ONE MINUTE SITE TOUR

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For a brief moment in history, my little circle of friends boasted a full-fledged fleet of Ford Mustangs. And those Mustangs were all of similar appearance-- being that every single one of them was either of the 1969 or 1970 model year.

Was this a complete coincidence? No. For one thing, my best friend Steve (the de facto leader of our group) had bought a 1970 fastback Mustang some time after losing his 1971 Boss 351 in a crash.

Steve had then substantially revamped his 1970. Overall, he'd taken the route outer-looks-wise of a funny car quarter mile dragster (although his pony car remained decidedly a street car in all actual specifications). Some of his mods paralleled my own; like expanding his rear interior into what was originally part of his trunk space, and applying black shag carpeting to the result; adding a Boss 429 hood scoop and custom rear spoiler; and installing many of the same engine mods I had with Shadow.

(In memory of his previous green and black '71 Boss 351 Mustang, he'd had a similar custom paint job applied to the '70)

Then of course there was my Shadowfast himself. With his all-blacked out exterior, interior roll cage, custom front air dam and rear spoiler, and fully functional Boss 429 hood scoop and louvers. Plus all the drivetrain performance enhancers Steve's car possessed, and much, much more. Despite all his extras, Shadow was actually a quarter-ton lighter in weight than listed in his original factory specs, too. All these factors had helped cement Shadow's reputation among my friends in a long-distance race against a winged 426 Hemi Dodge Daytona.

The combination of our leader Steve's revamped '70 Mustang and my 1969 Shadowfast (which resembled a '70 with his custom front end) seemed to make 1969/1970 Mustangs get lots more popular with my pals back then. Especially among those who'd witnessed my win over the Hemi first-hand.

Since the race against the Hemi, my friends Will, Marco, and Red had all acquired and/or customized similar Mustang models of their own.

Marco, the son of a local policeman, now possessed a great-looking red 1970 Mach One, with black interior and mag wheels.

My pal Red had a white 1969 fastback with red interior. So it was basically similar to Shadowfast but for the colors, the lack of the many extras which came with the Mach One model, and the many mods I'd made to Shadow during my ownership. Heck: I'm unsure if Red even had a V-8 in his ride (it might have been a six-cylinder).

Will had obtained a plain fastback 1970 with a standard 302 engine, then added a Ford rear wing spoiler, rear window louvers, mag wheels, and a shaker hood scoop and matching hood from a junked car, which all combined to give the impression he'd taken a 1970 Boss 302 and painted it dark green.

But so far as I can recall, Steve and I were the only ones of our little gang who actually made significant performance modifications to our cars over stock.

I also must add that Marco and Red maybe never had the chance to customize their cars much. Because of the events related here.

All of us but Marco were sitting around at Steve and Will's grandmother's house in my hometown one afternoon. She lived within easy walking distance of the electrician's shop run by Steve and Will's parents. It was summer time, and a rare day where all of us were free from work and school at the same moment.

Steve's grandmother lived alone and liked us hanging around most of the time. So much so she'd often fix us astonishingly grand meals to encourage the behavior. I think for a year or so at one point Will actually lived there with her, rather than commuting the 25 mile or so route between town and his parents' trailer up in Traveler's Bend. Steve did something similar by staying at his family's electrician's shop-- or else a dilapidated but spacious auto-shop garage he rented not far from my own parents' house-- both located in town.

On this particular day we were bored, and hoping for Steve to-- as usual-- come up with some new and fresh adventure for us to pursue. But so far, there'd been zilch. So we were merely making small talk, with a TV going in the background.

Then Marco drove up outside. Marco was maybe the best comedian of our bunch, and sometimes as seemingly creative as Steve in ideas for things to do.

One difference between Steve and Marco's ideas though seemed to be that Marco's sometimes proved much more challenging and scary than Steve's. Not at first, when they just sounded of similar quality. No, it was usually not until around the middle or end of one of Marco's suggested trips, that it would dawn on us all that maybe we'd bitten off more than we could chew.

After going along with a handful of Marco's ideas over time, we eventually became much more wary of them, and never went on another jaunt so-inspired. And gradually lost touch with Marco himself too, after that.

Don't get me wrong: we practically loved the guy. He was loads of fun to be around, and most of the time supremely easy-going. But his connections with the local police had made him much more aware than the rest of us of some hard facts of life, and it could be jarring at times when he displayed that awareness in unexpectedly harsh jokes or anecdotes.

In some ways Marco may have been more mature than the rest of us. But at the same time he could often seem like a five year old in his playfulness and expectations of others. Marco was sort of a paradox, I suppose. He was also the biggest of us, at something over six feet tall, and maybe 225 pounds or more.

