3 Alpha-404.
That was the call sign of the wildland fire engine I was assigned to for a couple of seasons. It would have been at least three seasons, but an injury took me out. The "engine" was an E-6 flatbed Ford F450 with equipment lockers, tools, hoses, and a 200-gallon water tank on the back.
During the first big controlled burn I participated in, the flames reached 70 feet in height and were still climbing when I disengaged. A massive fire is almost hypnotic to watch. At times, it seems like a living entity. It can move swiftly, jump roads, and climb trees. It can even hide from you and pop up where you least expect it. On one fire, the convection column was over a mile away, yet a firebrand managed to find its way to a bush six feet away from me, completely destroying it in seconds.
As a wildland firefighter, you do not have the same level of protection as someone in bunker gear since you are working outdoors. I did have a hood or "fire shroud." I was told never to fasten the Velcro at the chin since the heat from the flames could melt the Velcro, potentially giving me a whole new set of problems.
One of the first times I had to put "the wet stuff on the red stuff" was on the aforementioned controlled burn. An ancient, dilapidated shed in the high desert was fully involved in the fire. There was no reason to save it, but at the same time, we didn't need a smoldering structure sitting there, either. Facing down a fire of size is an odd sensation. First, you feel your face tighten as the moisture is sucked out of your skin. That sensation turns into a combination of an ache and a sting as your flesh heats up. I remember crouching down and finally dropping to one knee while turning my head as often as I dared to try to cope with what seemed like a brick wall of sheer heat that felt like it could knock me over.
There are those saying that Californians are getting what they voted for by consistently electing Democrats over the years and that they all should have voted for Trump and tossed out Newsom and his cronies. Now is not the time for "I told you so" or any other form of schadenfreude. No one deserves this:
Holy crap. One of the most terrifying things I have ever seen. Pray.
— End Wokeness (@EndWokeness) January 8, 2025
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Or this:
UPDATE: #PalisadesFire in Los Angeles destroys 1,000 structures; no containment https://t.co/LIfs4DDaMK
— KTLA (@KTLA) January 8, 2025
Or this:
This is what’s left of the Pacific Palisades. The mall survived. Most everything else is gone. Homes, apartment complexes… businesses. pic.twitter.com/Vfz721V48J
— Jonathan Vigliotti 🐋 (@JonVigliotti) January 8, 2025
Some chatter was circulating on X that firefighters had given up working on the fire north of I-10 and west of the 405. And then there was this post:
🚨 NOW: Firefighters are NOWHERE IN SIGHT while homes burn to the ground in Pacific Palisades, per FoxLA’s @MattSeedorff
— Nick Sortor (@nicksortor) January 7, 2025
Reporters have even attempted to grab hoses and fight the fire THEMSELVES.
What the heII is going on?
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Obviously, I'm not on the incident, but there could be any number of reasons why firefighters were not at that scene. In some cases, you do not have the manpower or the resources to fight the fire. You may not have a safe position or viable escape route. Or the fire can just be too big. Sometimes, the only option is to get out of harm's way. No firefighter wants to see property destroyed. That said, no firefighter wants to tell parents, spouses, siblings, or children that their loved one is in the ER, the burn unit, or the morgue. According to the Los Angeles Times, city officials are admitting that fire crews were "overwhelmed" by the firestorms. Sometimes, a building or other assets simply cannot be saved.
One of my tasks as a fire warden was to conduct property inspections for fire safety. I would examine homes and tell the owner they needed to create a defensible perimeter around them and remove other fuel sources. Often, the replies were, "But I like living in the woods with the trees next to the house," or, "But the firewood stays dry when I stack it under the deck," or, "I don't want the expense of a metal roof." My area manager once attended a community fire meeting in an affluent neighborhood to explain the benefits of funding through the National Fire Plan to prevent the loss of homes. One man allowed how he expected firefighters to put their lives in danger to save his multi-million dollar mansion despite showing no interest in protecting his own property.
One week, I was dispatched to the tony environs of Park City to help remove trees on state land infested by the larvae of Japanese Bark Beetles. Left unchecked, the beetles can kill whole stands of trees, increasing fire danger exponentially. One well-heeled resident, who looked as if he had just climbed out of an NPR tote bag, began to berate me for tearing down "his" forest. The fact that I was trying to protect the trees and, by extension, his expensive home was lost on him. All he thought was, "Man with chainsaw. Bad for muh forest. Must make him leave."
The general public can be forgiven for its ignorance. But what about governments? Yes, DEI is a factor. The National Pulse reports that during FY 2022-2023, the Los Angeles Fire Department breezed through $673,810 on DEI efforts. It was more important that they had people who were the acceptable sex/gender/color/whatever than to hire competent, experienced, dedicated, and well-trained individuals.
The LA Fire Chief said she was "super inspired" about bringing more women and LGBTQ-identifying persons in to fight fires.
— Libby Emmons (@libbyemmons) January 8, 2025
I'm sure that's a real comfort to the people whose homes are on fire.
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But that is not all.
Many things affect fire behavior. Those can include humidity, rainfall, wind, topography, and, of course, fuels. There is not much one can do about Santa Ana winds or reckless behavior except to anticipate them and plan accordingly. Standing dead and down trees can be removed. Dried duff, pine needles, and leaf litter can be cleared. Fine fuels like dry grasses burn out very quickly but are extremely effective at spreading fire. Ladder fuels, like tall plants, can help a fire reach into the lower limbs of trees, leading to crowning and torching. Years ago, my wife and I toured Napa wine country and stopped at a privately owned section of land that had a few petrified trees. The trees were interesting, but I was petrified by the unbelievable buildup of dry fuel. Ladder fuels, fine fuels, duff, and dead trees were on all sides. And it was all waiting for a lightning strike, cigarette butt, hot brakes or muffler, a dragging trailer chain, sparks from a rim of a flat tire, a campfire, or arson. Throw in the Santa Ana winds, and you have the recipe for hell on earth.
Conversely, years ago, I was on a fire in the Ashley National Forest. It made some strong runs, but it ran into an area that had been previously clear-cut. That slowed the fire down enough that we could get a handle on it. Otherwise, we would have been chasing it until Doomsday.
Related: Rand Paul's Festivus Report: What Your Government Piddled Your Money Away For
By contrast, California has done things like cut off water to preserve the delta smelt. This not only increased fire danger but helped kneecap agriculture in the San Joaquin Valley. Gavin Newsom has been less-than-truthful with his constituents about how much acreage he treated to reduce fire danger. Environmental groups sue and obstruct efforts to remove dangerous fuel loads. After all, there is big money in saving the environment, even if one never gets around to saving it. The excuse is that the dying vegetation should be left to decompose on its own, which might work, but for the drought.
We used to have a saying in our area of operations: "The only place fire won't go is where fire has already been." California has been taught that lesson over and over again. And it still hasn't learned it.
