YARNELL – Each of the 19 crosses marks a spot where one of the Granite Mountain Hotshots died in the Yarnell Hill Fire on June 30, 2013.

Lee Helm points to one of them.

“One of our friends, his boy is over here. It’s Travis Carter. This was supposed to be his last season for firefighting," he says, looking out over the cluster of iron crosses. "It’s just sad that so many people had to lose their lives."

The site where fast-moving flames trapped the Granite Mountain Hotshots five years ago is dry scrub, surrounded by stony hills on three sides. Visitors leave mementos on the wire box enclosures that surround the crosses: Flowers, cans of Copenhagen, fire department patches.

Helm, 73, and his wife, Diane, 69, own a ranch 600 yards from where the hotshots died. The couple hunkered down inside their house as the Yarnell Hill Fire raced over. But their home, with its metal roof and stucco walls, was unscathed.

More:5 new things about fire that killed Granite Mountain Hotshots firefighters

A few hours after the flames burned over, they would be among the first to learn the stunning news that a hotshot team was nearby and had perished in the 2,000-degree heat after deploying their fire shelters.

The tragedy turned more surreal the following day, when 10 coroner's vans lined up outside the Helms' house as the firefighters were brought out.

Lee Helm has made a half-dozen trips to what is now called Granite Mountain Hotshots Memorial State Park. For visitors, it's a strenuous hike up a mountain ridge before descending into the box canyon, 3.5 miles later, where flames overran the firefighters.

But for the Helms, it's a third of a mile from their ranch house. They are reminded of the tragedy each time they look out over the boulder-strewn hills and see an American flag fluttering at half staff near where the firefighters died.

A 'bomb-proof safety zone'

The Helms' ranch is near the southwest end of Yarnell in a subdivision called Glen Ilah.

Fire officials would later identify their ranch on maps as the "Boulder Springs Ranch," named after the road that dead-ends onto their land. The actual name is "Not Muchuva Ranch."

After the fire, the 60-acre ranch was the key access point for emergency workers and later for investigators conducting an in-depth analysis of the deadliest U.S. wildfire in 80 years. Their proximity to the place where the firefighters died would thrust the couple and their ranch into the international spotlight.

The theory among fire investigators is that the hotshots were on their way to the ranch when the flames surged. Yarnell Hill Fire officials had earlier designated the ranch as a “bomb-proof safety zone” because the structures had metal roofs and the property was clear of brush.

A report on the fire later surmised that the hotshots decided to use the ranch as a jumping-off point to save structures in Yarnell. But as the crew descended from a burned-black safety zone into the canyon, their view of the fire disappeared.

Before they could reach the ranch, flames overran them and killed all but one crew member. Brendan McDonough was in another location acting as a lookout and made it to safety.

MORE:'Lone survivor': 'The roar of the fire was huffing behind me'

"If they would just have had another maybe 10 minutes, 15 minutes, 12 minutes, they might have been able to make it here," Diane said. "Because my barn was never locked. They could have easily gone inside the barn."

They never saw the firefighters

She refers to the hotshots fondly as "boys," even though they ranged in age from 21 to 43, and many had families.

"Nineteen of them at one time is just unreal. I have a hard time even thinking about it," she said.

Unlike her husband, she's never visited the memorial site. She doesn't think she will ever be able to go there.

The Helms never saw the firefighters on the day they died and never knew the hotshot crew was working nearby, on the other side of a mountain ridge.

The couple would soon find themselves with a front-row seat to the unfolding tragedy.

MORE:Granite Mountain Hotshots: Alone on the Hill

Couple only recently shared story

The Helms turned down media requests for interviews for years. The tragedy of the Yarnell Hill Fire was too fresh, too intense. Only in the last year have they started talking publicly.

Diane published a personal narrative in 2017 based on detailed notes she kept called "Fire on the Wind." The exteriors of their house, barn and shop are shown briefly in the big-budget movie "Only the Brave," the 2017 drama based on the Granite Mountain Hotshots' story.

