Judie and Keri's Fire Story

Judie and Keri's Fire Story

    When we first moved to the Rogue Valley in 1969, we made our home in

Ashland for 20 years, and we thought we knew the town pretty well. But no one

in our family seemed to know where the fire was coming from when it first

started. Almeda was a location that was bandied about but where was it? I'd

never heard of Almeda. I thought it must be the name of a town in southern

California or New Mexico, and wondered how those fires could reach as far as the

Rogue Valley.

    The wind had blown all night and was unusually strong the morning of

September eighth. From the windows, I watched our cedar and fir trees merrily

dancing and thought, boy, Jerry's going to have a lot of branches to rake when he

comes home from shopping in Medford,I distinctly remember there were no warnings of fires that

 morning; at least not on our stretch of the South Pacific Highway (also referred as Highway 99).

    My husband and I live near the Ashland Exit 19, within a couple of miles from the

Talent fire station on property next to Bear Creek and the greenway bike path.

Yes, I saw trucks and rescue rigs rushing toward Ashland, and heard a few beeps

that seemed to say, "we're coming, we're coming." But it's normal for them to

pass our home several times a week, anyway. So, I stopped painting a welcome

sign for our son-in-law Jason's mom who was coming from Boston, to offer up a

prayer Iike I always do. In case they were responding to an accident on the

freeway at Exit 19, I wanted angels to watch over them.

    It was about noon when suddenly the radio went out with a screech. Power

outage, I thought. Brown out. Weird day. I wiped my paint brush, and put the lid

onto the can. Just then the landline rang.

    "Mom," our son said, "You've got to get out, now!” Steve was delivering

spices to the Rogue Valley Manor on the hill, looked out over the valley and saw

the fire coming our way from Ashland. I will always believe that God put Steve in

the right place at the right time. Otherwise, we might not be here now to tell our

story.

    My mind raced. We've lived on these five acres for about thirty years,

sheltered by one of the largest catalpa trees in the valley and an abundance of

fir, cedar trees and cottonwoods scattered throughout the yards and bordering

along the bike path, A pond, our and our daughter's homes, and a small rental

home filled with lifetimes of memories, a big workshop, dog grooming shop and

playhouse/studio, two rescue donkeys, pigs, goats, and four old-lady chickens in

the field represented a lot of hard work and completed the rest of the property.

Nothing was elaborate but seemed to spell comfort and peace.

    Was this really happening? Would we come back home in the afternoon?

I grabbed my containers of pills, my handbag and ID. By this time William the

cat knew something was wrong. He cowered under the bed, but my stiff eighty-

one-year-old knees wouldn't let me crouch down to get him. I had to get my

granddaughter next door. As I went out the door; I left William food and water,

and called out a heartfelt I love you; took fond note of our books, photo albums,

thick binders of family history, stories I had written over the years, and made

peace with what might happen to it all. It was out of my hands. Well, now I

wouldn't have to decide who would inherit our treasures and ran next door. It

was much too warm for September, and so awfully windy.

    I expected that eleven-year-old Bella was home by herself: her mom, Keri,

was probably working at SNYP in Talent. Bella's dad, Jason, was at his handyman

job in Ashland. My insides were quaking, but it wasn't going to help Bella if her

grandmother was ready to fall apart. I tried not to panic, banged on the door and

told her to come out right now. Bella picked up her little dog, Rosie, as I pointed

the huge white plume of smoke above the workshop.

    Even today, I'm not sure what our next move would have been: I don't

drive. Would we have run up the driveway to hitch a ride? Right then Bella said,

"We should tell Mom!" Keri wasn't at SNYP, after all. I hadn't noticed her Subaru

in their driveway, so we ran to the shop, less than fifteen steps away. Sure

enough, Keri was there, listening to music on her earphones, and grooming two

white standard poodles.

    “Keri," I said, "There's a fire coming our way! we need to go!" whether she

didn't hear me, or realize what I was saying, I don't know, but she looked

irritated and answered, "It's nowhere around here; we'll be fine. Just let me finish

these dogs so they can go home." At that point, she saw the thick smoke out her

back window: turned off her electric razor and yelled to Bella to get their cat Mike

from the house. Seeing five other dogs wandering around the room, I said,

"Leash them up. We have to get out of here."

