“The Oakland firestorm of 1991 was a large suburban conflagration that occurred on the hillsides of northern Oakland, California, and southeastern Berkeley in October 1991. The fire has also been called the Oakland hills firestorm or the East Bay Hills Fire. The fire ultimately killed 25 people and injured 150 others. The 1,520 acres destroyed included 2,843 single-family dwellings and 437 apartment and condominium units. The economic loss has been estimated at $1.5 billion.”
It was like waking in the middle of a nightmare, confused, dazed, unable to tell the real from the unreal. My family had a house in Oakland situated on Clemens Road which one reaches by traveling up Park Boulevard; to continue the route takes one into the rolling hills through which Highway 13 runs.
That was my preferred route for traveling into Berkeley when I was an undergraduate attending U.C. Berkeley. In the years since I’ve lived in other cities before settling in San Jose, 50 miles south of Oakland. Having attended both junior high and high school in Oakland, however, I still have a soft spot for the city. I love Oakland and its many good people!
On the day of the Nightmare, the weather had been unusual in that an exceptionally strong wind was blowing from east to west. That’s not normally an “end of the world” scenario in and of itself but on this particular day a hellacious fire was raging out of control through the hills above Berkeley and Oakland. The extremely strong easterly winds were blowing the flames straight into the two cities and toward inhabited areas.
As the day progressed the fire consumed everything in its path and grew unabated until it became unstoppable; it soon reached residential areas and began consuming houses with a voracious appetite. Hour by hour the situation worsened; the television news channels showed terrifying images of a raging holocaust. The initial reports placed the fire so deep in the hills and so far to the north and east that the thought never occurred to me that the area in which my parents lived might become part of the expanding flash fire danger zone.
I sat in my San Jose living room and watched helplessly as the fire raged on. It grew to incredible dimensions and the fiery images made it appear as though the whole earth was burning. I began listening for the names of roads, like Highway 13, not far from my parents’ house, as the firestorm continued its destructive path from east to west. Then, with a shudder and a growing sense of horror, I recalled the house location of one of my best friends from high school. I began worrying about her family even more than my own since they lived on Broadway Terrace, further north and east than where my parents lived. Her home lay directly in the path of the fire if it continued on its present path.
Disasters are terrible when we see them on television but as long as they are happening far away, the tragedy does not form a knot in your stomach. On this day I felt that tightening of stomach muscles that bears ill tidings. I finally realized this disaster, in the urgency of real life, was about to threaten my friend’s home and possibly my parents’ house as well. My parents would have sense enough to evacuate; we talked by phone and they tried to reassure me.
The fire was still some miles away and the fire-fighting response was huge. Trucks and equipment from everywhere were being pressed into service! Brave firefighters were determined to stop the fire’s advance down out of the hills into the populated areas of Berkeley and Oakland but that incredibly strong wind continued sending the firestorm on its destructive journey. There did not appear to be enough water and fire hoses in the whole world to stop it.
I sat and watched, hypnotized, listening with fear for names of streets I knew all too well, which would indicate the fire was getting closer: Snake Road, Highway 13, Broadway Terrace, Park Avenue, Clemens Road. The afternoon rolled forward, minute by minute, though each minute was agonizingly slow and painful to endure. One waited for the periodic updates, hoping against hope for some good news, but the reports were increasingly bleak.
The 3:00 hour came and went and still the news grew steadily worse. I thought to myself, surely the firemen will use Highway 13 as a natural defense line, a wide man-made paved road where they could set up their equipment and hoses and hold the line. The firemen had done just that but by now the Firestorm had made the national news. It did not seem possible that the worst case scenario could continue to unfold but that’s exactly what was happening.
Strategy after strategy to hold the line somewhere, anywhere, was tried but failed; hope after hope was raised and dashed. This firestorm was rapidly becoming an historic event of enormous magnitude, yet there was no solace in that; all one wanted was to hear one item of good news that could restore hope and faith.
I was working as an elementary school teacher and had recently purchased a gyroscope, something I had not played with since childhood. I was glued to the TV set but I knew I needed something to occupy my mind and lessen the tension. I planned to show my students the gyroscope the next day as part of a science lesson. I hoped it would engage them with its fascinating trick of balance and spin; I was mastering how to control its delicate movement along a string and so, even while the frightening news continued to swirl all around, I went back to practicing.
