One of the worst fears of solo radio reporters in the field is recording interviews and sounds for a story only to come back to the studio to discover that sound was not recorded. I'll spare you details about why and how this can happen (operator error to equipment failure). But this past week as some people lost their homes and lives to the wildfires, I lost the ability to let them tell their stories.

I was near Dulzura shortly after 5 a.m. Monday, October 22 to cover the Harris Fire. I met with Julie Hutchinson with the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CAL FIRE). She invited me to join her and about 50 other fire officials as they plotted their strategies for managing the fire. I was the only media person at this meeting which is not usually open to journalists. Reporters are briefed later. I recorded several interviews that explained the difficulties firefighters faced in battling the fire. Then I headed west on Highway 94 to Steele Canyon High School.

At the high school, I talked with many of the people that were among the first evacuated from the Harris fire. They had spent the night on cots in the gym. Many feared their homes would be lost. I recorded their worries, fears and thoughts. I talked with Red Cross volunteers, school officials, and other people now calling the gym their temporary home. I also captured sounds of the gusty winds. Later, I witnessed a town hall meeting with Howard Windsor, the CAL FIRE incident commander for the Harris fire. People sat in the bleachers using a wireless microphone to ask questions. I continued recording. I was given an opportunity for an interview with Windsor. We spent about 20 minutes talking about what would happen over the next few weeks, the problems in fighting this fire, and how CAL FIRE organizes to fight so many fires burning simultaneously. While we spoke, many of the people evacuated would break in to ask questions of Windsor. This too was recorded.

All the elements of telling the story: gusty winds (so prevalent during KPBS reporters' live reports from the field), fire officials, evacuated residents, sounds in the gym. Most important of these elements were the poignant stories I was bringing back to the studio. These elements would come together to give listeners a first-hand, on-scene account of the wildfires impact on southeast San Diego County and its residents. But, it was not to be. When I downloaded the audio, there was only silence. I was downhearted, almost physically sick. Those stories were not going to be heard (at least not the stories I had gathered). But other reporters would return to tell the stories of the people at Steele Canyon High School.

There was little time for me to mourn the loss of the audio. After all, there were still many miles to go and more stories to tell in a week that seemed like two weeks. Many people lost homes, pets, businesses and their lives. I only lost audio.

Four years didn't erase the look of the sky or the smell in the air; they were the first warning signs fire was here. Only this time, these fires would burn faster, bigger and even more erratically then the Cedar Fire. And they would chase 500,000 people from their homes.

By early Sunday afternoon, KPBS News Director Mike Marcotte was on his way to the newsroom and reporters were called at home and told to be on alert. Hours later the newsroom was in stage five of the crisis management plan, meaning the station would provide non-stop coverage. KPBS would stay continuously on the air for the next 75 hours, despite fire cutting power to its own transmitter. The first voices you may have heard Sunday evening: Mike Marcotte, Scott Horsley, Tom Fudge, Andrew Phelps, Alan Ray and John Decker. Reporters were in the field, getting information about the fire, about traffic, about where to find shelter for thousands forced from their homes.

But the voice that meant so much to everyone listening, the voice that told us where the roads were blocked, where flames were burning, how the smoke smelled, how the sky looked, was yours. We opened up the phone lines and you called. You called from your homes, from your cars, from the fields where you were trying to corral your horses and keep them safe. You told others which roads were clear and which were blocked or stalled with traffic. You offered your own vehicles and trailers to move people and their animals. You were listening to us because you needed information and in the end, you became the best source of information during those early hours when the worst was on its way.

I remember one call. I was driving from one evacuation center to another, listening to Tom Fudge and Scott Horsley take phone calls. It was about 10 at night. A woman called and said her son had been text messaging her. He was standing on a concrete slab in the middle of a field on a chicken ranch in Ramona, trying to fight the fires. He was trapped and "losing the battle" she said. Tom and Scott tried to get more information. Where was he? Maybe someone could help if they knew his location. The woman said he was texting just a few words at a time; "losing the battle" were the words I remember her saying more than once. Tom and Scott tried to give her comfort. If he had a phone, then maybe he could get help. Later, a man called and said some cell phones have a GPS; maybe the man trapped could use his to tell rescue workers where he was. It may have been a long shot, but it was something to hang a little hope on. (Click play on the audio player at the top of this post to hear the call.)

This woman called a radio station, hoping someone would hear her plea for help. All KPBS could do was let her tell her story. Maybe someone out there could help. That was how so many of the calls went that night and into the morning. People asking which way to turn on a dark, smoky road -- others giving them direction.