HOLDING DOWN THE FORT
The Fort Mcmurray wildfire might have been the worst natural disaster in Canadian history. More than 2,000 men and women risked their lives to fight it. These are some of their stories
ON SUNDAY, MAY 1, 2016 a few dozen staff of the Wood Buffalo government — the municipality overseeing Fort Mcmurray and surrounding towns — descended into the belly of Firehall No. 5, a three-year-old building that had never had its emergency operations centre activated before. This was to be their war room, a windowless box covered wall-to-wall with whiteboards and maps, without a view of the terror that was growing outside. Parched summer weather and high winds had created the perfect feeding ground for the rapacious wildfire that was already too close for comfort. By Tuesday afternoon, just after it looked like those ominous black plumes had retreated, the winds shifted and the fire jumped the Athabasca River, breaching city limits.
Within 20 minutes, evacuation orders for Wood Buffalo’s 88,000 residents went from voluntary to mandatory. It was the biggest escape this country’s ever known. But not for the people in the war room, or for the few hundred firefighters and RCMP, or the private contractors aiding them. They all stayed behind to battle what fire chief Darby Allen started calling “The Beast.”
All told, the Beast swallowed 2,400 structures and nearly obliterated three city neighbourhoods and the hamlet of Saprae Creek. It took over 60 days to contain (thanks to 2,197 firefighters from across the country and as far away as South Africa) but not before charring an area the size of Rome. Once the smoke cleared, fully 20 per cent of “Fort Mac,” the engine of the nation’s energy sector, was ash. It halted oil sands production, briefly wreaking havoc on the economy, and, at $3.58 billion, will require the biggest insurance payout in Canadian history.
So much about the Beast boggles the mind, but nothing is more incredible than the fact that nobody died. Thanks to the heroes who stayed behind, no one was even injured in the wildfire. These members of the “100 Hours Club,” as they’ve become known, are a mix of first responders and those who worked tirelessly to save the city, all while the Beast lurched ever closer. “How we saved 80 per cent of the property while no one was hurt is a miracle,” admits Allen, 59, a soft-spoken Englishman who directed the war room for 14 straight days. He moved to Fort Mac seven years ago. Like tens of thousands of others, he was lured to that northern land of opportunity, with that tainted reputation, known equally for oil money and the drugs it can buy when there’s nothing much else to do. “Fort Mcmurray has never had a great name,” Allen says, “but now people will see it’s a great town with a big heart.”