Real Survival Stories - Escape Through the Blaze: Follow the Bobcat

Episode Date: January 15, 2026

A lost hunter inadvertently sets in motion a terrifying chain of events. As his signal fire gets out of control it becomes a massive, uncontainable wildfire. Within minutes, the blaze is rampaging west - towards the hills outside San Diego… towards the houses nestled among the slopes… like the one where Sandra Younger lives with her husband. Can they make it out in time?   A Noiser podcast production. Hosted by John Hopkins.   Written by Joe Viner | Produced by Ed Baranski | Assistant Producer: Luke Lonergan | Exec produced by Joel Duddell | Sound supervisor: Tom Pink | Sound design by Matt Peaty | Assembly edit by Rob Plummer | Compositions by Oliver Baines, Dorry Macaulay, Tom Pink | Mix & mastering: Ralph Tittley.   For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions   If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

It's October the 25th, 2003. Deep in the sun-parched wilderness of Southern California, a man carrying hunting gear stumbles through the brush. He is tired, thirsty, and hopelessly lost. His eyes rake the arid terrain, searching for shade or a footpath. But all he can see is more of the same. Steep, straw-colored hillsides,

thick with brittle vegetation, tumbling down into sandy arroyos, dry creek beds that snake off into the distance leading nowhere. The man staggers weakly on. He had never been hunting before, and he got lost. He got separated from his partner, and he was running out of water. It was a really warm day. Heat distorts the horizon behind shimmering waves. Strong easterly winds funneled through the valley, blowing dust into the man's eyes and veiling the air in a sepia haze.

This is a hot, dry, sinister wind. It rollocks over the brush-covered landscape, swirling and howling like a banshee, itching the man's sunburnt skin. Eventually, when it feels like he might pass out from heatstroke, the man stops. It's late afternoon. He's been wandering aimlessly for seven hours. hours. When darkness falls, he'll have no chance of being found before morning. Will he make it through the night? This is his first ever hunting trip. If he couldn't shoot a deer, what chance would he have against a mountain lion? And so, seeing no other way out, the man lays down his gear

and begins gathering up twigs and leaves into a small pile. A tip he's learned is that should you ever get lost with no way to call for help, a signal fire is one way to alert rescuers to your location. Of course, such a method is only permissible in certain environments. In this part of the back country, full of dry, flammable undergrowth, lighting fires is strictly prohibited, but the man is desperate. He sinks to his knees behind his mound of kindling and slides a box of matches from his pocket. He did what he'd been taught to do in hundred, safety school, which was to light a signal fire, which worked, actually, because people saw the fire when it started, reported it, and a couple of sheriff's deputies went out

in helicopter and rescued him. But by the time rescuers reached the lost hunter, his signal fire has grown. Months without rain has turned this entire valley into a tinderbox. coupled with the strong easterly winds, it's a perfect storm for a massive, uncontainable wildfire. Within minutes, the blaze have become unmanageable, a vast wall of flame, rampaging west, towards populated areas in the hills outside San Diego,

towards the houses nestled among the slopes, like the one where Sandra Younger lives with her husband. I could see out of our bedroom window to the mountain on the opposite side of the cannon, and it was engulfed in flames. And there was no doubt then that we had to leave, that we should have already been gone. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision, could you make the right choice? Welcome to real survival stories.

These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet 50-year-old journalist Sandra Younger. In 2003, Sandra and her husband Bob have just bought her home in the mountainous backcountry outside San Diego, a beautiful, rugged region of rolling hills and canyons. Together with their pets, Sandra and Bob are living a life of quiet content. until the early hours of the morning on October the 26th when Sandra wakes to an unfolding nightmare.

Way up in the distance, beyond the ridge lines of the mountains, I could see this orange glow. But I'd been told it was not a threat to me. Don't ever believe anyone who says that. If you feel you're in danger, you probably are and should evacuate. No one's going to bring you. engraved invitation to leave. Just follow your gut and get out. Fueled by strong winds, the blaze will spread at a terrifying pace. And with their beloved home right in its unstoppable path,

Sandra and Bob will have just minutes to evacuate, or risk being consumed by the fire. But saving themselves is just a question of running. With a winding, perilous journey back down the hills ahead of them. Surviving the fire will take tremendous skill, luck, and just when they need it the most, a timely helping hand from the strangest of rescues. We went from thinking to doing. Maybe this is what happens when you realize your life is on the line. By this time, we were praying out loud. God, please help us find our way out of this fire. Please help us find our way. I'm John Hopkins, From the Noiser Podcast Network, this is real survival stories. It's the evening of October the 25th, 2003 in Southern California.

