I grabbed a phone and tore through the new section of the house, through the old dining room, around the front closet and out the front door. On my way I noticed that there was no fire whatsoever inside the house. I bounded off the three-stair high, house-long porch onto the wooden walkway, rounded and headed toward the hose on the north end of the house—no water. I ran to the back faucet—no water. I was now conscious that I was saying, "Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no." Over and over and over again.

I raced back to and past the front of the house to the community water line, pulled the handle up and got a stream of water. Hose in hand I tore across the lawn to pull out the coiled hose. The fire was now blazing at the east end of the old living room. "I've got to fight it there." I raced onto the porch and (insanely) opened the front door. I clearly remember a dragon of fire racing at me from 20-some feet away.

I do not recall the next three seconds. I do remember the Flee or Fight response kicking in, seemingly instantaneously. Obviously I whirled around, bounded off the porch and ran down the walkway. When thought and the ability to lay down memories returned, I was 30 feet down the walkway, hose in hand. My visual cortex reconnected; the fire had completely engulfed the old living room and its double-paned windows began to grow black, then crack and explode in a shattering of glass.

BAM! BAM! BAM! "Oh no, oh no, oh no!" I wasn't crying. The anguish was too intense for tears and amidst my torments I knew the dogs were inside. Didn't they hear the unbelievable roar as the fire that had smoldered within the old east wall had found what it had been seeking for hours, possibly days? Oxygen—that thing that gives life to our planet. Why hadn't Lexi bounded out the door with me?

As I had run from faucet to faucet and then out front to the community water line I had, with shaking hands, tried to call for help. The house phone didn't work—the fire had cut the inside power which is why I couldn't get any water. We have a well that gets water to us via pump—a pump that works on electricity.

Then I realized my cell phone was in my pocket—most unusual for me. I got a 911 number in Idaho. "My house is burning to the ground! I'm at the end of Alta Road send help, please!"

"I'll patch you through..................."

My farmer-neighbor-friend Warren was a mile away cutting hay. He saw the smoke; he called and stayed on through four "patches" got through and eventually guided the fire trucks to the ranch. My wonderful Darlene, my overseer, my daughter-like, friend-buddy, was at work. The ranch sits at the end of a road—there was no one around and the birds had taken flight.

Years and years ago, as a young woman, I witnessed the Bel-Air /Brentwood fire, November 6, 1962, in Los Angeles, in which more than 450 homes went up as fire raced down steep-sided canyons seeking oxygen—"Give me air, let me live, watch my destruction." My then husband had seen the first alert about a smallish fire starting up on Mulholland Drive when he read the news as it ran across the electronic ticker-tape board above stock prices that flashed the pulse of the economy. He called my mother at work. "You must get up to your house, I'll meet you at the gate." It's a story unto itself, but the bottom line is that Bob saved my parent's house and three others with a garden hose and hatchet after the fire had engulfed the canyon rim to rim as it tore onward down the canyon seeking oxygen—BAM! BAM! BAM!

If the fire had been slow-moving he would have perished.

I ran to the north end of the house as flames raced through the house heading in the same direction towards the new addition. It had eaten through the ceilings; the top floor pulsed red and orange as windows cracked and crashed. Flames broke through the roof. The flames reached 50 to 100 feet above the house, black smoke roiled into the sky. I dragged the hose to the north end of the house. If I could wet it down the flames might be retarded enough so as not to ignite the other five outbuildings on the ranch.

The heat radiating from the fire was intense. With my thumb I aimed the water up onto the roof and through the bathroom window. It was very, very hot. I heard fire engines. I had to hang on. If I could continue my little water crusade they might save the new workshop a mere 25 feet from the north end of the house.

An ambulance arrived. "Get away from the fire! Now. You could die! You can't do anything with a garden hose. GET AWAY! NOW!"

Darlene arrived, raced to me, threw her beautiful arms around me and dragged me away. "You've go to get away. You're much too close." We fell onto the green grass. The fire trucks finally found their way—thanks to Warren. I watched. It was too painful—the house was gone. If they didn't manage to get around to the north side they wouldn't be able to save the new building and if that went the other structures would follow.

Darlene helped me up. Sobbing, she said, "We have to move, even here we're too close." We went around to the front of the workshop. I hung my head. "I'll cry when the adrenaline wears off," I said.

There's a great deal more to the story but these are things I know you'll want to know:

• Our dogs died from carbon monoxide and lack of oxygen long before the "jet landed on the roof."
• If I hadn't been in the newer part of the house I would have joined them.
• If I hadn't dashed out the door to get a hose I would have died.
• The radiant heat from the old part of the house was so intense it blistered the paint on the front grill of my husband's new old red truck, deformed the bug shield and light covers and cracked the entire length and breadth of the windshield from 80 feet away.
• I received second-degree burns from standing too close to the house in order to spray it with water. The intense radiant heat from the fire burned my forehead and several other places. Most have healed. I have to give my forehead and two holes on my right forearm another week or two. People say they can't understand why my clothes and/or hair didn't catch on fire. As to the burns—they are nothing, absolutely nothing.
• Besides losing our dogs, we lost the treasures of many who have gone before us, plus collections of books—many rare—as well as wine, art, artifacts... the list continues on and on. I walked away in an old pair of fishing pants, ugly old boat shoes, unders, a white blouse, and my cell phone—and, for some reason, that morning, I had put on earrings and rings I never wear around the ranch.
• Twenty firemen with seven trucks, including several pumper trucks that refilled from a tiny near-by stream, fought the blaze and saved the new workshop, thus the other buildings. The fire was so hot they had to work in five minutes relays. When they put water on the tin roof of the workshop it all evaporated in steam—not a drop ran off the roof.
• The ashes amazingly offered up many items out of tens of thousands—mostly unusable but something to hold in your hands.
• My watering helped.
• Our rural community has been nothing short of magnificent.

For all we lost, we are incredibly fortunate. My husband is originally from a mid-eastern city and still does business there; therefore we have a second home. In the recent California fires people were evacuated from their one and only homes in the middle of the night. They left in slippers and robes—nothing more.

Be sure to read the following responses to this post by our Bloggers:

If my neighbor hadn’t called 911 when he did...

by Carole A. Travis-Henikoff

The fire took its toll and the costs were steep.

by Carole A. Travis-Henikoff

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Tags: community water, crash landing, dining room, eaves, faucet, foot deck, foot wall, kitchen sink, knees, living room, porch, ranch house, reflex, senses, storage room, three feet, water hose, water line, western wyoming, wooden walkway