This noteworthy day at Steve and Will's grandmother's was still within the first half or maybe middle of our time with Marco. We hadn't yet begun consciously avoiding his suggestions out of a well-founded fear for our lives.

So we welcomed the sound and sight of Marco pulling up outside.

But we were surprised when Marco ran up to the door and burst in, all out of breath and with a deadly serious look about him.

"Boys, I need your help!" Marco exclaimed immediately after sliding open the glass door and stepping into the room.

"What's up Marco?" Steve asked.

"It's my granny and some other old folks up in Del Gata. They're trapped by the fire, and there's no one to get them out."

We were already generally aware that there was a forest fire raging somewhere up Del Gata way. But forest fires were common around my hometown in the warmer parts of the year. And none of us had ever personally had a close call with one-- yet. Our own most common experience with them so far had been sometimes encountering a pall of smoke stretching for miles up the interstate between our town and Asheville North Carolina-- as that stretch of road ran through Traveler's Bend-- and Del Gata sat just on the other side of a mountain or two from there. Most all our fires occurred in Del Gata, Traveler's Bend, or the mountains further east-- through which I-40 east ran, all the way to Asheville.

In the worst moments the fires would actually burn right up to the edge of the interstate itself.

"No police or firemen?" Steve asked.

"No. Besides the fire in Del Gata, some bastard set one on purpose at Scott's mountain. So there's now fires both east and west of town.

"That'd be bad even if the local offices were fully manned. But a lot of the regular firemen are out sick right now, and practically half the police force is tied up in Nashville, with the Calhoun case," Marco informed us.

The Calhoun case was just the latest scandal to hit our local authorities. The government corruption in our little wild but impoverished east Tennessee county never seemed to end.

And just in case you're wondering, my home county is and always has been overwhelmingly Republican, voter-wise. No matter what the crooks we voted in did in office, we seemed to just vote for more of the same, come the next election.

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that!" Steve exclaimed.

"I hadn't heard about the Scott's Mountain fire, too," I added. Then Marco continued with his synopsis of the situation.

"Yeah. It's a real mess. There are some temporary folks filling in for the missing police and firemen, but they don't know what they're doing, for the most part.

"The evacuations from Del Gata and Scott's Mountain are both screwed up bad. The fill-in men don't know how to handle the traffic-- or anything else.

"Plus, both fires are out of control. So help's having to be called in from other counties.

"I'm afraid my granny and her neighbors are going to burn alive if we can't get them out," Marco finished.

"I thought your granny's neighbor Tom had a car they used for church and stuff," Steve stated (it was a small town, so lots of us tended to know more about one another's families and circumstances than a big city inhabitant might expect).

"He does. They packed into it and tried to get out but were blocked by the fire and fallen trees. So they had to turn back. But the fire's all around them now. Please guys! I need you to help me go get them! My car won't hold them all!" Marco pleaded.

Steve then immediately stood up, smiling: for here a new adventure had simply fallen into our laps. And we might even do some good along the way, too (our escapades were typically more about fun and excitement than actual rescues). "Sure man. We'll come! Won't we, boys?" Steve asked. Already knowing the answer.

I stood up too. "Sure!" Will and Red stood up at nearly the same instant I did, voicing "Hell yeah!" and "Let's go get'em!" And the mission to save Marco's granny was on.

Part of the reason Marco needed us all was he wasn't sure how many people we'd have to haul back. His granny and her elderly neighbors had all squeezed into the one house among the bunch which enjoyed the biggest buffer all around it from the approaching fires.

So we each took our own car.

All of us had CB radios (it'd been a popular device for a while by then-- especially among local outlaws). So we had decent two-way communications.

But that was pretty much the extent of our preparation. Marco was certain we didn't have time to tarry in town trying to gather up special equipment or get more spacious vehicles. Plus, we had no training at fighting fires. And no experience rescuing people from fires. Heck: we probably barely knew a handful of decent first aid techniques between us!

But Steve and I at least were budding survivalist experts, due to our previous altercations. We'd so far though managed to largely get by on pure improvisation and luck. And so were somewhat more confident than we should have been.

If all the other guys were like me, they probably expected we could just race up there, stuff the folks in our cars, and race back out again. And viola: instant heroes!

Plus, we'd have a new adventure to add to our memories-- and brag about to others.

We were woefully young and naïve. And had completely forgotten what Marco had said about the road being blocked.

Marco led the way.

We first saw the smoke maybe ten miles before reaching the turn off I personally considered to be the gateway to Del Gata, on the old Asheville highway.

Long before we reached the turn, the air stank of smoke, and there was a visible haze in the air, in broad daylight.

We'd passed remarkably few cars exiting the area, on our way there. Apparently because everyone who could evacuate already had. At least that was my impression at the time.

