Danger in Durango! (or how I spent my vacation)

It was supposed to be a relaxing vacation. My friend, Suzi, and I were going to spend a few days loitering around the Four Corners' town of Durango, Colorado. We planned to read, write, chat with the locals and take photographs of the historic buildings in this throwback to the Wild West.

And that's exactly what we did for the first day and a half. On the second day at about 1 p.m. Suzi mentioned that we had about an hour to kill before picking up her husband, Jamie, at the airport. I suggested a cup of coffee.

"Great," she replied, "we can just relax."

We opted for a coffee shop on Main Avenue under our friend Branson's studio, and he came down to join us. Sipping our coffee and munching on cookies, we didn't notice at first that people were going outside to look down the block. I asked one of the kids behind the counter what was going on and he told us a restaurant down the block might be on fire.

Walking outside we saw a few people looking toward the end of the block and one couple who said they had been asked to leave during their lunch, but they weren't concerned. Nobody seemed concerned. There was no evidence of a fire from the street. We went back to our coffee. A few minutes later a red Jeep parked in front of us, a man jumped out and began pulling on his fireman's uniform. Apparently there was a fire.

Back out on the street we were finally able to see a small spiral of smoke coming from the roof of the restaurant. Suzi ran across the street to grab her camera from the car, while Banson and I continued to watch from the sidewalk. I asked him if he should start taking things out of his studio, which housed his life's work.

"No." he answered, "I don't think the fire will get this far, and there is a firewall in my building."

Several fire trucks arrived and I convinced Branson to at least take the most valuable equipment out of his studio and put it in his car. I volunteered to help. As quickly as he packed his cameras and boxes of slides, I carried them down the long hall and stairwell to his car across the street. Having both made several trips we stood in his office trying to decide what else to take. On impulse I grabbed two old framed photos of his parents stacking them on top of my armload of slides, when the lights went out. We were in the dark. I walked very gingerly out of the pitch-black office, along the hallway, reaching the stairs where there was some light from the large front windows.

By now, the fire had spread and looked perilously close to the building we had been in. I put the boxes in the car and walked back across the street to look for Branson. I hadn't seen him come out of the building. I had just reached the sidewalk by the red Jeep when the explosion occurred. It was terribly loud and furious as bricks and glass and debris spewed straight out from the buildings.

I was standing about 20 feet from the explosion, off to the side. I froze. At first I couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened, and then I saw a pile of bricks lying in front of me. Several firemen ran over to the pile of bricks and began throwing them aside. Two firemen, who had been blown off the roof, laying one on top of the other, were buried under the bricks. 

Frantically looking around for Suzi and Branson I spotted them across the street, both safe.  I grabbed my coat from the coffee shop and retreated down the block, out of harm's way, but very frightened.

Gradually working my way through the crowd, I was able to get close to Suzi who had continued to take photographs. She convinced the auxiliary fireman monitoring the press that I was a writer with her, and he let me under the yellow caution tape. She directed me to a group of people standing near a Red Cross table, handed me a little leather-bound notebook and a pen and directed me to start taking notes.

"You need to write about these people," she said, and left to take more photos.

"These people" turned out to be members of the Medical Reserve Corps. MRC's primary mission is to provide Professional Emergency Medical Support to overloaded hospitals, Fire and Rescue and other government agencies. I was asking them about their organization, trying to take notes but my hands kept shaking. I finally asked Joann Wade, the coordinator if she could just e-mail the information to me because I was having trouble writing.

"I'm just so cold," I kept saying. Someone handed me a cup of coffee asking where I had been during the explosion. I pointed across the street to the Jeep. All at once four faces turned to me with concern, and they all began asking me questions.

"Were you hurt?"
"No."
"Do your ears hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sure you are ok?'
"Yes, I'm just so cold. I can't get warm."

At that point, Wayne an MRC volunteer wrapped his arms around me and hugged me for a long time, telling me to breath. "You're not shaking from cold, your shaking from trauma," he said.

Joy Mathis, also with MRC, told me some of the symptoms of trauma, including sleeplessness and anxiety, and told me I shouldn't be alone for several days. She also told me I may experience symptoms a month or two later.

Suzi was right. I did need to meet those people. They took care of me and made me feel safe. They folded in around me with a protective shield of concern. They have checked on me by phone or e-mail every day since the explosion.

Branson's studio was saved, but he had to move everything out the next day. Suzi got fabulous photographs. I was interviewed by the newspaper and a TV station and was on the late news.  Nine firemen were taken to the hospital with three admitted, but none with life threatening injuries.  There is a black scar in the middle of the block where the buildings were and the investigation is underway to determine the cause of both the fire and the explosion.

As for me, make no mistake, I am a writer not a reporter. I am not an adrenalin junkie. I prefer to do my digging through archives, not rubble. I like the relative safety of my desk and my computer firewall. I prefer to read about the news, not be the news.

I had just wanted a cup of coffee.

However, if anyone asks about my vacation I can honestly say it was a blast. 



Cheri Cabot, Politics Correspondent
Cheri's column, "Personal About Politics," published every week, will reflect on how the life of a 58 year-old, middle class woman is affected by politics, policy and the current state of the nation - a look at the personal aspects of politics. The articles will be posted to Politics.gather.com as part of Gather Essentials.

Cheri is a freelance writer, living in Southern California.  She has two grown children, one in Iowa and one at Columbia University, and is the proud grandmother of two. Cheri is also a purveyor of fine coffee, warm chatter and dry wit.

You can find all of Cheri's columns on Personal About Politics at www.ccabot.gather.com.