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Ride Through Hell
Fueled by dry cheatgrass, the Milford Flat fire had been sparked by lightning the day before and now spread quickly across the high desert. More than 500 firefighters were working around the clock to contain the blaze, but it continued to grow. Within days, it would become the largest wildfire recorded in Utah history, consuming 363,000 acres of mostly empty rangeland. On the hot afternoon of July 7, just as Gonzales was creeping up the hill outside Fillmore, the worst happened: Wind gusts of 48 mph moved in, sweeping the fire across the freeway. The blaze consumed several structures and narrowly missed a gas station.Trooper Chad McWilliams was umpiring a Little League baseball game on his day off when his cell phone rang. "The fire has jumped I-15," the dispatcher said. "We're calling everyone in to help shut down the freeway from Scipio to Beaver." That's an almost 100-mile stretch, thought McWilliams.
He hurried home to get his patrol car. Driving north of Beaver toward the junction of Interstate 15 and eastbound I-70, he spotted what appeared to be a large thunderstorm directly ahead. That's all we need—more lightning, thought McWilliams. He felt a chill when he realized the enormous clouds were actually plumes of black smoke. Pulling over, he joined Trooper Chuck Collings in diverting traffic off I-15, away from the fire. He looked at his watch: It was almost 12:30. At the height of lunch hour, he needed a flashlight.
"C'mon, c'mon, don't cut out on me now!" Gonzales held tightly to the gearshift and kept his foot steady on the throttle. He found that if he kept the truck in fifth gear and didn't go any slower than 25 mph, he could still move ahead, even with his engine on fire. Flames danced all around him. Sort of like driving through hell, Gonzales thought. Although the diesel fuel in his tank was less volatile than gasoline, his cab was made of fiberglass. He could feel the heat radiating from the floor and door, and figured the fire would burn its way through the cab in a matter of minutes. Coughing and struggling to breathe, he forced himself to keep his cool.
Gonzales glanced at a photo of his wife that he kept in his rig. You've got to make it home to Ernestine, he told himself. He wanted more than anything to call her and tell her that he loved her, but he was afraid to take his eyes off the road.
The flames were almost hypnotic as they raged on the mountain and along both sides of the highway, towering above his truck. Only 15 minutes had passed since Gonzales started up the smoky hill, but it seemed like an eternity. Warning lights lit up across his dashboard. The engine would stall at any second.
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