An SUV slowly wends its way up a steep mountain road, about 25 miles east of San Diego. Sandra Younger sits in the passenger seat, watching the headlights illuminate an alarmingly skinny sliver of gravel carved into the side of the canyon. It's been seven months since Sandra and her husband moved here from the suburb. In that time, they've gotten used to many aspects of life in the backcountry, the remoteness, the patchy cell service, even the occasional sighting of a bobcat.

But one thing that will probably take years to get accustomed to is this road. A treacherous strip of compacted dirt, snaking precipitously up the mountainside, and the only route to or from their hilltop home. While Bob, her husband, drives, Sandra glances at the sheer hundred-foot drop mere e-enections. inches from their tires, a yawning black chasm. Eventually the road flattens out and widens into a freshly paved stretch of crisp, smooth tarmac. They climb a little further until the SUV's full beams fall across the entrance to a

handsome white stone house with terracotta roof tiles set back from the road on its own sprawling plot of land. They pull into the driveway and Bob slots the car into the garage. The night of October 25, 2003 was a Saturday. Bob and I and our two Newfoundland dogs were actually at a Halloween party sponsored by our dog club. It's a little embarrassing to admit that we were part of a dog club. We did dress up in costumes.

We dressed our dogs up in costumes. We got home around 10 o'clock. Before the front door is fully open, terror and charter. The couples two Newfoundland dogs squeeze past their legs and bound into the hall, tails wagging as they scamper through the dark house. Sandra smiles. The dogs look charming in their Hawaiian-themed Halloween costumes, with flower garlands draped around their big shaggy necks.

Wearing matching floral shirts and traditional Hawaiian necklaces, Sandra and Bob follow the dogs into the hall and shut the door behind them. Every corner of Sandra and Bob's home reflects a long, lifetime spent together, from the photographs and books that line the walls to the art that hangs in the hall. They met over 30 years ago as journalism sophomores in North Carolina. After college and a stint in the military, Bob would go on to have a career in the civil service. But Sandra would stick with journalism, motivated by the same intellectual curiosity she nurtured as a student. I went to college as a biology major, thinking I wanted to be a veterinarian.

and instead I started working for the college paper called The Technician. And I loved having this little scrap of paper that passed for a press pass and being able to go anywhere on campus and beyond. It gave me a license to go places I wouldn't have been able to go, otherwise to meet and talk to people. I wouldn't have met otherwise and to ask all these nosy questions. I love that. Over the course of her career, Sandra has written for a wide variety of publications,

from industry magazines to prestigious academic journals, all the while driven by those core journalistic principles, curiosity, skepticism, a desire for the truth. But she's also fueled by something more personal. The idea of breaking away from certain negative patterns she's observed within her own family. The women in my family on my mother's side were somewhat incapacitated by depression and anxiety and fear. And I didn't want to be like that. I decided at a very early age that I was going to break that chain I'd seen in my family.

I was not going to, as Hamilton said, I was going to throw away my shot. People told me when I was in school, I was a good student, they said, oh, the sky's the limit, you can do whatever you want to do. And I wasn't going to throw away that shot. I wasn't going to let anyone stifle my potential. And she didn't. She and Bob raised their two daughters in the suburbs of San Diego, where Sandra has worked for several years as the editor of a college magazine. After the kids grew up and left home, the couple decided it was time for a change.

When my children flew the nest and my husband and I had the option of moving out of the city of San Diego into the back country, as we call it here, we did. And we bought this beautiful house on the side of a mountain. The house was remote, difficult to access by road and surrounded by not. nothing but hundreds of acres of rugged, boulder-strewn wilderness. Sandra and Bob was smitten. Shortly after moving in, they decided their dream house needed a name. After considering and rejecting various options,

inspiration eventually came in the shape of their two beloved Newfoundland docks. If you don't know the breed, they look like Black St. Bernard's. They're big, they're shaggy, they're droolie. We love them. In Italy and in Latin, The name of the Newfoundland is Teranova, which means new land, right? Newfound land. So we thought this is perfect.

