The fire did not roll over the ridge as a great wall, and I will not pretend it did. It spread along the county land to the northeast and threw burning material ahead of the main edge. Around six-thirty, two spot fires took hold in the tall, dry brush behind the northern row of Cedar Hollow, in the strip between the county service lane and eleven back fences. My property was fourth from the end.
Each spot was small enough that a properly supplied crew might have handled it quickly under easier conditions. The problem was the wind, the continuous fuel, and the distance to the structures. Flames low to the ground became dangerous when gusts laid them into dead shrubs and pushed heat toward wooden fences. One fire was perhaps sixty feet from the nearest fence when the first engine reached the service lane.
The Ostranders lived two doors beyond Elliot and had a small shed behind their house. I saw Mrs. Ostrander standing near her patio door, trying to decide whether to carry a box into her vehicle or stand and watch the smoke. Her husband had a limp that made moving quickly difficult. I went to their fence and told them to take the car down to the open area near Milford if they were ready, then reminded them that firefighters needed the lane kept clear.
"What about our house?" Mrs. Ostrander asked.
I looked toward the crews arriving with their hoses. "The best thing you can do for it right now is give them room."
She nodded, though I could see how much she disliked leaving. They drove out a few minutes later with their dog in the back seat and a box of family photographs between them. I watched until their taillights disappeared around the curve. That small image stayed with me more clearly than the smoke.
The first engine stopped near the upper hydrant. Two firefighters pulled hose from the side compartment while another opened the hydrant and a fourth checked the supply. I stayed on my side of the fence, where I could see but was not in their way. The crew moved with the practiced speed of people who had done the same work in conditions far less forgiving.
Then something changed. The hose did not take the shape I expected under the demand they were placing on it, and the pump operator looked down at his panel, then toward the hydrant. Another firefighter jogged farther down the lane to check the next connection. I could not hear the words over the engines and the wind, but I had spent enough nights standing beside pump operators to recognize a supply problem from a distance.