SEE ALSO:How accurate is 'Only the Brave'?

Lee and Diane recently sat down for an interview with The Arizona Republic. They talked about the harrowing experience of riding out the fire inside their house and shared how they learned the news that 19 firefighters had died minutes from their home.

The couple, who own a machine shop in Phoenix that manufactures aerospace parts, have lived most of their married life in rural areas, with an assortment of animals.

They spent 34 years in Cave Creek and bought property in Yarnell in 2000. There, they built a shop, barn and single-story ranch house that they decorated with Western art and antiques.

The Yarnell Hill Fire put the unincorporated town of fewer than 700 people on the world map. Locals joke that the old saying, "Where the hell is Yarnell?" no longer applies to the mountain village about 35 miles south of Prescott.

MORE:Hiking where the Granite Mountain Hotshots fell

Yarnell primed to burn

In June 2013, the Weaver Mountains surrounding Yarnell were in an extreme drought and had not experienced a wildfire in 47 years. The chaparral had grown as tall as 10 feet and was nearly impenetrable in places, according to fire officials.

On Friday, June 28, lightning strikes ignited a fire west of Yarnell on a mountain ridge about a mile from the Helms' ranch. They were on vacation but returned the next day to find the fire still burning.

Winds pushed the flames northward, away from town, and the fire was on the other side of a mountain ridge.

Fire officials became concerned, however, that if the fire burned northeast it posed a threat to Yarnell and an area of ranches and homes about 3 miles north, known as Peeples Valley.

Diane took pictures that night before bed, showing the mountains backlit by a hellish orange glow.

Granite Mountain Hotshots arrive

The couple awoke to a banging noise at the front door sometime after 11 p.m. on Saturday, June 29. Fire officials asked permission to use the ranch as a safety zone for firefighters, if necessary. They also wanted to store on the property a 5,000-gallon, portable water-storage tank, known as a "pumpkin" because of its color and shape.

Lee agreed, offering the use of the ranch's water tank as well.

Fire officials had called in additional fire resources, including the Granite Mountain Hotshots, the elite firefighting crew from nearby Prescott. At a 7 a.m. briefing on Sunday, June 30, fire officials pointed out the Boulder Springs Ranch using Google Maps on an iPad, noting the ranch as an "excellent safety zone."

The fire continued to eat up acres, growing from 118 acres the previous day to an estimated 418 acres by 10 a.m.

On Sunday morning, automated emergency alerts went out by phone, text and e-mail to Yarnell residents who had signed up for them: Be prepared to evacuate. You will have an hour to get out if evacuation is ordered. You will get another notice beforehand.

Fire approaches

The Helms were among several Yarnell residents who hadn't signed up to receive evacuation notices. But they had no plans to go anywhere. They had 22 animals they weren't going to leave: an assortment of miniature horses, donkeys, goats, cats, dogs and a llama. They were confident the stucco walls and metal roofs could withstand flames.

They spent the day checking on the fire. By early afternoon, the smoke plumes grew, though the fire was still blowing away from Yarnell and toward Peeples Valley. The fire had chewed through an estimated 1,812 acres by 1 p.m.

Around 2 p.m., the National Weather Service alerted fire officials that thunderstorms could produce wind gusts of 35 to 45 mph. A second weather update shortly before 3:30 p.m. advised of winds between 40 and 50 mph.

The weather deteriorated, causing a dramatic increase and shift in wind speed and direction. The fire headed southeast, making a run toward town. At 4:22 p.m., flames reached a predetermined "trigger" point on the map for firefighters to start pulling out of Yarnell.

The Helms sat in their sunroom around 4:30 p.m., unaware of the danger or of the fire crew descending from a ridge less than a mile from their home. The room's picture windows looked out toward a wall of boulders. They couldn't see the fire.

