Stoic, weary, anxious -- that’s how they feel

The owners had already fled and the two houses perched on a hill were destroyed in minutes. But unscathed stood a Halloween display -- a rosy-cheeked scarecrow presiding over eight smiling pumpkins.

Minutes later, about 10:30 a.m., Bob Poole, a U.S. Forest Service spokesman, drove up. He took in the scene, then reflected on the burning houses in San Bernardino County.

“The people who live in them at this moment have no idea what is happening to their property,” he said.

Suddenly a loud boom rocked the forest. Poole didn’t flinch.

“Water tank or propane tank,” he said without emotion.

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Louis Sahagun

Chip Prather, chief of the Orange County Fire Authority, watched from the back of the large conference room as his commanders outlined the day’s battle plan.

As the briefing wrapped up about 9:30 a.m., Prather spoke, warning his colleagues that fatigue was among the dangers they faced. About 100 people crowded into the room, many nursing coffees, many unshaven, many with bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t get complacent,” he said. “That’s what’s going to kill somebody.” The firefighters listened in silence.

Prather also told them not to expect much relief from other fire departments.

“What you see,” he said, “is what you’re going to have.” No one reacted to that either.

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In a downtown park, across from the fire station, 20 firefighters from all over the state were sprawled on cots or the grass, trying to get some badly needed rest. One guy snored under a palm tree, and no one was within 30 feet of him.

Four firefighters from Benicia in the San Francisco Bay Area seemed to be the only ones awake. Capt. Joe Thurin sat in a lawn chair. Greg Nelson was lying on the grass. And Mike Brown and Jed Matcham took over benches surrounding a tree.

Why weren’t they asleep?

The crew started its regular Sunday shift in Benicia at 8 a.m., then left for Ramona in northern San Diego County at 11 p.m. They traveled through the night, and it was so cold in their open firetruck that they couldn’t sleep. They started work about 8 a.m. Monday and were finally given a break at 7 a.m. Tuesday.

Brown said they had reached that state where you’re so tired you can’t sleep.

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Jerry Sanders was a cop for 25 years before he became mayor of San Diego, and sometimes he reverts to old ways.

At a news conference at Qualcomm Stadium just before noon, Sanders read a list of companies that have offered goods and services. He stopped at one name and called it “my personal favorite”: Krispy Kreme.

“I’m a cop,” Sanders joked. “What am I supposed to say?”

It was the first laugh for the mayor or his audience in days.

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Despite the efforts of firefighters, the flames kept marching on Tim Cohen’s Ventura County ranch. Singed rabbits sprinted from bushes, and the smoke grew darker, like a fog. Then, just like that, the winds died down. The smoke thinned. Cohen walked toward the stables.

“Too close, too close,” the rancher muttered, relieved.

Then, just as Cohen walked past a hay bale, an ember landed and the hay caught fire. Ranch workers ran to the bale and doused it with water.

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When Julie Ann Treloar, 47, and her three children evacuated their home in Santiago Canyon Estates in Orange County about 3:30 p.m., Treloar drove to a park at the entrance of the development to watch the fire.

It might have had the feel of a picnic, thanks to a neighbor who brought the family barbecue sandwiches, French fries and cole slaw. Treloar’s children -- Sterling, 9, Tivoli, 6, and Hudson, 4 -- hadn’t eaten all day, but first it was time for grace.

“Dear God,” Treloar began, “we pray you put these fires out and protect our neighbors and pray that they get out in time.”

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Jason Song