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An Eerie Scene
The clock on his dashboard told him it was half past noon, but Fred Gonzales thought it might as well be midnight. "What's going on here?" he asked himself, turning on his headlights and shifting his 40-ton semi to a lower gear. Leaning over the steering wheel, Gonzales squinted to see the highway through the windshield. A wall of thick black smoke was closing in -- he could barely make out the yellow road markers on Utah's Interstate 15.A quick check of his side mirrors revealed the same eerie scene behind him. There was no way he could turn around now; he'd have to keep moving. Suddenly, through the haze, he saw a bright flash of orange light. A wildfire was roaring down the mountain to his right, exploding in front of him and igniting the road. Wind from the inferno shook the cab and caused the 53-foot trailer to sway. Smoke seeped in through the vents. The trucker slammed the gear lower still. My God, he thought, this is it. I'm going to burn up and die right here on the highway.
Ever since his dad let him tag along on road trips as a toddler, Gonzales had been fascinated by big trucks. There was something magical about sitting up high, watching the sun rise and set along a new ribbon of highway. But in 1992, when he entered the independent trucking business after doing everything from shearing sheep to manufacturing neon signs, it took him months to get used to the long hours alone.
Now, at 49, with his two kids grown, he'd come to love the routine. He would kiss his wife, Ernestine, goodbye and head out twice a month, transporting everything from cookies to newsprint. During lonely moments, he'd call Ernestine on his cell.
For this particular trip, the Fort Collins, Colorado, big rig operator had picked up a load of liquid swimming pool chemicals near Salt Lake City. Grabbing a cup of coffee to go at the truck stop where he'd spent the night, he glanced at his watch; it was 7/7/07. My lucky day, he thought. There wouldn't be much traffic on the interstate on a Saturday morning; he'd be able to drop off his haul in Rancho Cucamonga, California, by the end of the weekend.
Rolling south on the freeway, Gonzales noticed a thin layer of haze wrapped around Utah's Wasatch mountain range. It was going to be a hot one. He turned up the air-conditioning, then tuned into his favorite satellite radio channel, Blue Collar Comedy.
Three hours later, just beyond the small town of Fillmore, he saw something unusual. About a dozen fire trucks were parked along the opposite side of the interstate, and firefighters were standing next to the fence, looking west. Are they practicing maneuvers? Gonzales wondered. He hadn't heard anything about a wildfire on his CB radio. He spotted smoke in the distance to the west, but it looked like it was several miles away.
As cars passed him on the right, Gonzales shifted to a lower gear to make it up the steep grade ahead. The higher he climbed, the more the blue sky disappeared. Smoke began to spread across the freeway like fog. A mobile home stopped suddenly directly in front of him, forcing him to swerve into the right lane with his heavy load. "What the hell are you doing?" shouted Gonzales. The smoke was now dark and thick. He'd driven in whiteouts before, but a blackout at noon? This was a first. Slowing to 25 mph, he strained to see the highway in front of him.
Seconds later, there was a loud whooshing sound, "like somebody turned the furnace on," Gonzales recalls, and his truck was ablaze. Flames lapped at the tires and leaped from the air breathers and axles. Fire and wind raged all around, snapping juniper trees and incinerating the sagebrush. If the truck stalls, I'm toast, Gonzales thought. There was no choice but to keep driving.
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