers stay tucked away like sooty turnout gear in a ladder truck.

“I hate the wind. Hate, hate, hate it,” said Bales, 50, a 26-year veteran, staring at the bright sunflowers that have already grown back on the hill where the Grand Prix fire began in the hills above Fontana.

In San Bernardino County, which lost more than 1,100 homes and had 161,000 acres scorched, fire crews are now dispatched sooner to brush fires, no matter how small, and they are sent in greater numbers. The county has also installed a new reverse 911 notification system to automatically call residents who are in danger.

Early downpours cut short this year’s fire season, but with winds in the forecast, it’s not a sure thing.

As for devastating fire seasons, “there is no reason it could not happen again,” Bales said. “We’re in the ‘what if’ business.”

Firefighters don’t see the world as most people do. Dancing wildflowers are “fuel.” Green lawns are “safe zones.” Picturesque but drought-dry mountain flanks are potential deathtraps.

And when an inferno breaks out, they rush to be put in harm’s way. As with cops, lifeguards and military commandos, danger is part of the job.

“A teacher teaches. A firefighter fights fires; that’s what we do,” said Gary Jager, 26, who has been with the San Bernardino County department for six years.

Last year, Jager watched the hellish glow of the Grand Prix fire in the valley below from his quiet Lake Arrowhead station. He heard that a Fontana firefighter needed relief that first day, and he jumped at the chance. To his frustration and amazement, he and the worst of the fires had traded places.

He never got to tackle the big fires. He was one of a crew of five left to handle all ordinary calls in the city of Fontana: “We did 42 runs by 3 p.m.,” he said of the worst day.

Up the mountain, engineer Les Kaita spent six days nursing water out of residents’ garden hoses to fill his truck. His crew saved every structure it was assigned to protect, but scores more were destroyed thanks to dead pines, poor home construction and a lack of manpower.

“It was kind of humbling that we couldn’t protect all the buildings,” he said. “When it’s in your own backyard, it’s hard. There were people I was used to seeing every day who lost their homes.... They look for you to provide that protection.”

Each January, San Bernardino County firefighters can rotate to new stations. Both Jager and Kaita requested to come down the hill.

They were sent to Station 78 in fast-growing northern Fontana, under Capt. Bales. The station, dubbed the “Night Train” because of frequent calls to freeway accidents, heart attacks and other calls in the dead of night, is known as an aggressive unit willing to tackle anything.

“Fontana used to be pig farms and vineyards back in the day,” Bales said. “Ever since they punched the 210 freeway through, it’s growing so fast you can’t keep up.”

It’s a serious concern for firefighters, who now devote nearly all their resources to protecting lives and homes from fires, instead of attacking a blaze. Even on routine medical aid calls, which occupy 85% of their time, they search for new street names that are not on the map.

During the height of the fires a year ago, Bales and his then crew waited for hours in a high school parking lot, desperate to fight either the Grand Prix fire in the foothills below the San Gabriel Mountains or the Old fire racing into the San Bernardino Mountains.

“We were just begging for something to do,” he recalled.

When he overheard one supervisor tell another, “You’re going to need a crew that’s absolutely nuts for this one,” Bales barely let him finish.

“We’re your guys,” he said, his crew already packing up.

Fanned by erratic winds and limited manpower, the Grand Prix fire had burned a 12-mile patch in the foothills above Fontana, Rancho Cucamonga and Upland.

A ranch house on a grassy knoll sat in the fire’s path. Three residents inside refused to leave. Because the home had lots of defensible space, Bales’ crew thought it could safely hold the blaze at bay.

As evening fell, the fire moved in as expected from the north. Firefighters were monitoring 50-foot flames in front of them when Bales heard something to his right.

“It sounded like a jet engine coming down on us,” he recalled.

They were trapped in smoke and bright orange flames. Firebrands -- pieces of burning, glowing wood -- broadsided them like hot boulders. Visibility was zero.

He banged on one of his firefighters’ backs and screamed in his ear: “Get out, get out!”

They ran through the fire, trying to reach the safe zone they had chosen earlier -- a large dirt area edged by grass behind the house. All four made it but suffered second-degree burns.

Rancho Cucamonga fire supervisor Mike Costello watched in horror from a nearby hillside. He got a truck to the house and sped all four to the hospital. Bales refused morphine while they scraped raw, charred skin off his elbows.

His 19-year-old daughter burst into tears when she saw him. His children had grown up knowing he was a firefighter, but “they’d never given it a second thought until I got burned.”

A year later, his scars are gone. But Bales still thinks every single day about being burned. He wonders how a huge wall of flames overtook his crew from behind when the main fire was straight ahead. It could have been a freak wind shift. It could have been another crew out of sight on a mountain flank setting a fire to fight fire -- in a so-called firing operation -- not knowing they were there.

He blames no one, including himself, but says it taught him to be prepared for the unexpected. He and other firefighters said years of training, which they had often taken for granted, saved them last year. They know plenty more land is ready to burn, too.

In September, Jager was shaken when he was called out on a nasty brush fire on the high desert side of the San Gabriel Mountains. On a supervisor’s report, he saw “Save Wrightwood” scrawled at the bottom.

“That’s when you know, OK, this could be another bad year,” he said.

After the fire season comes the rain, but as last year showed, there are perils to that as well.

Both Jager and firefighter Mike Murphy, 41, were on duty during last year’s torrential Christmas Day downpour.

Jager’s crew was first at the flash flood that exploded out of the San Bernardino Mountains, raced down the barren hills and buried a church camp.

They found a man pinned beneath a log, and Murphy used a chain saw to carefully cut through the massive limb pinning the delirious man. Even then they couldn’t get him out of the sucking mud.

“We had to dig him out with our hands,” Murphy said.

They returned the next day to shovel through tons of filthy mud, searching for bodies.

“Nearly all of them were buried upside down,” said Murphy, amazed by the slide’s power.

“You’d see a big toe sticking up; that’s it.”

Ultimately, crews dug out a dozen bodies, including that of an 8-month-old baby.

“No Christmas that year,” Jager said.