Natural Disasters

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The Wake

The Deadly Legacy of a Tsunami
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What You Take with You

What You Take with You

Wildfire, Family and the Road Home
also available: Paperback
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The Sea Was in Their Blood

The Sea Was in Their Blood

The Disappearance of the Miss Ally's Five-Man Crew
also available: Paperback
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Inside the Inferno

Inside the Inferno

A Firefighter's Story of the Brotherhood that Saved Fort McMurray
also available: eBook
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There’s one road in and one road out of Fort McMurray, and that one road was gridlocked. The whole southern lane crowded with cars too slow to outpace clouds of smoke chasing them from the north. The sky, hardly visible through the smoke, was a sea of flames three hundred feet tall in the boreal forest surrounding my city. My city that had turned black and orange in an instant. My city on fire.
    Ten minutes ago, I’d arrived at Fire Hall 5 on my afternoon off. When I was called in, the town was hazy but visible and the highway lightly trafficked. By the time I’d buttoned my shirt, laced my duty boots and packed my bunker gear as a precaution, the winds had quickened to sixty kilometres per hour and shifted northeast towards us. I was racing out in a fire engine before the bay door touched the rafters, driving alone into the inferno.
    Turning onto the highway with sirens blaring, I dodged cars trying to evacuate from the city. They were climbing from the ditches, barrelling across parking lots and jumping curbs as flakes of burning ember rained on them. The way out of town was bumper-to-bumper and side-door-to-side-door, five lanes of vehicles on a three-lane road, and the northbound route was filling with southbound traffic too. I crushed the air-horn button and swerved into the centre lane, sharing a millisecond of eye contact with the drivers I passed, enough for me to see the fear in their eyes. And now I’d find out for myself what it was they had seen.
    The radio hissed. “Captain Asher, it’s Training Officer Kratochvil.” “Yeah, go,” I snapped back.
    “I saw you leaving the hall. I’ve got the new recruits. We’re following you in.” A white Ford F-150 swerved behind me, the bed filled with a crew of kneeling firefighters holding on for their lives. “Where are we going?”
    “Beacon Hill.” That’s where my kids go to school. The radio hissed with other chatter, other neighbourhoods under threat, but everything—reports, sirens, honking, the world—it all muted as I imagined Taya and Aidan’s classrooms filling with smoke.
    My wife and I had received the email from their elementary school, asking for parents to evacuate the students. She’d have to come from the grocery store downtown, but judging from the surrounding mayhem, any town road would be equally gridlocked. The lineup for fuel at gas stations flanking the highway snaked onto arterial streets; the Flying J gas station had no lineup because it was on fire. Roadside onlookers stood in harm’s way, gobsmacked by flames on the filling station’s roof, flames in the grass, flames across the western horizon. Trees lit up ten at a time as an inferno crested down the valley, carrying flames tall as cellphone towers searing in the hills. Cars scraped each other and people ran up and down the sides of the roads. It wasn’t just people in a panic—deer pushed out of the bush by the heat were galloping into town, nearly causing road accidents.
    “Melanie! Mel!” I shouted into my cellphone. Her voice was too faint to hear above the sirens, horns and roaring winds. “Did you get them?”
    She said something about a traffic jam at Save-On-Foods.
     “The fire’s hit Beacon Hill. Call Pam! Call Pam!” Pam is our neighbour and the school librarian. She could bring them home.
    “I tried, I tried, I tried.” Melanie repeated it enough times that I heard it clearly. I told her I loved her and tossed the phone on the passenger seat.
    As I approached the intersection of Beacon Hill Drive—the neighbourhood’s single entry and exit point, like Highway 63—it was utter chaos. Police officers directing traffic in respirator masks were trying to keep control and move vehicles out. My air horn cleared a narrow path for me to cut through the traffic and enter Beacon Hill. The crew tried to follow my tracks but couldn’t keep up. In the haze, I had no clue where I was going until I spotted a school-zone sign.
    Good Shepherd School is across from the hill bank, and far from the Hangingstone River, where the wildfire was thought to be contained. But the blaze had done the impossible and jumped two rivers, climbed up the valley and crawled a hundred metres from the only road protecting the children. I braked by the main doors, in the school bus lane. The playgrounds and soccer fields were quiet. The parking lot was empty. It was Tuesday afternoon, but it looked like a Sunday, so I left.
    The smoke had thickened, but blew away from me for a clearer sightline. It was brown from the spruce and poplar engulfed by the blaze. I prayed it didn’t go black, a chemical reaction from burning synthetics, which could only mean that the fire had touched homes.
     Friends’ homes. Family’s homes. Homes I grew up in. Homes I built with my own two hands as a contractor in my spare time.
As flaming debris and branches blew across the windshield, I stopped myself from thinking of my house on the other side of town, a palatial bungalow I’d spent three years on, hammering every nail and loading every beam. We’d moved in a year ago, and just that morning I’d finally started landscaping. My stomach turned, but I had to focus on the job in front me.
    Choppers and tankers whirred over the block of mid-century bungalows around me. They were unscathed, for now, but flames at the greenbelt on the edge of the valley crowned in the spruces, burning their canopies off like dandelion heads. They dropped to earth before torching the trunks. All down the block, residents stuffed their vehicles with bags, pet kennels and kids. Husbands and wives bumped into each other while they bolted in and out of their houses with whatever they could think of, forgetting whatever they’d soon regret.
     I parked by a red hydrant near where the fire was crowing out of the trees and heading towards the houses. I flicked the switch for the monitor, and the deluge gun attached to the roof showered the trees. There were 2,000 litres in the tank, but with 4,800 litres sprayed per minute that wouldn’t get me far. I radioed dispatch: “Dispatch, this is Captain Asher.”
     “Captain Asher, go for dispatch,” she responded.
     “Dispatch, Captain Asher. I’m on Pumper 310, all by myself, on the corner of Beacon Hill Drive and Beaver Hill Crescent, setting up for fire attack.”
    “Captain Asher, dispatch. Acknowledge.”
     I jumped to the pavement and sprinted to the back cabinet for a large inlet hose that was pre-plugged into the truck’s tank for a fast connection. Wrench in hand, I hoisted it over my shoulder and pulled it to the hydrant through a blizzard of embers and burning spruce needles. I popped off the steamer port, connected it and turned the nut atop the hydrant. It takes sixteen rotations to open the valve.
    One, two, three . . .
    Sweat dripped on my sleeves. My eyes stung. I coughed into my arm and shielded my face from the unbearable heat.
    Seven, eight, nine . . .
    The only sound was windswept flames, roaring like a rolling train that drowned out the sirens and yelling.
    Twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .
    Just then, an ember the size of a softball hurtled across the road and smashed through a front window. Flames swallowed the curtains, and with a last twist of the wrench, I watched black smoke engulf the living room.