We will name our new home, Terra Nova, because to us it truly was our new land. It was a new chapter in our lives. We'd finished parenting. We named our new home, Terra Nova, our new land. Terra Nova is perched on a hillside above Wildcat Canyon, commanding breathtaking views across the valley towards Mexico. The land is rugged and mountainous, dotted with ancient oak trees and granite boulders that rise like monuments from the dusty scrub. As the elevation rises, the vegetation changes. Sagebrush and buffalo grass give way to Chaparral, California's native plant ecosystem, a fragrant mix of wild shrubs, small trees, and dense thorny thickets.

It's the extensive covering of Chaparral that lends these mountains. into their distinct appearance, like they're covered in little green tufts of cotton wool. It's also what makes this region so vulnerable to wildfires. But Chaparral doesn't just burn easily. Fire is essential to its nature. One of the unique features of Chaparral is that it's made to burn. It needs to burn about once every 30 years or so in order to clean out the underbrush and to generate new growth.

There are some plants that are called fire followers because it's only after the heat of a fire hits the soil that the seeds are able to germinate. So fire has always been a part of the natural cycle in the chaparral. It's true that wildfires are a natural part of California. ecosystem. But over the years, the frequency and size of these fires has grown to a level that is not natural. By October 2003, parts of Southern California are experiencing a prolonged drought, with several consecutive years of below-average rainfall.

The chaparral and sagebrush carpeting the hills around Wildcat Canyon have been thoroughly dried out by months after months of relentless baking sun. like a hearth laid with kindling. All it needs is a spark. A discarded cigarette, a bolt of lightning, a downed power line, or a lost hunter, striking a match. After arriving home from their Halloween party, Bob heads straight up to bed, while Sandra settles in the living room to read for a little while.

She flops under the couch and puts her feet up. She doesn't get very far through her book, however, before her eyes start to feel heavy. I fell asleep on the couch. Bob went upstairs, and he came down a few hours later and said, I smell smoke. There's smoke in the air,

and I've never smelled it as strongly before. Sandra sits up, sleepily rubbing her eyes. She glances at the time. It's 1 a.m. Bob stands there in his night clothes, a look of alarm creasing his forehead. Sandra sniffs, but she didn't smell anything. So, at Bob's insistence, she gets up off the couch, crosses the room, and opens the door onto the back deck.

The night air is warm and sultry, with the wind picking up. Hot, dry gusts shriek through the canyon, blowing her long, fair hair into her face. From the darkness, the tree branches creak and moan. It's eerie, otherworldly. Sandra recognizes this wind straight away. Late October is given to very warm days and even more dangerous. These seasonal winds, we call the Santa Ana winds, the devil winds. And they're brutal.

They can get up to 100 miles an hour, and they're dry. And they come at the time of year when our climate generally has not seen any rain. since spring. The Santa Ana winds form inland above the high desert plains of Utah and Nevada. They then blow westward, becoming hotter and drier as they flow downhill towards the coast. As they move, the winds seek out openings, ravines and mountain passes, picking up speed as the terrain narrows around them. The canyon where Sandra and Bob live has in effect become a chimney.

sucking and funneling hot air through the mountains. There were ashes blowing in the wind, which is an ominous sign. I was too naive to realize how ominous. You could hear the tree branches creaking. It was noisy out there, and it did smell acrid. Sandra and Bob stepped back indoors and anxiously dialed the local fire station. They're informed that there is a wildfire burning in the back country, but not anywhere near their canyon. It's at least 20 miles away, in the town of Ramona, close enough to smell the smoke, but not enough to worry for their own safety.

And the ashes in this wind? Not surprising, no cause for alarm. Sandra and Bob are unsettled, but reassured. They thank the firefighter for his time, then hang out the phone and head to him. bed. We had seen distant wildfires before. They're very common in the southwest here in the United States. So we had seen them from afar, and it was sort of a spectator sport to us, because they were never really threatening us personally. So that's what we thought about this one, and we had a firefighter's word for it, so we went back to sleep.

Before turning in, however, Sandra pulls back the curtains and glances north across the footills towards Ramona. Way up in the distance, beyond the ridge lines of the mountains, I could see this orange glow. And I remember saying, God help the people in Ramona. There it is. But I'd been told it was not a threat to me. Don't ever believe anyone who says that. If you feel you're in danger, you probably are and should evacuate.