My home had a sliding glass door that led to a modest front porch. I had stood outside several times already to feel the wind and look for smoke. Even in San Jose, which is 50 miles south of Oakland, one could feel that strong easterly wind blowing. Usually by late afternoon, around 4:00, the westerly breezes off the ocean would pick up and the wind direction reversed itself. Breezes from the east became breezes from the west.
That would be a godsend for a westerly breeze would slow the rate of the fire’s progress; it would give the firemen a much needed ally in their desperate fight to stop the flames of the raging inferno. Alas, there was no sign of the ocean’s gift to the land, that west-borne wind which could play such a decisive role if only it would appear!
I returned inside, picked up the gyroscope again while keeping my ears and eyes open for the terrifying news coming from the television screen. As the journalists tracked the path of the fire, I began hearing the names of roads that were all too familiar to me and finally that one dreaded report that made my heart shudder in fear: the fire had jumped Highway 13.
It was now on its downward trek burning down the hills into Oakland homes–and then in a blur I heard “Broadway Terrace” where my friend Martha lived. Real fear was now let loose. I realized for the first time someone I knew and loved was about to lose her family home. It was around 3:15 and the next few minutes would be critical. I went back outside once more. If only the West Wind would blow! At least that would give us hope!
What happened next seems dreamlike but I must preface the dream with these words: I have always been fascinated by Native American culture, especially their philosophy that is so highly respectful toward Mother Earth. In my studies, I came across some rather unusual instances of communion between Native Americans and Mother Earth, including the natural elements of wind, fire, air, and water.
I was never quite sure which stories were legends and which were true, but there are tales of “unusual happenings” between the natural world and tribal members. These stories must have been resting comfortably somewhere in my subconscious or else sheer desperation alone made them surface and drove me to do what I tried next.
I stood up and stepped past the opened sliding glass door onto the porch. I took the gyroscope, still spinning on its string, with me. I was down to my last card but felt anything was permissible, rational or not, when such a furnace-blasting holocaust was coming. I faced north and felt that death-delivering easterly wind still blowing across my face.
I waited and hoped for some sign from the west but there was none. Then a strange feeling began to overtake me and replaced my normal persona. I held the spinning gyroscope out in front of me and used it to focus my energy and intent. I asked the East Wind to stop blowing and waited.
I was on the verge of admitting that this was the silliest delusion ever when, lo and behold, the East Wind completely stopped. I could barely believe it myself: mere coincidence of timing? We were now within half-an-hour or so of when the normal switching of breezes would have occurred naturally. I was tempted to wait to see if the East Wind would strike up again but faster still a new thought raced through my mind: now there existed a brief opening of opportunity that must not be wasted!
Real or unreal it did not matter, so long as there was any chance, even one in a million, that somehow something different could happen because I was involving myself in the desired change. I raised my left hand toward the West and focused all my energy into conveying a single thought: “Blow!” and I motioned with my left arm in the curling rounded “Come here!” motion as when a parent calls a child.
I felt the first west breeze spring up at once, so slight at first I felt it might be a phantom illusion and vanish again as quickly as it appeared. I continued to curve my arm upwards and in, calling for more wind, and the light breeze began to strengthen. A parade of healthier breezes began building one on top of the other, refreshing and strengthening one another until a true westward wind began making itself palpable.
If the wind reversal was occurring where I stood, perhaps it would reflect the same pattern all up and down the coast. My arm’s circling motion was no longer merely “come here” but included directional motions pointing to the east and north, sending the new West Winds toward those faraway hills and that uncontrolled fire I could not see.
There was a strange sense of repose filling my body and soul, some deeper purpose being fulfilled. By then the television news was revealing exactly what I feared most: my friend’s house was directly in the path of the fire which was burning up house after house as it traveled with ferocious energy down Broadway Terrace.
And yet I felt calm, quite certain the wind had reversed direction and was now blowing strongly from west to east. The firemen would win—in time. The only question was: where would the final line be drawn between surviving households on one side and all the burned out blackened wreckage on the other? I went back inside to watch more news reports and to wait . . . for the outcome.
