REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK:

I sat at my desk researching local angles to the Santiago Canyon fire Monday when my mother called, telling me I should go home. My neighborhood was being evacuated.

The blaze that began Sunday evening along Santiago Canyon Road had spread over the foothills and marched toward our neighborhood.

I quickly packed up my things, passed my notes on to one of my co-workers to complete the story, jumped in my Civic and raced south.

I pulled up to my condo in Foothill Ranch, surprised to see the frontline so close. Scores of fire engines whizzed past me, blaring horns and flashing lights, a sight I have often come upon as the Pilot’s cops and fire reporter. Above the homes behind me I saw a line of black smoke creep over the ridge.

I was becoming part of the news I so often report. The odd thing was I had a difficult time registering the reality of the situation.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was simply on scene gathering notes for another article, except this time the story was about me.

After packing up some clothes, toiletries and a few irreplaceable items (a desktop with digital photo files and documents, a wedding album and some heirlooms) all of which I piled in the center of one of the rooms, I headed out on foot with my mother to get a glimpse of this force of nature.

Despite the danger, we strolled up to Borrego Park on the north edge of the neighborhood where we noticed traffic thickened. People were double parked, some facing the wrong direction along the road, and just got out and footed it to the park.

I stood there watching in awe as the blaze picked up, weakened, roared back to life and climbed the next hill, inching closer to where the crowds stood.

And as much as I agree with everyone who mocked the looky-loos, I could not help but simply stand there and stare, my feet planted for some unexpected reason.

I watched as flames engulfed the gully below the park. I watched as it sneaked into a neighbor’s backyard. I did not move as smoke billowed above my head, sending ashes spiraling down like angry snowflakes.

Firefighters barked at us with bullhorns to get back and sent a park ranger in to make sure we obeyed. So the herd moved on, progressing down the road to the next best vantage point. The flames rolled down the gully to the north of the homes, surprisingly only devouring a few palm trees and some lawn furniture.

I headed home to check the news feed and called a few friends living nearby to make sure they were safe.

My husband came home about 5 p.m. He’s asthmatic so he had a difficult time breathing from the moment he stepped in the front door. I figured this might be the case so I set up a giant air purifier in our bedroom and plugged the door from the outside with a duvet.

As crazy as it sounds, it seemed like the best place to stay. Everyone I had spoken with offering us a place to stay the night — from Corona del Mar to Huntington Beach — struggled with the same air-quality issues as us.

We sat in our bed watching “Seinfeld,” chomping on a warm takeout meal, when the half-circle window above our television brightened with a red-orange glow.

I ran up to the window, just in time to see 100-plus-foot flames appear over the ridge, this time to the south of our home. Watching the ebb and flow of the carroty glow behind the blinds, I wondered if this was the image my generation would come to equate with the Orange County moniker.

“This was once all orange groves,” my father always used to tell us on trips through the canyon to my grandparents’ home in Villa Park. Was, indeed. Now the only citrus trees you can find are on display in Disney’s California Adventure like some kind of museum piece.

Now we have flames; that’s our orange.

We came close to leaving several times that night. Our complex resembled the ghost towns of spaghetti Westerns, leaves blowing in the wind, every car stall vacant except mine.

I checked the Internet one last time about midnight to see if we were going to be evacuated, then turned the lights out and tried to sleep. I kept the blinds open so I could keep track of the glow on the hilltop, although it never came near enough to move us.

But let’s just say I did not get the best sleep.

I’m certain, though, that things would not have gone anywhere near that well had it not been for the cohesive efforts of all the county’s fire departments, all those patrolling the streets around my home who stayed throughout the night protecting us the best they could despite nonexistent air support, gusting winds and a ridiculous amount of spectators (of which I was at one point included).

To them I say a most heartfelt, “Thank you.”

KELLY STRODL may be reached at (714) 966-4623 or at kelly.strodl@latimes.com.