No one's going to bring you. engraved invitation to leave. Just follow your gut and get out. It's 3 a.m. in Wildcat Canyon, California. Sandra Younger wakes to the sound of her husband's panic-filled voice. She sits up and looks over at the window. A murky orange glow throbs in a narrow slit between the drapes. With a pang of dread, she gets out of bed and pulls back the curtains. I looked out our big bedroom windows and saw flames across the canyon and a glow down in the bottom of the canyon that told me it was also on our side of the mountain.

I have to say, although I didn't take time to appreciate it then, it was in its way a spectacularly gorgeous sight. this ring of fire and these orange and yellow and red flames just dancing against this dark night. It was stunning. Fire has engulfed the opposite side of the canyon, turning it into a solid wall of flame, spitting red-hot cinders and belching columns of black smoke. Directly down slope from the house, the inferno glows and angry orange, getting brighter and louder with each second, feeding on the Shabarral as it surges up the canyon side

towards Terra Nova. The firefighter was wrong. While Sandra and Bob was sleeping, the blaze has spread rapidly, surging across the hills from Ramona, traveling over 20 miles in less than two hours. And it's showing no sign of slowing down. There was no doubt then that we had to leave,

that we should have already been, gone. Flaming embers streak past the window, curling and twisting in the night air. Sandra and Bob snap into action. Time to get out of here. We went from thinking to doing. I think maybe this is what happens when you realize your life is on the line because we weren't really discussing strategy, but we were just moving fluidly from one action to another. Sandra yanks on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, then she grabs a laundry basket and starts flinging things into it. There's little time for sentimentality,

but she does remember to grab a few precious objects, family portraits, some photos of the girls when they were babies. Best not to think about all the other treasured items she'll be forced to leave behind. While Sandra sweeps photographs into the basket, Bob dashes off to grab his camera. Bob had one camera. He's an avid fine art photographer.

And I was yelling at him, get your negatives, get your negatives. Downstairs, Sandra wrangles the dogs, while Bob, camera on his neck, runs into another room to rescue their pet, cockatiel, Chelsea. He charges back into the hall clutching the bird cage, with Chelsea perched inside, flapping her wings in distress. Sandra snatches her purse and goes to grab some shoes. Shaking with adrenaline, she rummages in the hallway closet for her hiking boots, but she can't find them. Outside the fire grows louder. The ominous rumble, now a deep, tremulous roar.

Sandra abandons her search. There's no time. She'll have to make do without footwear. So I ran out of the house in socks and jeans and an old college t-shirt. taking my dogs with me in my laundry basket. And just as I was about to go out into the garage, the power went out and everything was dark. Sandra looks at Bob in horror,

his shadowy form backlit by the glow of the fire behind the house. The garage door is electric. Without power, how are they going to get it open? A dreadful silence hangs there. They need to get to the car. They'll never outrun this blaze on foot. Bob runs over to the garage and starts wrestling with the door. He heaves, sweat forming on his brow.

A few agonizing moments later, he manages to force it open. Sandra pulls the dogs into the garage while Bob rushes over to his SUV. But as he fumbles in his pocket, his eyes widen. Bob is yelling, I can't feel. find my keys. He couldn't find his car keys, and he swore that he'd left them out on the kitchen counter. The fire is already licking at the eaves and the guttering. There's no time to go back inside their house. They'll have to take Sandra's car, a small two-door, accurate coup, far less appropriate than Bob's big SUV. But what choice do they have? Sandra starts loading the

dogs under the cramped back seat. As she pushes and shoves, she's suddenly aware of bright light spilling into the garage through the window. I wonder, how come I can see out here when the power's off? And it was because we had a window in the garage and this golden light was pouring in through the window, the light of the fire that was approaching. Sandra jumps behind the wheel and starts the ignition. Bob has barely managed to squeeze himself into the passenger seat

before Sandra slams her foot down on the accelerator and reverses up the drive. And as I backed out of our driveway into night, it was as if the world had been cut into, because behind me it was all dark as I was backing out. But in front of me, looking toward our house, the fire had created this white-hot wall that was wrapping itself around our house. At Medcan, we know that life's greatest moments are built on a foundation of good health, from the big milestones to the quiet winds.

