NEWS DISPATCHES
In the Smoke Stories from the front lines of Oregon’s immense wildfires. BY AL E X W I T T W E R
@aswittwer
As nearly a million acres of Oregon burned in the past week, I drove toward the blazes, spending two days with the dazed and displaced residents of Clackamas and Marion counties. Here are their stories.
6th and Main Streets, Downtown Oregon City 2:15 pm Sept. 11 It’s time to get out of Oregon City, but Joe Perman’s car has broken down. His friends have arrived on the city’s main drag to help him, but the jumper cables aren’t giving it enough juice. Downtown is deserted—an eerie bookend to the initial crowds of celebration when this same strip reopened from COVID-19 just four months ago. “It’s been 40 years. I’ve never seen anything like this before, ever,” says Perman. A city of nearly 40,000, just 13 miles from downtown Portland, is preparing to flee at a moment’s notice. Kelly Isaacs stands near Perman’s car. Her cigarette mixes with the campfire air. She and her parents packed up their belongings, but the highways are jammed. “We figured if we left we would be sitting in traffic for a couple hours,” she says, “so we’re just still waiting. If we hear ‘Level 3,’ we’re out of here, but hopefully it won’t get to that.” They hook up new cables. No luck. They replace the fuel line fuse with a spare. Another attempt. The engine catches. Perman can leave town. Glen Oak Road, Oregon City 2:55 pm Sept. 11 Bill Olson can’t believe the generosity of his neighbors. He evacuated from Estacada and set up his RV in the parking lot of an electrical services home business off Cascade Highway in Oregon City. The owner told Olson, along with his wife and dog, to stay as long as they needed. “People that we don’t even know very well, they call and say, ‘You guys OK?’” Olson says. “That kinda restores your faith, doesn’t it?” About 5 miles away, evacuees pour into Clackamette Park, along the Willamette River. A supply tent with donated water, clothing and just-baked Papa Murphy’s pizzas is set up in a parking lot. A truck rolls in to unload more supplies. Stephanie Low sits underneath a tent and helps direct newcomers. “We have doughnuts,” she says, “we have fresh produce, lots of toiletries, more stuff than we can get rid of.” Olson thinks people act better in a crisis. “The sad part is that sometimes it doesn’t last long. You’re there when you need them and then we kind of go back to the way we were. And it would be nice if we could just hang on to a little bit of that when we move out of the crisis. And it hangs on for a little while but not nearly long enough.”
South Dayhill Road, Estacada 6:44 pm Sept. 11 Four trucks barrel through the highway closures and down a country road. Inside are wildland firefighters. They’re covered in soot from fighting fires inches from homes. Many are smoking cigarettes while they wait for orders. Cody, one of the firefighters, calls it “smoke inhalation training.” The crew, from a contractor called Diamond Fire and Forestry, is a mix of long-term firefighting veterans and newcomers. Michael, who declines to give his last name, shows me his soot-covered hands: “We’ve been fighting them all day!” It’s his first day on the job—and his first time ever fighting fires. Next to him sits Joshua Duran, known as Duran Duran on the fire lines.“We can go anywhere in the country,” Duran says. “We went to Montana, lived in Washington, been to California very often. This is the first time being in Oregon in a few years, pretty crazy.” Duran points at the handful of U.S. Forest Service vehicles—the “hot shots,” he calls them—parked a dozen yards away. Jim Beckwith sits at the wheel. They’re awaiting orders when to pull out and let the next fire crew take over. Beckwith says fires in the dense rainforests along the western slopes of Oregon’s Cascade range are a different beast than most Western fires. “We’re from Northeast Washington,” he says. “So we do get big fires up there, but we’re in a little bit different fuel type. It’s a little more open, dryer, fires move faster, but you get a big fire in this kind of timber, it’s like a 100-year event.”
Sublimity, Ore. 10:21 am Sept. 12 The weather chills overnight. Smoke from the fires mix with fog from the morning dew. The combination leaves stretches of Highway 205 a dreamscape of low visibility. Drivers put their hazard lights on to alert those in front and behind of their location. It’s a small gesture, but appreciated. A state trooper and a National Guardsmen block off a section of Highway 22. They are only admitting local residents. No press. No visitors. They had even turned away CNN.
A truck drives by, stops, reverses. “Where are you from?” the man asks. That’s a question that carries a hint of menace. In the rural counties, the evacuation notice has left many homes abandoned and susceptible to looters—though only one arrest has been made for theft in the past few days, people fear outsiders coming to take advantage of their misfortune. Media reports have focused on false rumors spreading of antifa arsonists. Some people out here believe the rumors. But more often, they attribute looting to no political motivation— just wickedness. A woman from Beavercreek says her husband drives back to their property several times a day to patrol for looters. He’s taped a sign to their truck: “Looters will be shot.” “A lot of folks around here are on edge,” says Doug, a local. He’s been patrolling for suspicious behavior and vehicles over the week. He blames the prospect of looting on mental illness and tells of a man he saw recently walking toward a fire with nothing but a garbage bag. “Be careful,” he warns.
Mehama, Ore. 11:22 am Sept. 12 Kristine Samuelson wades in boots and jeans through the smoldering brush on the timber farm that has been in her family since World War II. Samuelson, along with her husband, Lee, and two family friends, are fighting a portion of the Beachie Creek Fire with shovels and buckets. Nearly 150 acres of their 200-acre property in Marion County has been torched. On Sept. 8, they began fighting blazes on their property without the help of wildland firefighters—who have been stretched thin responding to fires across the state. “I first got on scene Tuesday morning and could not fight it by myself,” says Lee Samuelson. “Came back Wednesday with my brother and son-in-law to help evacuate the cows and fight the fire. We’ve been fighting it ever since with just my wife, daughter, son-in-law, and even my dad.” They were able to keep their structures safe from the flames. But it wouldn’t be until Sept. 11 that fire crews could respond. Within a day, those crews were able to contain the fire’s spread by quickly establishing fire lines through the underbrush. Hot spots still smolder with charcoal under the thick brush and roots of half-burnt tree stumps. Samuelson digs at a tree trunk to uncover a hot spot and then sprays it with water from a tank strapped to his shoulders. He moves through the brush with confident strides—his voice almost jovial as he speaks to family and friends fighting the fire with him, often out of sight. He’s a forensic scientist at the Clackamas County Sheriff ’s Office. Department? Arson. But he’s not interested in talking about the rumors. “It’s not time to get political now,” he says. “It’s time to fight the fire.”
Willamette Week SEPTEMBER 16, 2020 wweek.com
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