    Worry all over her face, Keri asked if it was silly to grab her banjo. In the

next few seconds it was crammed into the car alongside Bella, eight dogs, the

cat in a cage, Keri, and me. At the last second, she ran to the pasture gate and

opened it. Would we ever see those precious animals again? Having done her

best, she jumped into the car, and we sped for the safety of our son's home in

East Medford.

    As we left the driveway, in the back seat Bella and her girlfriends were

texting. "They're crying, Mom," she said. “They want me to be safe." I reached for

my granddaughter's hand and held it tightly. "Bella," I said, "I know this is scary

but God is taking care of us right now. we're going to be o.k." And we were.

Being stuck in traffic was almost unbearable. There was a surreal mix of

people along the South Pacific Highway as we crept toward Talent; some in full

panic and some just going about their day as normal. Except for policemen

directing traffic, there was no sign of fire yet and many businesses along the

highway seemed unaware that they were in danger. As we stalled in traffic, Keri

called her dog owners to reassure them their pets were safe.

    From what we heard later Jerry, Steve, and Jason pulled into our driveway

soon after we left with a policeman right behind them saying they'd have to leave

within five minutes. Jerry, a retired fire insurance adjuster, immediately went to

the workshop to get our insurance records from the filing cabinet. Jason gathered

up the rest of Keri's string instruments and Bella's guitar. At our house Steve filled

a spice box with family photos, several ceramic Hummels that he'd admired since

childhood, and the computer hard drive.

    The three men followed each other off the property within the limited time.

What with the slow, heavy traffic, the usual 20-minute drive to Steve and Anna's

took all of us several hours with the congestion and the detours. To say the least,

the scene was fraught with emotion as we arrived, frazzled but safe. That is,

everybody arrived but Jason. We weren't to learn where he was until much later.

After an hour at our son's home, the threat of fire once again seemed

imminent when Anna saw dark smoke coming over the hills toward Medford.

We decided to evacuate. Steve, Anna, daughter Nichole, and their four dogs in

their car; Keri, Bella, Rosie, Mike the cat, the customer dogs in the Subaru; Jerry

and I in our car drove down the street not knowing which way to turn. Glancing

behind us, it was amazing to see a parade of Steve's classic cars also being

driven to safety by some faithful buddies.

    We all decided to part ways at the end of their street. Steve's group would

go to a place where he could store his classic cars and stay for the night. Keri

and Bella would go to Ashland, leave off the dogs, then stay with friends. Jerry

and I would look for a motel for the night. Everyone would call each other at an

appointed time.

    As it turned out, all but Jason fled for Steve's. Although he left our property

with them, he decided to turn back and save what he could. But, by the time he

returned, the five outbuildings including the renter's small home, the dog

grooming, workshop, and playhouse/studio were consumed by fire. *

    Fighting the thick smoke and burning embers, he stayed on guard through

the coming days and sleepless nights. Since the electricity for the well pump was

out, and the irrigation pipes had melted, there was no way to get water. Instead,

Jason put out spot fires with a shovel, carried hot tub and pond water to the

animals, gave them sponge baths to protect their skin; worked on the well pump,

so it would work as a siphon to water the animals, checked on our lonely cat, and

chased looters away. Thankfully, he was able to save their home, ours and the

pump house next to the highway. Without him, our two homes might have been

burned, too.

Although the renter's house was a total loss, Jason was able to move his car away from the flames.

 Later, Bev, the renter said, “I took the bus to work that day and left my car at home. If it hadn't been for

 Jason pulling it out of the way I would have lost my car too."

    The cost of Jason's heroism was high. Doing all the work by himself, he

became overwhelmed by loneliness, depression, and grief. His own losses were

great. The workshop had contained 30 years’ worth of his and Jerry's carpentry

tools and equipment. Next to the shop had sat his cargo trailer, and a brand new

family RV. Everything was gone.

    Keri and Bella continued to drive until nine at night after they left Medford.

Anxious to get the dogs back to their owners in Ashland, she saw an opportunity

to take I-5 south from Medford, driving first to Phoenix, pop. 4,608, and Talent,

pop. 6,541. Later she said that taking the exit to I-5 was the scariest part of the

whole day. Driving straight into thick black smoke and fire on both sides of the

freeway, Keri said her heart sank in fear that she had made a deadly mistake.