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at the Winter Olympic Games, enjoy your own with Corona Cero. 0% alcohol and a source of vitamin D. Coronacero, the official non-alcoholic beer of Milano Cortina 2026. Asandra reverses out of the driveway. It's hard to tear her eyes away from the nightmare unfolding through the windshield. Their beloved home is being devoured. Whipped into a frenzy by the wind, the flames coil around the walls and chimneys, windows shatter, burning sills tumble to the ground, cracks split open in the,

the white plaster, letting the fire surge inside the walls, hungry tendrils seeking more fuel to burn. Barely five minutes ago, Sandra and Bob were asleep in bed, completely unaware of their impending doom. Sandra maneuvers the car out of the gate and speeds off into the night. A dirt track connects Sandra and Bob's house to the main road out of the canyon. It has no lighting and no road markings. It's tricky to navigate even by day. For now, the visibility is still okay. The smoke hasn't caught up with them yet,

and the road unspools smoothly in Sandra's headlights as she guns it towards the top of the hill. But then, just beyond the summit, she slows. They've reached the diciest stretch of the road, where it winds precariously down the side of the mountain, with no guardrail separating it from the vertical drop to the canyon floor. When I got to that part, the most treacherous part, part of our neighborhood road that led to the main road out.

We hit the smoke and I couldn't see anything. It was like being in an airplane in a cloud and you look out the window and it's just all white out, fog. It happens suddenly. A thick bank of smoke rolls silently across the road, swallowing their vehicle. It's potentially deadly timing. can't see more than a few inches past the hood of the car. Her full beams are useless. The smoke simply reflects the light back into our eyes, dazzling her, but they can't stop here. The fire must be gaining on them, beating the ground beneath their tires. The only way is forward. With her knuckles

white around the wheel, Sandra caresses the accelerator, creeping through the smoky haze. Sweat, palms. If she veers, of course, even a fraction, they could drive straight off the side of the canyon. It is a foot-wide margin of error. She calls out to Bob, her voice taught with fear. I yelled at him, I can't see the road. And he said, well, just don't wreck the car, which is the comic relief moment in this entire story. But that's what he said. And then he said, you're just going to have to remember where it was, which is kind of tough because we only lived there for seven months. And I said, but I can't see anything. Sandra leans over the wheel, squinting into the opaque grayness. But it's no use. The smoke is

impenetrable, blinding. For all she knows, they could be about to plunge over the precipice to their deaths. And then something totally unexpected happens. Just at that moment, a bobcat leaped out of the brush, lining the road right to my headlights and stumbled a little and then righted itself and dashed off into the smoke. They barely have time to take in the small wildcat. Its spotted fur, pointed ears, and sharp eyes briefly illuminated by their headlights. In two quick bounds and a swish of a tail, the animal is gone, leaving, Seeing Sandra and Bob staring after it in stunned silence.

Wherever this bobcat came from, its appearance here and now seems like a sign, like a hand reaching down through the smoke and pointing the way. Something in me knew that the cat was on the road I couldn't see in the smoke and something in me knew to follow it. So I followed the bobcat. Sandra aims for the spot in the smoke where the bobcat disappeared. and pushes on the gas pedal. The car hurtles forward into a cloud of swirling ash and soot. For several nerve-jangling moments, she drives on blind faith alone.

Any second they could shoot off the edge. But the wheels are still gripping solid ground. It seems the bobcat's instincts were right, and so were hers for following it. A minute later, the smoke clears enough for her to make out too blurry, fields of ambient red glow on either side of the car, with a black ribbon of road running between them. Sandra's chest tightens. The chaparral lining the verge crackles and smoulders with heat.

The fire has caught up with them, and it's closing in on both sides. At least they can now see the road. It is the only thing that's not yet burning. There was fire on both sides. There was by her sheeting across the road. And I remember thinking about the gas tank that was hanging under the car and thinking maybe it's like passing your finger through a candle flame. Maybe if I can go fast enough,

it won't heat it too much. Sandra floors it. Pieces of burning debris are overhead, trailing jets of flame. In places low red water, walls of fire barricade the path. Sandra has no choice but to drive through them as fast as she can, trying to keep the car centered between the two banks of burning undergrowth.

And then, at last. We finally got to the main road, which was the only way in or out of our neighborhood. And I remember the sound and the feel of the tires hitting gravel. And then I was on asphalt again. and I could see the center line of the road. It's a relief to be back on a proper paved surface. The headlights pick up the yellow and white markings, indicating the middle of the main road.

Finally, something to definitively point them in the right direction. But they're not out of trouble. As Sandra drives, the smoke thickens once again. Towering columns of flame rise on either side of the road, bending inwards until they converge at the top, forming a deadly tunnel. It got to this point where burning from both sides of the road, it sort of arched over, like a row of trees might arch over the road. And I remember saying, oh, my God, and just flooring the accelerator.