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Into the Fire

There was a one-ton Alberta wildfire pickup truck with a 200-litre water tank in the back filling from our hose in the bay. The captain of that crew asked for a few guys to join. I stripped off my uniform and threw on our issued wildland coveralls and grabbed an orange hard hat and a pair of work gloves. And it was then that I met up with Steve Sackett. We had met once before, outside of work, when I was hiking with my wife, Carlene, and little did I know how much of an impact he would have on my life. Whoever was looking down on me that day put us together for a reason.
     “Hold on tight back there, guys,” the captain of the one-ton yelled at us as we headed out of the bays. We sped up the southbound lane with the highways blocked by people trying to leave. We had no choice but to take the shoulder and some of the ditch to get to where we needed to go: Beacon Hill. Standing on the back of the truck, I looked at the distraught faces of people in their cars stopped bumper-to-bumper on the highway. People were holding their hands up as if they were praying for us as we headed into that black cloud of uncertainty. I’ll never forget it. Although we were responding to an emergency and racing up the hill, it seemed like everything was in slow motion as we passed each and every single person. It was starting to sink in. This is the one . . .
     We pulled into Beacon Hill and met another fire crew. One of their members said, “There are still people in their homes – we got to get them out of here.” Visibility was at a minimum. Flames engulfed trees on both sides of the road. We continued into the heart of the neighbour­hood, jumped off the back of the truck and split up on the street. I ran up to the first house and smashed on the door – “Fire Department, anyone inside?” We waited a few valuable seconds and then ran to the next house. I’ll never forget reading the first note on a door – “Evacuated safely, may God help us all.” Those words threw me for a complete loop. “Hawley, did you find any­one?” Kyle asked, as I stood still like a deer in the headlights. I replied, “Not yet.” 


