This is dedicated to one of my BFFs on the mountain, Aida Tucker, a most remarkable woman. Aida possessed an infectious laugh and bouncy brown curls, and she taught middle school. When I first met this fireball, she chaired the Julian Cuyamaca Volunteer Fire Department. I was a North Peak neophyte, relishing the whole mountain vibe and surrounding state parks and Lake Cuyamaca, the local library before it closed at 5 pm, and Julian newspaper (an old-fashioned rag on newsprint). In a break from unpacking, we devoured that newspaper—all ten pages— and that’s when we learned about the war brewing in the backcountry. It boiled down to the small volunteer army versus the substantial San Diego County Fire Dept. According to the local paper, an upcoming vote by Julian residents would determine the sustainability of the local fire department, and we moved in time to cast ballots.
For years, the Julian Cuyamaca Volunteer Fire Department struggled with finances and human resources. The fire station closest to our house sat dilapidated and unoccupied. So much for fire protection on our mountain. The next nearest and newest fire station— JCVFD’s pride and joy —was a twenty-minute drive, slow going along the twisting, winding Highway 79, which didn’t serve us well, or anyone outside of the town of Julian. Response times for medical emergencies or fires were dismal. We accepted the fact that we’d be dead or the house in cinders by the time help arrived. So we focused on being self-reliant and keeping a clear perimeter with trimmed trees and shrubs, which improved our physical condition.
The average age of the firefighters in JCVFD was over 45, counting many retirees. Dale was over 65 when we moved to the mountain. Prior to our move from Monterey, California, he held a current EMT license, assisted the Search and Rescue Team at Pinnacles National Park and monitored the “pig fence.” (Seriously. The pig team was essential in controlling the notoriously destructive wild hogs who roamed the Pacific Coastal ranges). He considered joining the JCVFD and attended one meeting, but returned disillusioned, saying that “it was one meeting too many.” The disorganized JCVFD meeting involved a lot of people shouting (older people with hearing loss), no agenda, and no training. Only ten people came. He asked, “How can Julian function with just ten people working for the fire department? This place will burn again,” recalling the Cedar Fire in 2003.
Dale decided his vote in the upcoming election, and although I trusted his judgment, I exercised due diligence by questioning neighbors and other Julianites to be sure.
Big mistake. The Volunteers were understandably emotional about losing what they saw as their lifeline to the community. Backcountry residents value friendship and solitude in equal measure, and fierce, proud independence ranks at the top.
Here’s how several encounters went:
Me— “Can you tell me about the vote? Exactly, what is this about? I just moved here.”
Vol— “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You don’t get it?”
Me— “That’s right. I just moved here, and I’m trying to understand what this is all about.”
Vol— now yelling, red in the face, veins popping out, spewing spittle— “We don’t want big government in our business, plain and simple. We take care of things on our own.”
I appreciated his concern, but at the same time, our house, a rebuild, burned once before. While JCVFD couldn’t protect our home from the last fire, it was also unlikely they’d have sufficient resources when the next one hit. That’s about the time that Aida became a good friend.
She patiently explained the miserable JCVFD finances and thin staffing and recommended dissolving the organization. Cal-Fire’s primary focus was and is wildland fires, not structures, and that’s where coverage gets muddied and where San Diego County Fire came in. In Julian, it became a Hatfield—and—McCoy thing. The fire department drew a line in the sand. The side we chose determined our friends and our place in the community.
My advice to anyone moving to a small town: be prepared. We were not.