By this time, we were praying out loud. God, please help us find our way out of this spot. please help us find our way. It's about half-past three in the morning. On Wildcat Canyon Road, 20-odd miles east of San Diego, a speeding white, acura coop burst through a giant curtain of flame. The car's exterior has been scorched,

the paintwork peeling off in strips, but inside, Sandra and Bob Younger are still alive. And all of a sudden, they're out. And I couldn't believe my good luck my good luck that I hadn't gotten creamed by some oncoming traffic. And we punched through and on the other side was clear night, as if nothing had happened. It was almost like waking up from a dream.

Like, well, that's interesting. Did that really happen? The difference is like night and day. A head is darkness, clear and serene. Behind them, the mountains continue to burn, lighting up the sky with a dingy orange hue. Heart still hammering, Sandra pulls into a layby to catch her breath. We pulled over for a second and just looked behind us, and what we saw was the top of the mountain right around our house that we had just driven through, where we saw the bobcat just

exploded. Maybe a sudden blast of wind swept up the mountain, oxygenating the blaze. Whatever the case, Terra Nova, their home, sits on that mountaintop somewhere inside that massive fireball.

If there was any hope of anything surviving the disaster, surely it's now gone. Sandra glances back down the road. The fire is still advancing. They can't hang around. Bob volunteers to take the wheel and they swap places.

Asandra slides into the passenger seat. She notices the red dot blinking on the dash. They're almost out of petrol. I needed gas. Another boneheaded mistake. People who live in fire country, especially during Santa Ana season, should always keep at least half a tank of gas. Because what if you do get stuck in a traffic jam?

You don't want to run out of gas. So I had to go get gas. Fortunately, they should have enough in the tank to get them to the nearest fill-up station. A few miles down the road, they reach a fire service checkpoint. Bob rolls down his window. A firefighter comes over and tells them to keep driving. Sandra and Bob exchange a glance. They don't need to be told.

A few minutes later, Bob pulls into the gas station. There's a handful of shell-shocked people rushing around the forecourt. carrying cases of water, fuel, other essentials. Sandra heads inside to use the restroom. Beneath the harsh strip lighting, she catches a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. You know, deadhead, of course, the old college t-shirt. It was all ratty, had holes in it.

And I realized that I had Bob's glasses on the top of my head. I thought they were mine. I'd just grabbed them in one of the things he'd been, yelling about on his way out was, I can't find my glasses. Then we had to decide where are we going to go? Where do you go when you can't go home? After refueling, Sandra and Bob are at a loss for what to do next. They check on the dogs, both blissfully unaware of the disaster that is still unfolding, and on their cockatiel. She is far more unsettled. In her panic, she's nearly flapped all her feathers off. The bird was bleeding where her feathers had broken, but we didn't know why she was bleeding.

We just saw that the bird was bleeding and we said, let's take care of the bird. She's probably all we've got left. It's a useful distraction, having something to care for other than themselves. They drive to a nearby all-night animal hospital where the vet gives Chelsea a check-up. While Bob talks to the vet, Sandra sits in the waiting room. The place was undergoing remodeling construction. So there were plastic walls, sheets hanging everywhere. And there were these two benches sitting across from each other. And the light coming in through the translucent plastic was diffused and soft.

And it felt to me in its peacefulness after the chaos of escaping the fire, it felt like a sanctuary. The benches seemed like pews, the light, the quiet, the peacefulness of it, the blessing of normality. Then something happens that brings her crashing back to earth. The door flies open and a woman who works at the hospital rushes into the waiting room. She burst through the door and she said to her colleagues behind the desk, get ready, lakeside's on fire. Lakeside was the name of the community where we live. But that was a surreal moment, too. You know, just get ready.

You're going to have a lot of business here in a minute because people are streaming out of the back country right now, running for their lives. How many more Sandra and Bob's must be out there? People whose lives have been upended by this catastrophic fire. And then how many others weren't so lucky? Didn't wake up in time. didn't manage to outrun the blaze.

The answer to these questions, and more, will become clear in the coming days. But for now, Sandra and Bob try to focus on the present. After phoning around several hotels, they end up heading into downtown San Diego, to a place that apparently allows dogs. While Bob parks the car, Sandra heads into the lobby to check in. And the lady behind the desk said, you know, name, address, credit card number, all of that stuff. So I'm doing okay, talking with the receptionist behind the desk, until she asked me, how long are you going to stay?