She had trusted that since the freeway exit was open it must be safe, but it

definitely wasn't.

    With Bella in the passenger seat crying, they made it past Phoenix. The

town was clearly on fire, a most horrific scene. They then passed Talent. Already

burned and smoldering, the sounds of sirens and explosions continued. At last

they arrived in Ashland. After meeting the relieved dog owners, they spent the

next few nights at the welcoming home of their friends.

    We soon discovered that motels in Medford were completely filled during

our search for a room. Motel keepers warned that we probably wouldn't find

anything until we got to Roseburg, but we kept looking until we got to Grants

Pass. There, we found what might have been the last available room in the Rogue

Valley. It was clean and quiet. For future nights, our Rogue Valley Harmonizer

friends took good care of us.

    The South Pacific Highway was closed for two weeks following the fire, and

our property was considered a "crime zone" for some still unknown reason.

Although bikers could ride past our property, we were not allowed to check our

land for what seemed forever.

    Determined to help Jason with the animals, our fearless, wily daughter

aptly evaded the police and National Guard barriers by going early in the

mornings. Eventually, she found a route that took about an hour around the

backside of Talent, compared to the five minutes from where we stayed in

Ashland. During this time, Keri also found a temporary, loving cat rescue home in

Medford for our cat, William. It was five weeks before Jerry and I had access to

the land and could take him home, again.

    One evening when Jason came to the house in Ashland, he shared the

following story: Worn-out and sleep deprived, his face smudged with black soot,

he stood looking at the melted rubble of the workshop and Keri's shop when he

felt a hand on his shoulder. Lost in sadness, he hadn't seen the truck in the

driveway.

    "I just stopped to see how you're doing," the man told him. Jason said he

couldn't believe what he was hearing. Who was this guy? He actually cared? Up until that time he had

 been completely alone except for some encounters with

looters, and an occasional policeman complaining that he shouldn't be there.

    "I was here the day the building was burning. No one was around right then

and I wanted to help," the man continued. "I have my own water rig so I tried to

save it, but it was too far gone."

    While Jason told me his story, tears rolled down his face. How long had he

been on the property since the fire? A week? A lifetime? Jason took the fellow's

hand and shook it.

    "Thanks friend," he said. “What's your name?”

    "Darin.”

    Jason wasn't familiar with his name, so I said, "Oh Jason, he's such a nice

Guy - he was Talent's fire chief until not long ago." Now, it was my turn for tears.

Jason had been wrong, I thought. He hadn't been by himself, really. In the

wings had been an angel named Darin.

Update, September 5, 2021

    Eventually, we learned that Almeda is a street at the Quiet Village

neighborhood in Ashland. Coincidentally, it is located near the house where we

lived for five weeks.

    During those weeks, my husband spent most of his waking hours contacting

insurance agents and adjusters, and recording countless page-long columns of

contents burned, and making trips to numerous stores to check replacement

costs. (Even now, I wake up occasionally, recalling some item I'd forgotten and

lost.) Our family greatly appreciates Jerry for his knowledge, patience, years of

experience, and good nature.

    Because of the Almeda fire, there were so many broken hearts and lives

throughout Ashland, Talent, and Phoenix. Talent alone lost 700 homes, 60

businesses and displaced families. Blocks and blocks of devastation remains along

the South Pacific Highway. Over the year we continue to travel Highway 99

almost daily, and our emotions continue to be all over the place. While it is

exciting to watch the cleanup and the rebuilding, the numerous for sale signs on

abandoned properties are shocking and so sad. Will the rock or gem shops,

Sammy's Bistro, and Good Night Inn be replaced? Only time can tell.

    Despite the many cottonwoods that burned along our property and Bear

Creek (a blessing in disguise: 2021 has been almost cotton free!), our fir and

cedar trees, the catalpa tree continues to stand tall and beautiful, ready to share

its generous leaves, blossoms, and shade. Next to us, the bike path has been

cleared of numerous charred trees and thickets of out-of-control blackberry

bushes, and seems to have more riders and walkers than ever before. Almost a

year later Iike many others, we still have decisions to make and rebuilding to do.

    But most importantly, we've come to know so many good people who have done their best to help us,

 we still have each other to hug, the rescue animals to love,

and our five acres remains our place of comfort and peace.

Keri and Judie