It sure wasn't pleasant being downwind of the fires, breathing-wise. Being inside our cars only helped for a little while, as the smoke soon seeped inside too, no matter how tightly closed up our windows or vents were. But we didn't start having significant trouble breathing until later.

At first the smoky haze was uneven as we drove in. In some places it was so thick we had to slow down due to diminished visibility. But in others things were still crystal clear-- though the stink was omnipresent.

I was surprised when we all rounded a curve to suddenly encounter an awful mess of vehicles hopelessly blocking any further progress on our part.

The central cork appeared to be a couple of local constables trying to enforce a road block.

My own general impression-- at least back then-- was that the constables of my own county were primarily older guys allowed for inexplicable reasons to have blue lights on their cars and harass people arbitrarily, so long as they didn't actually arrest or shoot anyone very often.

In other words, fake cops. Or maybe semi-cops. I'd had a smattering of personal experiences with such men which ran the gamut from Barney Fife-type jokes to menacing, pistol-packing, grown-up high school bullies. One way to distinguish them from 100% cops was sometimes the model of car they were driving. Which-- although sporting police style blue lights-- might otherwise seem glaringly unpolice-like in nature. Like a '57 Chevy, for instance.

Of course, in crises like this one, I guess even the semi-cops might be called upon to pitch in. But they could always simply decide to take action on their own, too. They basically seemed to be guys who'd been given a permit to be vigilantes-- again, so long as they didn't arrest or shoot an excessive number of citizens (I don't know what the precise limit was in my county, but it seemed to be under a half-dozen).

Boy, did the constables ever have a lot of angry drivers stewing at an intersection that day!

Marco at first exited his car and tried to get us a pass through the road block via persuasive means.

Marco was pretty good at talking his way past obstacles. He amazed me once by proving that everything in any high-priced store he took me to was negotiable, price-wise.

But in this instance there were too many straws on the camel's back already: tons of other folks trying the same thing on the constables. Plus, the fact it was constables instead of real officers was a problem, too.

So Marco struck out there. But he knew of another, more obscure way to our destination. A way unlikely to be blocked in the same fashion. And so we took it.

Marco then led us on a long, winding alternative road deep into Del Gata. The density of residences alongside the road had been highest near where we'd bypassed the road block. Now, as we drove ever nearer the inferno, houses became fewer and farther between-- except for small clusters here and there like Marco's granny lived in.

You might call those clusters 'hillbilly subdivisions', as they were often close-knit micro-communities, heavily populated with friends and family, tightly bunched together for all manner of practical reasons out here. For instance, in bad winters it might be impossible to reach town for supplies, for days on end. But if your sister or cousin or grown up child lived only a house or two away, you could borrow some groceries from them until the roads cleared.

The spotty nature of the smoke eventually diminished, so that it was all smoke, all the time. With visibility down to maybe a hundred yards on average.

We also began seeing the actual fire in the distance, here and there. Sometimes the wind would blow open a window in the hundred yard visibility, and we'd see a burning hill over to one side. Or at least some of its glow.

It was still daylight, but all the smoke made for an overcast sky, and an unusual twilight look to things at ground level.

Marco's granny turned out to live considerably deeper in Del Gata than I personally had expected at trip's start. Especially when the road block detour was factored in as well. Upon realizing this, I immediately wondered if we all of us would have enough gas to get back out again. For we hadn't taken the precaution of fueling up before heading out. Yikes!

Then I recalled that so long as one of us had plenty, we could share, if necessary.

Eventually we reached a short wooden bridge crossing a grown up, dry natural channel or ditch of some sort.

Yes: a wooden bridge. Maybe soon to be afire itself. Yikes!

I hoped we'd be back across it before that. As I supposed the others did too.

Not long after crossing the bridge, our eyes began burning from the smoke, and breathing began to get uncomfortable, as we were increasingly encountering flames nearer and nearer the road, which was basically lined with forest on both sides, this far in.

Thankfully, this section boasted a wider-than-usual buffer zone between road and trees, on both sides. That meant when a tree fell, it usually wouldn't block the way entirely. And we were seeing more and more fallen and burning trees as we proceeded.

But our luck couldn't last. We finally reached the spot where Marco's granny's bunch had likely been forced to turn back before.

It was a place where the wide buffer zone didn't exist, and so quite a few burning tree trunks now blocked the way.

There was no way to go around the obstruction with a street car. Not without a bull-dozer to lead the way.

We all disembarked to better examine things and discuss the situation. And boy, if we'd thought it was hot inside our cars, we discovered it was even hotter outside! Wow! We had to try keeping a car between us and the nearest fires to shield us from the radiant heat-- for it felt like you could get a sunburn from it!

One option was to try using Shadow's come-along and/or one of the cars to pull the trunks out of the way. But that looked awfully iffy, for lots of reasons.