In the hours and days that followed, the horror that was left behind was indeed truly a nightmare. Many people had been killed or injured; the extent of the area burned and the amount of property damage involved such staggering numbers that one could barely grasp them. I continued on with my daily life the best I could but often thought about my strange communion with Nature and wondered how much of it was real. If what I believed happened was a genuine moment in time, I expected Martha’s house to be standing. If I had imagined the whole experience or underestimated the sequence of events that would occur regardless of my actions, the house would be gone.
Finally, one day I knew it was time to make the long drive to Oakland to bear witness as I could handle the suspense no longer; I had to know. I got in my car and made the 50 mile journey right into the heart of my old neighborhood. I went up Broadway past Oakland Technical High (where Martha and I had met) toward College Avenue and then turned right onto Broadway Terrace. That immediate area had been untouched by the fire, thankfully, but not so the area I was about to see by traveling up the gradually sloping hill toward Highway 13.
A mile or so more would take me directly into the fire zone. My friend’s house would appear on the left if it was still standing. I had made the drive many times before but now an unnamed fear seized control of me; I clenched the steering wheel tightly with whitened knuckles and felt my heart pounding. Adrenalin was unleashed and fear ran free in my body and soul.
I already knew the firestorm, after jumping the highway, had burned its way a considerable distance down Broadway Terrace. It was only a matter of time before I would come to the line between life and death, between standing houses and those burned to the ground, lost forever to the intense heat of the flames. I fancied myself prepared for the emotional jolt I was about to receive but I wasn’t. I underestimated the impact of seeing blackened trees and blackened debris blowing around everywhere.
That was bad enough but even more confusing at first, then frightening, was a scenario I had not expected. Up ahead I could see open spaces and views that appeared out of nowhere and out of place; it was truly beautiful but I simply couldn’t remember being able to see so much of the hills. And then it hit me like a thunderbolt: the new vistas of the “open spaces” were created by the missing houses that had burned!
My heart in my throat, I passed a familiar landmark on the left, a little idiosyncratic river-like side channel that exists on Broadway Terrace a short distance before Martha’s house. That meant there were only a few more houses left to pass before I should see my friend’s house–but at the same time the blackened debris of the streets and yards was growing rapidly and the open vistas were becoming more commonplace. It was going to be close, a nail-biter.
Then I was there. No more houses. Only open spaces where houses once stood. The firestorm had raced down this hill and now I was looking at the line where it stopped. I pulled over and parked to take in the scene. On both sides, destruction and ruin everywhere. Families had lost everything. No doubt they considered themselves lucky if they had escaped with their lives. I felt a film of mist begin to cover my eyes; I was on the verge of tears. I blinked and forced myself to look.
I had finally arrived at that darkened line I had been dreading: the line between the living and the dead, between the vibrant healthy houses behind me that had survived and the dark endless destruction of the fire-ravaged area ahead. The last house destroyed belonged to Martha’s neighbor; the first house to be spared was Martha’s. The next house to hers was gone, burned up entirely.
There was blackened debris everywhere; it was apparent the fire had tried to consume her home, too, that sparks and bolts of fire attacked the doors, the walls, and the roof looking for a place to continue its wanton destruction–and yet the house stood, proud and unafraid. I had seen what I expected to see. It was time to leave.
Although all of the above is a true story, I don’t recall ever making contact with Martha at the time. Our lives had moved along separate paths since high school despite the relatively short distance that separated us. It was only many years later that our paths crossed again—this year, in fact, that of my 50th high school reunion. As it happened also to be the centennial of our high school, a double celebration was planned. All classes were welcomed home and we had graduates returning that spanned decades. Martha was a junior when I was a senior but I couldn’t help sending her an email asking her if she planned to attend the reunion.
That led to a few more emails and a renewal of our friendship. I wanted to share with her the above story but I also knew it had elements that defy normal perceptions of “reality”, of time and space. I broached the subject and hinted at its nature; without knowing the details, she expressed some skepticism at the notion that a person could ever affect the weather and I thought it perhaps best to keep quiet and leave the story buried. Then she happened to mention in a subsequent email that she still wished to hear the story. I asked her to give me some time and I would write it up . . . and so here it is, Martha, dedicated to you.