Driving up the hill to Abasand was eerie. We were going in, and three solid lines of traffic were inching their way out. We took a left at the four-way stop at the top of Abasand Hill. We drove down to the end and saw that houses were already lighting up. The fire had jumped across the valley between Beacon Hill and Abasand.
     Chrapko skilfully threaded the truck and trailer through the abandoned cars, motorbikes, and thick smoke. We decided to park on Aspen Hill Drive and make a stand there two rows ahead of the fire. Our sprinkler trailer is a sixteen-foot enclosed trailer full of forestry sprinklers that deliver fifty gallons a minute, forestry hose, a ladder, and a ton of couplings and connections. We worked hard in the thick smoke and blowing embers and strung out approximately six hundred feet of forestry line; at each connection we plumbed sprinklers inline. We had smaller three-quarter-inch line spliced off to allow more sprinklers to soak the houses. Tovey was climbing roofs and attaching sprinklers to the peaks and shed tops. Any residential garden hoses with sprinklers attached were promptly raised to the roofs to help wet the homes. Any potential fuel near the house, like propane tanks or bags of leaves, were thrown out into the middle of the streets. At one point we were behind a house where the back deck was just starting to light up. We were trying to use a garden hose to put it out but it wouldn’t quite reach. We started using buckets and were running a short bucket brigade to put the deck out.
     We’d be working as hard as possible, then someone would come running from the front of the house and say forget about it, the front of the house is now on fire. By the time we had our line set up with all the attachments and flowing water, the street would be on fire. There was a hell of a south wind blowing embers onto the next row. Our efforts seemed worthless. We would quickly disconnect all connections and drag all our lines out of the street and move down another three streets to restart. This sequence was repeated a couple of times until we met up with pump truck crews fighting fires further north and west of us.
     My home was three houses down. I knew it would be gone.
After being sent to protect and extinguish a fire in a green space behind a gas station at the entrance to Wood Buffalo, a newer area of town, we were sent to Timberlea. Going up Walnut Crescent was interesting. As we drove through the city, we encountered only emergency vehicles. It was so smoky, you couldn’t see much more than 20 feet around you. When we arrived we were tasked with assisting pumper crews and attaching our sprinkler lines on fences, lawns, even roofs. I remember getting on the roof of a garage with no ladder. As I found a way to attach and aim a sprinkler, I could see a line of eight to twelve small lots, five or six apparatuses, twenty to thirty people like me, doing anything they could: driving large vehicles, ripping fences down, climbing roofs, hauling hose lines, getting wet, getting hot, getting muddy, operating saws, swinging tools, and, remarkably, not getting hurt. I felt as though Walnut was the first time we were able to stop it. It was also the first time I really noticed that there were just as many trucks from other places as there were from the FMFD. It put a lump in my throat. I finished jumping fences and kicking gates open, with no tools, soaking wet, boiling hot, like everyone else.
     If there is one thing I can’t stress enough, it is that it is an amazing thing to watch a community, a province, a country even, come together. A bunch of first responders had got the word and had stepped up. They felt for Fort McMurray, a town with so much bad press. But here they were. Should any of them read this, I want them to know that should the occasion arise, I will be there. 

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