Diane had been fostering a dog for an animal shelter, a terrier who was likely pregnant, and she realized she hadn't looked in on her for a couple of hours.

"I better go check on Torri,” Diane told Lee. As she headed to the barn, she looked out the front window.

Yarnell burns

She saw a sight unlike anything she had ever seen: A huge ball of fire, smoke and embers rolling toward them.

"You better come look at this," she yelled.

Lee jumped up, glanced outside and told her, "We better get the animals in. It's coming fast."

They ran down the steps to the barn, which was only about 50 feet from the house.

Diane coaxed the horses and dogs inside. Lee closed the gates behind the animals so they couldn't go back outside.

The goats and the llama were stubborn. Most of them responded to Diane rattling grain in a bowl. She had to grab one of the goats, Nellybelle, around the neck and drag her inside. She closed the barn door, and they ran to the house.

Moments later, the fire hit. A wall of flame and embers raced over the house.

The power went out, plunging the couple into darkness. Gray smoke seeped through the vents. The Helms ran from window to window, trying to see what was going on outside. It was pitch dark and not even 5 p.m. They saw trees and brush burning through the blackness around the perimeter of the house.

"We're going to go up in smoke," Diane said.

"No," Lee reassured her. "I think we'll be OK in here."

About fifteen minutes passed. Lee opened the front door. Smoke overwhelmed his eyes. He slammed the door shut.

Diane dug around in a kitchen drawer and found glasses, decorated with rhinestones, given to her for target shooting. She handed them to her husband.

With his eyes protected, Lee was able to go outside. A barrel of scrap wood near the shop had caught fire.

A rush to put fires out

The air was hot and thick with smoke. Smoke seeped from the ground. Cinders swirled around the property. Smoke filled the barn. But the animals were all right.

Spot fires burned where a tree or brush had caught fire. Grit and pieces of burned wood floated in the air. Wood chips smoldered in the animals' outside pens.

The power was out so the well pumps couldn't fill the water tank. They found buckets, loaded them onto a golf car and dipped water out of the pumpkin left by firefighters.

They drove around on the golf car with the buckets, throwing water on the spot fires. This worked on most of the fires except for one near the air-conditioning units. Diane grabbed a shovel and dumped dirt on the bushes, saving the expensive units.

The Helms hadn't purposely set out to create a fire-safety zone. Lee just found maintenance easier without a lot of weeds, bushes and trees. Or, as he put it, he purposely created a flat open space around the house "to park my junk."

But the efforts paid off. The house and barn were fine, except for a layer of soot. So was the shop, except where fire blew or cracked 17 windows. The Helms believe their barn helped protect the house and shop from the brunt of the flames.

Many of their neighbors weren't so fortunate. Lee could hear Glen Ilah burning. Propane tanks exploded. Metal roofs groaned and crunched. The Helms hoped their neighbors had been able to get out safely.

As they rushed to put out spot fires, they heard helicopter motors from an Arizona Department of Public Safety helicopter beating overhead. They figured officials were surveying the fire damage. Lee waved, signaling that they were all right.

They would soon find out the helicopter was flying over for a very different reason.

'We've got 19 dead firefighters'

Diane took a break from firefighting around 7:30 p.m. She tried to gather herself, to absorb what happened.

She stood outside, near the north end of the house. Flames had blackened the mountains and the once-stunning boulders. Trees had burned to lifeless sticks. She felt sick looking out at the moonscape.

She couldn't believe their buildings survived with minimal damage.

A firefighter walked up behind, startling her.

"Ma'am," she remembers him telling her. "We need to get back in here. We've got 19 dead firefighters up on the hill. We've got to get them out of here.”

That's probably not right, Diane remembers thinking. Maybe it's a few firefighters? How can it be 19?

"Where?" she asked him.

"Up there in the flats," he said.

He talked about needing to land a helicopter.

