Yesterday began as one of those days that makes me feel smug about living in Porter Ranch -- wind-swept, Windex-blue skies; a cool morning breeze; even traffic was light, making for an easy freeway commute to downtown.
But as soon as I turned on my computer at work, I heard the news: Oat Mountain a few miles from my home was burning. My neighbors north of the freeway had been ordered to leave. I live just south of the evacuation zone, in the flatlands of lower Porter Ranch as we call it. It's a wind tunnel, but not usually a fire zone.
Still, I decided to head back home. I've been a reporter long enough to know how quickly a fire can turn. As I idled on the 118 Freeway stuck in a massive traffic jam a mile from home, dozens of firetrucks and police cars roared by, sirens screaming, in the carpool lane. The drone of helicopters overhead was louder than I'd ever heard.
I could see a plume of smoke in the distance. Yet the sky above me was still bright blue.
I headed up Tampa Avenue toward the fire line, past the golf course at the Porter Valley Country Club. A foursome at the third hole was teeing off in a tournament that had drawn players from around the country to raise money for diabetes research.
They looked blank when I mentioned that residents were being evacuated a quarter-mile away. It was hard to square the threat of an inferno with the momentarily calm winds and smoke-free air. "What do we do?" asked Tim Novak. "I'm from Dallas. I'm used to tornadoes." He ambled off with his buddies toward the next hole.
A block away I drove into a wall of smoke. Mara Bennett had just fetched her daughter from school and was loading up the family camper, voluntarily evacuating. "We'll probably be fine," she said, "but you never know."
As I headed back out onto Tampa, the ash began whirling around. A line of police officers on motorcycles roared by, smoke masks covering their mouths and noses.
I headed away from the smoke and ash, and parked outside a condominium complex, where the parking lot was crowded with residents wondering what's next. I walked up and down the street chatting and peering into cars stuck in the bumper-to-bumper exodus.
Then I heard the buzz of a window roll down and a soft voice summoned me from a car parked at the curb.
"Can you help me?" 88-year-old Margaret Rodie asked, as I leaned in on the passenger side.