For one thing, we couldn't get near enough to attach the steel cable and hook-- it was simply too hot. For another, there was more than one burning trunk in the way. And beyond all that, the relatively narrow road and buffer zone-- even if we moved all our cars back some-- still didn't offer the type of maneuvering room (in the proper direction) that we'd need to pull the trunks out with a car.

But as bad as it was in our present location, we knew it had to be worse for the old folks. Heck: they might be burning alive even as we deliberated!

But for all our previous experience and success at improvisation, Steve and I were coming up dry with any ideas to fast fix our dilemma.

Then Red spoke up. "I can do it."

"What do you mean?" Marco asked.

"I can use my car to just push the goddamned things out of the way."

"But you'll catch on fire! And maybe get trapped!" Steve warned him. "And we don't have the equipment here to rescue you, if you do."

"I won't get trapped. If I have to, I'll kick out my back window and jump out," Red told us.

He was speaking of the huge rear windows which graced 1969 and 1970 Ford Mustangs. Red was correct: those could indeed provide a decent escape hatch for a situation like this. After the glass was breached, four adults at a time could practically jump out all together!

"But what about your car, man?" Will asked.

"I was figuring on painting it anyway," Red wise-cracked.

We didn't really have much choice here. We decided to let Red try it.

For most ramming and pushing jobs using a 1969 or 1970 Mustang, I would personally have recommended using the rear end as the spearhead, rather than the front end. For the tail was much tougher.

But the tail also held the fuel tank. So I couldn't advise Red to push around fiery debris with his gas tank. But I sure didn't look forward to Red's realization of how damaged his front end would be after this.

Red first tried some gentle nudges with the car, but it didn't work. Plus, it was simply too hot to stay up against the burning trunks for long. So Red got more aggressive.

Apparently abandoning his initial hopes of limiting the damage done to his car, Red began giving it more gas.

The paint on his front end had already been scorched and singed, and his grille busted (and/or maybe melted). Now we watched his hood and fenders buckling under the load of the burning timbers.

Red's Mustang's wheels spun some, then caught traction, then broke loose to spin again, as Red searched for the optimum fuel feed and angle of attack to keep the flaming wood on the move.

Then it appeared Red got tired of pussy-footing around, and just floored it(!)

We were all taken aback by Red's sudden display of ferocity and determination in pushing the blazing tree trunks out of the way. He kept pushing and pushing until the road was clear, and his car itself on fire.

Even Red's own clothing caught fire before he bailed out of his now entangled car, and ran for his life. He ended up being able to use his passenger side door, rather than the rear window.

Red's car seemed to continue on without him(!)

I grabbed my console's mini-fire extinguisher from Shadow, and ran to meet Red, helping to put him out before he got too badly burned. But that pretty much used up my extinguisher (the minis don't hold much).

We really weren't too savvy on putting out someone on fire back then. Basically all we knew to do was use an extinguisher, or douse them with water, if available.

Maybe one of us might have been aware of snuffing out a fire with a blanket (but I doubt it).

Today, one expert recommendation is to lay down and roll, to put yourself out.

Red's car somehow kept going, even without him onboard. Continuing to push the multiple flaming tree trunks before it into the towering wall of flame beyond, to effectively create a fiery barrier, which looked like it might reduce the chance of any other falling trees blocking the way if they fell-- and thereby help keep this bottleneck open for our return journey. For other falling trees on that side would simply get caught by Red's packed pile. Some smaller flaming debris might still get past to fall into the road-- but not anything a street car couldn't get past or over.

Finally, Red's car succumbed to the flames, and the engine quit. It didn't explode though. There were some loud pops and cracks and small, startling bangs, but no explosion while we were on the scene.

"Wow, man! That was great! Sorry about your car though--" Marco was saying to Red.

"It weren't just me! My gas pedal got stuck or something, and the car just wouldn't quit!" Red told us with wide eyes. Like he'd just witnessed some spooky behavior on the part of his car.

For a moment we all gazed in silence at Red's white Mustang now afire, with the whole woods beyond it ablaze.

But we only stood there the moment: for time was short and the crackling heat near unbearable. We returned to the surviving cars and headed deeper into the inferno.

Upon our arrival at Marco's granny's refuge, I saw a sight I'll never forget.

Before the fire, there had apparently been maybe a half dozen homes situated upon a gently sloping hillside there. A cleared hillside, with steeper, still forested hills surrounding it.

Now, most all the homes were either on fire, or already pretty much consumed. And the surrounding hills were afire as well. We headed for what I think was the only house still intact.

The outer surfaces of the last surviving house were either smoking or giving off steam from the extreme heat. The roof was heavily coated in glowing embers. I wondered if it was about to spontaneously combust on the spot.