The property filled with law enforcement vehicles, fire officials and recovery workers. Authorities posted guards so that only authorized personnel could get in. One official admonished them to keep quiet about the firefighters' deaths. Diane recalls he said something to the effect of, "This is a big deal. We don’t want anybody to know about it. Don’t say anything to anybody.”

"Of course, we didn't," Diane said.

Instead of landing a helicopter to remove the firefighters, authorities decided to build a road up to the site where firefighters deployed. They asked permission to bring in a bulldozer.

"You do whatever you have to do," Lee told them.

Diane recalls in her book that they left their windows open that night to let in the cool breeze. Far into the night, they could hear the grinding of the bulldozer as it pushed aside boulders and burned brush, carving a rough road up to where the firefighters died.

Yarnell Hill Fire aftermath

The next morning, around 10 a.m., 10 white vans filed in and parked outside of the barn.

The worst part, for Lee, was meeting firefighter Dan Parker, the father of Granite Mountain Hotshot Wade Parker. He was there to bring his 22-year-old son down from the deployment site.

Lee hugged him.

"What could you say, you know? That was the most devastating feeling out of the whole thing," he said.

In her book, Diane writes how she and Lee watched with heavy hearts as the firefighters were brought out in the beds of trucks, two at a time. An American flag covered each hotshot.

As each truck returned from the deployment site, other firefighters lined up along the sides. Diane could see a chaplain speaking. She watched as they loaded the bodies into the coroner's vans.

When all 19 were in, the convoy of white vans pulled away. They drove out the ranch's driveway, through the burned and blackened Glen Ilah neighborhood and down Yarnell Hill to Phoenix.

'We can handle quite a bit'

Authorized personnel were at the ranch 24 hours a day for the next 10 days. Later, investigators charged with completing a report on the deadly fire would use the ranch to access the site.

Many of the Helms' neighbors lost their residences; the fire destroyed more than 120 homes. Firefighters fully contained the fire on July 10, after it had blackened 8,400 acres.

Three days after the fire, Diane told Lee they needed to write down what happened. She wasn't sure what they would do with the information; she just knew they needed to keep notes.

She and Lee sat in their sunroom, jotting down everything they could remember. Diane continued to take notes in the days that followed. She eventually decided to turn the notes into a personal narrative on the fire.

Authorities sent a health-care professional from Prescott to talk to the couple to see how they were doing emotionally.

"We're pretty tough," Lee said. "We can handle quite a bit. It would take quite a bit to make me go off the deep end."

The couple settled back into their routines. Diane went to the barn at night, around 10 p.m., to check on the animals one more time before bed. She looked up at the mountain toward the barren, blackened deployment site and thought about the firefighters dying.

"It was very upsetting," she said.

Five years later, reminders of the fire are never far away.

Reminders of fire are everywhere

A steel plaque with the 19 firefighters' names hangs in Lee's shop. It was given to them by David Turbyfill, the father of 27-year-old Granite Mountain Hotshot Travis Turbyfill.

A framed map of the Yarnell Hill Fire hangs among the Western art in their living room. Nearby, a special recognition plaque from the U.S. Forest Service thanks the Helms for providing "access to the wildland fire community to promote learning and understanding."

The Helms have considered selling and moving in the wake of the fire. They may still.

For now, Not Muchuva Ranch is still home. The shadow the tragedy cast isn't as intense as it once was.

Many of their neighbors have built new homes. Green sprouts from the once-blackened landscape. The bulldozed road to the deployment site is partly obscured by brush and miniature washes.

"Time does heal," Diane said. "It really does. And it has for us, too."

For Lee, it's difficult to try to sum up or reflect on the loss of 19 firefighters on a single day.

But he tries as he looks out over the crosses that dot the narrow canyon where the Granite Mountain Hotshots died.

"With all the technology we have in today's world, why these 19 firefighters had to die up here is a very sad thing," he says. "And it should never happen again."

Reach the reporter at 602-444-8072 or anne.ryman@arizonarepublic.com.