And I said, I don't know. I think our house just burned down. The receptionist hands them the key, and Sandra and Bob head upstairs with their animals. They moved through the carpeted hallway in a daze, scanning door numbers until eventually they find their room. We looked around this room. We knew the bird was safe, and we had a laundry basket full of odds and ends, some pictures,

the best of Bob's negatives. We did get those. We had her two dogs, and we looked around, and we thought, we have everything important right here. This is all we really need. We got everybody out. We're alive. We're untouched. We're okay.

We're going to be okay. It will take 12 days, and a mass mobilization. of nearly 12,000 firefighters to finally control the blaze. By then, it will have burned roughly 280,000 acres, destroyed over 2,000 buildings, and tragically claimed the lives of 15 people. Twelve of the fatalities occurred in Wildcat Canyon, barely a mile from where Sandra and Bob made their lucky escape. The seed of fire, as it will become known, is the largest recorded wildfire in California's history.

It will hold that title for the next 14 years until the Thomas fire surpasses it in 2017. Less than a year later, that record will be broken again. It will be surpassed seven more times before 2025. We have seen these fires escalating, expanding, all around the world. Really, even in the Arctic Circle, in Siberia, everywhere except the ice caps we've seen these wildfires getting bigger and more extreme. And so the reason this fire of mine is still relevant is because it was a bellwether.

As one of the firefighters I interviewed said, 2003 was the year we looked at each other and said, something's changing. The Cedar Fire was one of the first fires world. wide that was documented and written about in professional papers as one of what's called the modern mega fires, the fires that go over 100,000 acres. In the days after the fire, Sandra and Bob returned to Terra Nova, where they begin sifting through the ashes of their home. There's very little left to salvage, but despite the devastation, they aren't going to give up

on the place that still means so much to them. Almost immediately their focus turns towards rebuilding. Their insurance thankfully means the couple are well covered. With help and perseverance, they are able to rebuild Terra Nova within just 24 months. But after returning to their hilltop home, life doesn't go back to how it was before. The blaze has left more than just physical scars on the landscape. It alters the trajectory of their lives. In the years after the disaster, Sandra writes a book about the fire, part memoir

part journalistic investigation into its causes and consequences. The book goes on to become a training text for emergency responders. Among the many extraordinary details of that story, one stands out, and it becomes central to the message Sandra hopes to impart to her readers. After I wrote my book on the launch night, a good friend was standing by me and people were in line, and I had never been an author before, so I wasn't practiced. in signing books, and I just looked at my friend, and I said, what should I say? How should I sign it? And she sort of shrugged and said, follow your bobcat. So every time I sign a book for someone,

I sign it, follow your bobcat. I believe that the bobcat was a sign of the grace that can come to us when we least expect it, but most need it. And I believe that grace is available to all of us at all times if we just are looking for it, are expecting it, and respond to it. As well as writing her book, Sandra begins a new phase of her career as a life coach and speaker. In her work, she turns to examples set by other survivors, people who have lived through far greater hardships. I had found a quote by Viktor Frankl, the Austrian psychiatrist to survive the Holocaust, and wrote this beautiful, incredibly profound book called Man's Search for Meaning.

And he had said that the last of the human freedoms is the freedom to choose your attitude in any circumstance, to choose your own way. And I felt I did make that choice. I did decide that I was going to have the attitude of a survivor instead of a victim. Choose your story going forward and keep moving forward. That's what the fire taught me. And I'm grateful for those lessons. It was a hard way to learn it. I wouldn't want to go through that again.

And yet I can't imagine my life if the fire hadn't come. I think it's richer than it. possibly could have been otherwise. Next time on real survival stories, we meet U.S. Air Force Captain and Vietnam War veteran George Burke. In May 1970, 28-year-old George boards a transport plane bound for an airbase in Washington State. It's a routine mission, just another Monday morning,

until a mechanical failure plunges this crew towards tragedy. A structural failure will lead to a horror scenario in the sky, blowing out the windows, ripping apart the fuselage, and sending what's left of the plane, hurtling towards the ground. Exactly what happens next will remain a mystery, even to George. But suffice to say, there will be an impact, a fire, a desperate scramble for safety, and at the bleakest possible moment, an unlikely savior. That's next time on real survival stories. Listen right now by joining Noiser Plus.