Here the sound of the forest fire all around was officially a roar, with a sort of faint hissing or whistling sound detectable at times in the background. The hissing/whistling was from the water inside the trees being forced out by the extreme heat.

But not all the water exited in that gradual fashion. Some did so explosively. So on occasion you'd hear the frighteningly loud bang of a thick tree suddenly bursting wide open, or splitting vertically, due to its trapped internal moisture turning it into a steam-powered bomb amid the heat.

In some ways that was the scariest point of the whole trip.

The folks inside were apparently watching for someone to arrive, and immediately emerged wrapped in wet towels and various other things, to meet us.

I was shocked to see the elderly folks either carrying small children, or leading them by the hand alongside them.

And there were quite a few people there. Lots more than I'd expected.

It was a damn good thing we'd brought all our cars!

When the old folks saw how ill-prepared and suffering from smoke we were, a couple hurriedly returned to the house to bring out more soaking wet towels and other aids.

The wet towels helped a lot! Especially since there seemed little breathable air in the vicinity. I guess we experienced something like someone climbing Mount Everest there; for the breathable air was just so thin. People were gasping for breath. The hot air seemed to shrivel up your innards as you inhaled it, too.

We hastily packed everyone into our cars as best we could, and sought to make our escape.

By this point things were getting downright intense.

The wet towels were definitely a good thing while they lasted-- but they dried out amazingly fast. Our voices got hoarse, our eyes burned. And having our cars packed with people only made it even hotter inside the vehicles.

You also had to avoid touching the outside metal skins of our cars themselves: for in certain spots they were hot enough to burn you.

Shadow himself had turned into a veritable oven, his flat black paint absorbing the radiant heat from all around. I was forced to keep my windows down to let more air into the car, although that increased the radiant heat exposure of me and everyone else in the front seats. I'm sure everyone in Shadow was sweating much more profusely than those in any of the other vehicles.

Our car engines themselves were starting to overheat and miss and cut out, too. Their cooling systems weren't designed to handle an environment like this. Plus, I wondered if the air itself was starting to run out of sufficient oxygen to combust inside the engines. Yikes!

And if the engines couldn't breathe, how much longer could we? Holy smokes!

Moments like this were what would eventually convince us to avoid exploits suggested by Marco. For although it was sure tough to outdo Steve in terms of ideas leading to hair-raising adventures, Marco proved again and again that he was the man for the job! Ha, ha.

We got back to where Red's car had cleared the path. You could still tell from the shell it'd originally been a 1969 Mustang-- but that was about it.

I wordlessly gave Red's dead Mustang a little military-style salute as we passed it.

It seemed like the worst was over, once we got past Red's defunct Mustang. But there was still one challenge left to go.

When we reached the location of the little wooden bridge, it was no longer passable. Instead, it was afire, and already far enough along that it seemed clear no car would make it across.

Holy crap!

By now all our towels were bone dry, and not nearly as helpful in filtering the stifling, stinging, choking smoke as before.

All of us-- but especially the old folks and the children-- were coughing badly. Sometimes sounding like blood and bits of lung tissue could soon emerge. And it was a horrible, dry cough. Agh! It hurts my throat even now to think about it!

Yeah, sure, I'd had a canteen of drinkable water in Shadow at trip's start; because I'd made one a part of my regular onboard supplies (we went camping and hiking a lot; plus it could be handy at drive-in theaters, and in just about any lengthy drive). But that was so little spread among so many, I might as well not have had any at all. We ended up letting the smallest kids and one especially hurting old man use it all.

We couldn't last much longer out here. Despite the fact the fires immediately around us were now dying down, having exhausted most of their fuel. For the smoke itself was killing us. And killing our cars, too. We were having to constantly rev them to keep them running at slow speeds. And so wasting precious gas at the same time.

I could see tomorrow's headlines then: stupid high school kids suffocate themselves and a bunch of old folks and children for no good reason. News at eleven.

The dry, scorched, brush-filled channel beneath the bridge was no huge obstacle: under more favorable circumstances every one of our cars could probably have simply jumped the gap, via velocities of only 50 mph or more. Heck: I knew for a fact Steve and I had jumped far larger distances in the past! But we did not have those conditions here.

No, you needed to have at least a slight ramp or favorable incline at the beginning of such a jump, to prevent your engine-heavy front end from immediately acting like the foot of a pole-vaulter's stick, and jamming into the far wall of the ditch itself.

We had no such ramp here, and far too little time to build one.

But even with a magically appearing instant ramp, we'd still have been out of luck. For this end of the bridge crossing was located just past a tight, low speed curve in the paved highway. Making it likely impossible any of our cars but just possibly Steve's or mine would have possessed sufficient acceleration power in the short straight available to safely make it across the gap-- even with the help of a ramp.

