The Southland Firestorms: The Battle Goes On : Residents Find Ashes, Miracles

From gleaming ranch houses with golf-green lawns to the ashes of a family farm, residents of western Topanga Canyon and Calabasas returned to miracles and misfortune Wednesday as they left their evacuees’ exiles for the places they called home.

Many passed a harrowing night at motels or Red Cross shelters--separated from family, cut off by phones and fearing the worst--only to find their property virtually untouched. Others took their evacuation in stride but returned to the reality of their old lives gone.

Everything had charred on Marianne and Joe Luskin’s six-acre ranch on Stunt Road except their house--its wooden eaves were smoking but the rest was intact. The couple, both of whom work for the Los Angeles Unified School District, believe they were saved by the foresight of clearing away brush.

“The sprinkler, good gardening and God--that’s what saved us,” marveled Marianne Luskin as she surveyed her home.

For the Eleassari family, nothing but nostalgia remained of the 2 1/2-acre Kowalke Family Sprouts farm they bought in Topanga after moving from Israel six years ago.

“We lost our houses and our business, but we still have hope--and a mortgage,” Nurit Eleassari said dryly. “We used to think of this as part of paradise.”

While luck-vs.-preparation were the themes of the day, roller-coaster emotions had ruled the night as evacuees huddled in blankets, watched TV and traded fears and guilt about leaving homes behind.

About 35 people took refuge at a Red Cross shelter at Calabasas High School and two at Agoura High School. Countless others spent Tuesday night with friends or at area motels.

They were among an estimated 2,000 residents evacuated from the fire site. Many of those who returned home did so without official sanction. Topanga resident Dennis King was physically carted away from his trailers by sheriff’s deputies as flames crept up the dirt road to the property where he has lived 20 years.

“Topanga is my home,” the bearded 50-year-old said later. “There’s a pond on the property, and I figured if the fire got real bad I could jump in there and breathe through a wet blanket.”

King hiked back later to find his 8-by-30-foot trailers still standing off Old Topanga Canyon Road, a swath of burned ground around them.

Officials said they fear for the safety of residents who go into burned areas, and cautioned them to wait until the chance of rekindling passes.

“You don’t want somebody getting trapped in there,” county Fire Inspector Robert Lockett said Wednesday afternoon.

But that was unacceptable to people who had spent a long night with the unknown. At the Calabasas High School gym, fire victims drifted in and out, giving brief versions of their experiences before hurrying off.

Carolee Hurst, 38, was still dabbing her eyes an hour after her panicked arrival with 4-year-old son James. Gerry Hurst, her husband, had refused to evacuate with them, despite the wall of flames descending on their home.

She couldn’t reach him. “I’m not attached to the house, it’s my husband!” she said, anxiously twirling beads around her neck.

Later, Hurst chewed over her decision to leave, seeking reassurance from strangers.

“I just don’t think it’s worth taking the risk, I just don’t think it’s worth it,” Hurst said to Susan Byrne, a horse owner who had brought her animals to the high school to keep them safe from the fire. Shortly after dawn, Hurst finally got through to her husband and learned that he had slept soundly through the night.

Though Monika and Bob Chappell spent the night together at the Warner Center Hilton with their 3-year-old daughter, Nikki, they slept little after a frenzied afternoon of grabbing their two Dalmatians and a few belongings, getting stuck in a traffic jam and nearly running over frightened horses on the loose.

As Chappell and his wife, who is nine months pregnant, worried about their Calabasas home and the safety of her brother, who had hiked in to protect it, their daughter, Nikki, blithely danced around their hotel room in her pajamas--pointing to the TV and saying, “It’s fire bubbles. It’s hot.”

The following morning, it took two tries to get through to their gated neighborhood on Dry Canyon Cold Creek Road, but they found Monika’s brother safe and their house spared.

At Calabasas High, dedicated mountain dwellers began to weigh the relative safety of the city.

“I’m really starting to consider that concrete jungle out there,” murmured one visitor, a woman who was trying to save her horses, as she paused in front of the TV.

Hurst nodded. “Yeah, that’s really looking pretty good right now.”