‘Saddest stories’: Neighbors knew little about fire victim they all saw regularly.
Just outside of Vacaville, the residents of English Hills Road remember Leon James Bone, even if they didn’t know his name or his age. That’s because most everyone has, at some point, seen him out walking — usually on a Thursday, usually in gray sweatpants.
The country road that Bone, 64, traveled day after day, year after year, looks different following the historic conflagration that raced over hillsides and down gullies, gobbling 978 structures in all. This week, the Solano County Sheriff ’s Office announced that Bone was among five fatalities caused by the LNU Lightning Complex — currently at 357,046 acres, the second largest in state history.
Now, as evacuation orders ease and residents return home to English Hills Road, they’ve found themselves looking out at the blackened land and recalling the man who used to pass by.
“If you lived out there, you probably saw him walking down English Hills Road or Gibson Canyon,” remembered Tina FloresMiller in a post on Facebook. FloresMiller said Bone had impaired vision and hearing.
Little is known of Bone, other than that he lived alone and refused help. At one lowslung brick house with a basketball hoop in the driveway, a middleaged man answered the front door. He didn’t know Bone personally, he said, but offered: “Is he older? Semiblind? I’ve seen him before, walking.”
They noticed Bone because the area lacks sidewalks — there’s just the stretch of road where he would stroll.
Bone’s death underscores the danger that the state’s disabled and elderly population face during a wildfire evacuation. The U.S. Fire Administration has shown that those with hearing loss and mobility impairments, like him, are more likely to perish in a blaze. The chances of escape and survival often come down to minutes or seconds — and the ability to recognize that evacuation is necessary.
Of the 44 people to die in the Wine Country wildfires of 2017, the average age of the victims was 73 years old. The trend repeated in Paradise, where 12 of the 85 victims were on Butte County’s InHome Supportive Services program, or IHSS, which helped aged and disabled residents live independently by sending social workers to check on them in their homes.
“By far, the saddest stories are of the lives lost,” Teresa Binion said in a Facebook post.
Bone, she said, lived in a condemned shack on property that had belonged to his family for decades. It had been redtagged by Solano County, she said in the post, and had no water, electrical or sewer service.
“I had given him rides to town a few times and enjoyed his conversation,” Binion said. “He believed he could control the weather. He told some crazy stories.”
A few neighbors said they had alerted the
“If you lived out there, you probably saw him walking down English Hills Road or Gibson Canyon.”
Neighbor Tina FloresMiller of Leon Bone
Sheriff ’s Office that Bone was mentally unwell, though The Chronicle was unable to reach the office for confirmation on Wednesday. Others expressed guilt that they hadn’t been able to help Bone when he needed it the most.
“I wish I’d known him,” said Larry Woodruff, 58, an Oakland longshoreman who lives down the road from Bone’s home. His nephew, a firefighter, had offered Bone help, he said, but Bone refused it.
“Hell, I would’ve went down and taken him breakfast every morning,” Woodruff said. “I feel like he’s a nextdoor neighbor and a brother. This changed me—I’m going to start paying attention so much more often. When you see someone who might be struggling, just taking a moment to stop and really look them in the eyes.”
A few blocks away from where Bone lived, Karen Kemp’s dream home was untouched. Her 3yearold grandson swam in the unheated hot tub. Kemp, 57, remembered Bone well. He walked “into town”—something that would have taken 15 minutes in the car and more than four hours on foot— at least once a week.
“He looked a little wild, and I couldn’t ever tell you what he said. He never wanted a ride,” she said.
In recent months, Kemp hadn’t seen Bone much. She worked from home, and her office faced English Hills Road. She paused, remembering.
“I never saw him coming back this way,” she said. “He only ever walked toward town. I never saw him come back.”