And that would have been where our cars were empty of all possible extra weight, such as passengers and trunk junk.

There was another way to get across such spaces: bouncing, as opposed to a direct jump. But I'm talking a really violent bounce here, that's only available as a consequence of a prior fast jump. Something only Shadowfast of all the Mustangs there was likely capable of handling (due to the structural reinforcement of his internal roll cage, his lighter weight, and his stiffer suspension). But that option too wasn't available to us here: no bounce-enabling jump could be made with the type of roadway at hand.

And beyond all that was the mess of the still burning bridge itself. For its solid remnants still posed a significant obstacle to any vehicle attempting to jump the ditch at the same place.

The bridge may have been ruined so far as supporting a conventional vehicle crossing was concerned-- but what was left of it could still help block anything jumping its span. For if one of its several remaining vertical members snagged a car's undercarriage during the jump, the car could easily fall short in the attempt, maybe crashing through the fiery bridge itself to end up in the dry channel below.

Luckily, the old folks and children could make it across by climbing down, wading through the blackened and denuded bush branches, and back up the other side, a little ways off from the bridge's location. And then maybe even walk the necessary miles to safety, from there. At least if they could breathe. Problem was, we couldn't. Many of us were dry wheezing now, in-between coughing fits. And we were losing the capacity for coherent speech, with our voices cracking up on us, and even going mute unexpectedly.

It was all we could do merely to swallow at times. We were even beginning to have problems with our vision, too. Having to blink or squint so much, it actually interfered with seeing what we were doing. And our eyes were feeling dried out: we could feel our eyelids scraping up and down our eyeballs as they opened and closed. It felt like we had grit in our eyes we couldn't remove. And that was a completely separate sensation from the general burning we felt in our eyes and sinuses overall from the smoke.

It was awful!

We didn't have the time or capacity to walk back to civilization. Or even try putting together some sort of plan. Something had to be done, and done right then!

Just as he'd led the way in, Marco had been leading the way out.

Now we all saw Marco exiting his car, and helping everyone else out of it too. We didn't know what he was doing-- but guessed he'd decided we'd all have to walk out.

But that wasn't it.

Marco came and informed Steve, me, Red, and Will that he was aware of the same breathing concerns as the rest of us, and that we didn't have time to waste. So we needed to divide up his own group of passengers amongst our cars.

We still didn't have any inkling what he was up to, until he explained it.

Marco gave us a grim smile, and told us he was going to build us a bridge. Then he strode back to his car-- which was the nearest to the gap.

Marco stood for a moment beside his beautiful red and black 1970 Mustang Mach One, its driver's side door open. He patted its roof, said something (we couldn't hear what), then climbed in.

He next drove it a little to one side of the burning bridge, and off the road. And then-- without hesitation-- into the shallow gulf once spanned by the bridge.

And damn if it didn't look possible we might cross it now!

Marco had filled the gap with his car! It actually looked like we might be able to drive over it!

Marco clambered out of his car, which was now jammed pretty closely into the narrow confines of the ditch, spanning much of the distance required for us to get across.

But still it would be no cakewalk. For Marco's roof would surely cave in with a crossing. Plus, it'd be easy for us to slide off one side or the other, or maybe even get stuck. And the transitions between Marco's car and the near and far edges of the ditch weren't ideal for street vehicles, either.

Poor Will was the first in line to try a crossing. Which turned out to be a good thing. For the Mustangs Steve and I were driving were the only two of the bunch with custom rear interiors which significantly boosted our passenger capacity. Compared to the other Mustangs of our convoy, we were like station wagons inside.

Due to the dangers of the crossing, we had all Will's passengers exit his car before the attempt.

By that point, we were a coughing, hacking-- and fast dying-- group. Even the young men among us were beginning to realize that soon we'd all begin just collapsing in heaps, for lack of breathable air.

It hurt to breathe or talk or swallow. Or even see. But at least the skin scorching radiant heat from before had lessened.

Poor Will tried to exercise what caution he could. But it may well have been impossible for anyone to have made that first crossing without mishap.

For it turned out we really needed two cars for a bridge.

Despite his best efforts, Will's car began sliding off to the right side of Marco's roof, even as it crushed Marco's top down closer to the rest of the car body.

Will's Mustang then slowly flipped over to land rocking back and forth beside Marco's in the channel-- only upside down. Yikes!

The two cars ended up being separated by only a foot or so between them in the ditch.

Will wasn't hurt, and managed to get out O.K.

I just shook my head at the debacle. Not realizing right then that we'd really needed Will's flip to happen.

It was my turn next. So all my passengers exited Shadow. I was about to do the wrong thing, by trying to drive just over Marco's car, like Will had done. If I had, I might well have slid too and gotten my wheels stuck in-between the two vehicles, and blocked the way for Steve. But Steve ran up to my driver's side window before my attempt, and croaked at me the necessity to use both cars as a bridge.

I was uncertain as to the utility of his advice at that moment. Plus, figured Shadow's wider tires and tighter suspension might give me an advantage Will hadn't possessed in his attempt.

But I also knew Steve was a natural talent at driving. Besides being exceptionally smart in other ways too. So at the last minute I decided to take his advice, and use both cars for the crossing. Despite the obvious problem of Will's upturned wheels being in the way.

I was very afraid of getting stuck. Memories of what I'd done wrong in crossing high water once came to mind. That time, I'd tried taking it slow, and only gotten stalled out for my trouble.

Plus, getting stuck here would be especially bad, as it would block our last remaining car from getting through, to save everybody. Even if that meant our whole gang but Steve would have to ride out clinging to the car's exterior, so the old folks and kids could ride inside.

Sure, we had my come-along and tow ropes to possibly pull Shadow back out of the way if stuck-- but we didn't have the time. We were surely going to asphyxiate out here, if we were stuck for much longer.

And Marco and Will's cars weren't the only possible sticking points: the transitions between them and the opposite banks were possible problems too.

So I added my own hunch to Steve's for my crossing: momentum. I'd try crossing in a hurry, using both cars under me, in the hope that speed would overcome any sticky trap conditions.

And if worst came to worst, and I didn't make it across, maybe my speed would at least propel me into the ditch too-- leaving the way still open behind me.

Yeah, I knew I might pay a price in extra damage to Shadow, no matter what happened. But keeping the way clear for Steve's car to get across was vital.

So I hit the crossing considerably faster than Marco or Will had. Maybe around 40 mph. Hoping that sufficient forward momentum would overcome the various hazards. Or at least get me out of Steve's way, for one final attempt on his part.

I tried to make my right side tires roll directly over Will's nearest upside-down wheels, as his wheels presented some formidable obstacles all their own in this situation.

As Will's front wheels weren't exactly pointing straight, that added to the tricky nature of the process.

I tried also to steer the path so that if I fell off Will's wheels, I'd fall towards the inside of his car frame, rather than towards the vehicle's outer edge-- for if I fell to the outside, I could then fall still farther, into the gap between Marco's and Will's cars (and get badly stuck).

The actual passage took only seconds. But I experienced so much bobbing and weaving and frantic steering tweaks during that instant, that it seemed to last much longer. The leaf springs of Will's rear axle and the coil springs of his front wheels almost did me in, due to them causing Will's wheels to respond to my weight in unexpected ways. Let me put this way: with Will's car upside down like this, when I ran over his wheels, it was suddenly like all my own spring hardware was doubled or tripled in functionality. I bounced lots more than I expected! Especially at my relatively high speed in the stunt!

But all the extra bounciness only happened on my passenger side: my driver's side acted normally (or at least as I'd expect for using a crushed car top and hood for a roadway).

Though I'm sure my heart skipped a few beats there, the crazy scheme actually worked! I did tear off one side of my air dam exiting the far side of the ditch. And Steve would tear off his front spoiler upon exiting, as well (Steve's front spoiler would get ripped off several different times over months to come, until he finally got tired of reinstalling it, and just went without).

Everybody there applauded and yelled happily at my successful crossing. Or at least choked and gagged as loudly as they could, in an appreciative manner.

Me, I was just relieved that I'd made it at all. And sure didn't envy Steve his imminent attempt!

Steve actually had a scarier job than me running that particular gauntlet. For in keeping with his Mustang's funny car dragster theme, Steve had very narrow mag wheels and tires on the front. Like maybe seven inches wide or something. I'm not kidding! So he faced a much tougher job of hitting Will's tires and staying on them, than I did. Plus, it would have been easier for his skinny front tires to get stuck somewhere in Marco's ruined roof and hood too-- or Will's exposed undercarriage-- than mine.

It particularly worried me that Steve hadn't had much time to get accustomed to driving with those tiny front wheels yet. That his inexperience with them might worsen his chances of getting across.

But Steve was an amazingly talented driver. With fast reflexes too (better than mine). Damn it if he didn't make the crossing look easy! Ha, ha!

I was able to use some spare onboard wire to tie up my damaged air dam on one side in just a minute or so after my own passage. Basically while people were reloading into Shadow for the trip out.

We helped get all our evacuees across the ditch on foot, then packed them like sardines in the two remaining Mustangs, and resumed our escape from the awful suffocating environment of the bridge.

Thankfully not a single one of us had to ride on the outside of the cars. But it was enough of a squeeze inside that some might have preferred the exterior.

Things proceeded much less eventfully after that. Except for the moment we reached sweet, cool, breathable air again.

Normal summertime air felt like a welcome blast from an air conditioner, after spending time in the furnace.

Then we reached a closed gas station with soft drink vending machines. That almost brought us all to hysterics, we were so thirsty.

It turned out that all of us together only had enough change for three cans. At least after the machine ate the rest (note that in those days virtually zero vending machines accepted paper money). But that was enough to enable many of us to regain the capacity to swallow again.

(We considered tearing the machine asunder for more-- but decided we'd get satisfaction somewhat quicker by simply getting closer to town. If the machine had only given us two drinks rather than three though, that might have spelled its doom!)

There was some argument over where to drop everyone off. But we finally decided it best and most practical to take everyone to the hospital, and let them contact family or friends to pick them up, after being checked over by doctors and nurses. Marco elected to stay there too, with his granny, and to make sure all the rest of the folks got taken care of as well.

My remaining friends and I were all utterly and thoroughly exhausted by the ordeal. We returned to Steve and Will's grandmother's house in the surviving two cars, drained her refrigerator of every liquid it contained (especially her delightful sweet tea), rounded up something to apply to Red's minor burns, and collapsed in the same room from which we'd launched the harrowing ordeal hours before. Just passed out, sitting or laying on various couches and easy chairs.

We did have to give Steve and Will's grandmother a brief synopsis of what we'd been up to-- to explain our blackened and sun-burned appearance, plus the way our voices cracked from dehydration. But thankfully she let us off the hook for more, right then and there.

I think she fixed us a meal-- but we all passed out before it was ready, and she simply put it away in the refrigerator and let us sleep.

We slept until the next morning like that: sprawled across her couch and chairs in her TV room. Steve and Will's grandmother had called our families soon after we fell asleep to let them know where we were. She also never said a word to us about how grimy and smelly we were that night, all spread out on her previously nice and tidy furniture. Not when we first sat down that evening, or the next day after we arose.

Under any other circumstances, she would have run us out of the house for such a transgression, I think. And reminded us of our error repeatedly for weeks to come. For she normally kept her house neat as a pin.

Though the hospital found treatment for smoke inhalation problems necessary for some of our charges, for the most part everyone came through unscathed from the event. Health-wise, anyway. Though me and my buddies did suffer something like sunburns in the days to follow, on certain parts of our bodies (especially faces and hands). And Red of course had gotten a little worse burned while moving the trunks (but apparently nothing requiring professional attention). And there were the small scattered contact burns from merely touching hot spots on our cars at the wrong time.

So far as I know, Marco's Mustang got junked out after providing its services to us as a bridge.

Will's Mustang was the shocker. For when Will managed to get a tow truck to retrieve it later, it came out looking barely the worse for wear from the episode, amazingly enough.

Somehow, when it'd rolled over, it'd landed on ground perfectly shaped to help it support Steve and I driving over it while upside down, so that minimal damage was done to the roof. Seriously! And then when rolled back over by the tow truck, and pulled out of the ditch, it hadn't accumulated much more damage. And Will's car did not possess a roll cage like Shadow! Plus was full factory weight, too!

Talk about amazing luck...!

But even better perhaps, as the fires were already pretty much done and over with at the time we were forced to leave them behind, neither Will or Marco's cars got any more singed than Steve's and mine!

Of course, that was far more comfort to Will than to Marco.

But Marco had been glad to trade his Mustang for his granny. Not to mention all the other old folks, and their grand kids.

And let's not forget Red. Red also didn't get to drive his Mustang again. But without his sacrifice, there would have had to have been a lot of graves dug, a few days later.

Five Mustangs went in. Three came out (including Will's amazing belated salvage job).

Red was as poor as me. So I knew the loss of his car would hurt. I wondered if he'd ever be able to replace it. Turned out he couldn't. Red never did own another Mustang during the time we hung out together.

Neither did Marco.

Marco would end up working as a fireman himself for a while, some years down the road. At least as long as he was up to the grueling task of saving people and their homes on a moment's notice; plus accepting the fact that sometimes-- no matter what he did-- such rescue attempts would fail.

By the dawn of the 21st century, 1969 and 1970 Mustangs would be some of the rarest automobiles to be found on US highways. Despite being two of the most popular car models ever made, and selling like hot cakes when new.

One of the reasons they're so rare today, may be stuff like you see here.

The next time you hear the phrase "wild horses couldn't drag me...", think about it for a minute.

That phrase only exists because wild horses are such a force to be reckoned with.

Especially wild Mustangs. With equally wild drivers!

Shadowfast

My friend Will's dark green customized Mustang had this appearance.

My friend Marco's Mach 1 looked much like this.

This pic closely resembles what I remember my friend Red's Mustang looking like.

A burning hillside.