Lew Johnson, 74, carries a bucket of recovered items as he returns for the first time to the ruins of his home Friday on Stonyvale Road in Big Tujunga Canyon in the Angeles National Forest, in the Tujunga area of Los Angeles. He had left his home for Canada on Aug. 28, the day before the Station Fire struck. He had no idea that the blaze, the largest in Los Angeles County history, had destroyed more than five dozen homes, including his own, and claimed the lives of two firefighters.

Los Angeles ? After five grueling days in bush planes and on horseback, 74-year-old Lew Johnson was returning from the forests of British Columbia with his prize — a cooler full of meat from a 43 1/2-inch spread moose in the bed of his pickup.

For those blissful few days, he’d had no communication with civilization whatsoever. He’d no idea that his world was in flames.

Tuesday morning, when he finally got back into cell phone range, the retired real estate broker called his 94-year-old mother in Pasadena. He could sense immediately there was something she didn’t want to tell him.

“You might as well tell me now,” he said. “I’m going to find out sooner or later.”

He had left Big Tujunga Canyon for Canada on the evening of Aug. 28, the day before the so-called Station Fire struck. He had no idea that the blaze — the largest in Los Angeles County history — had destroyed more than six dozen homes and claimed the lives of two firefighters.

“Well,” she replied. “You know your ranch? It’s not there any more.”

‘Piece of heaven’

It wasn’t until Friday morning around 11 that the rugged septuagenarian was able to reach the remote community of Vogel Flats, the place he’s called home for four decades. With its canopy of oak and pines, his late 19th-century home sat on an island of private land surrounded by the Angeles National Forest and the San Gabriel Mountains.

It was what Johnson called his “little piece of heaven.” Only now, it looked like a suburb of hell.

As he walked up the driveway, he stepped over silvery rivulets of molten aluminum that had flowed like lava from his prized 1962 Porsche. Scattered about the yard were the charred skeletons of a half-dozen cars and trucks, a boat-shaped mass of melted fiberglass and the remains of a fully stocked motor home.

Six days after the fire, smoke still belched from the hollow of a white pine in what had been Johnson’s front yard. Nearby, deflated cacti drooped over walls like surrealist Salvador Dali’s famous clocks.

Though he had not been able to prove it, Johnson’s house was reputed to have been a Wells Fargo stagecoach stop when two-lane Stonyvale Road was the main thoroughfare to Palmdale. All that remained of his 3,000-square-foot home was the sturdy stone chimney.

Somewhere in the ruins were the remains of his many hunting trophies, including the mounted heads of a 7-by-8 elk and a 2,000-pound buffalo that had returned from the taxidermist just a few months ago. Mounting the buffalo alone had cost $3,500.

In the wreckage of his garage, Johnson found the barrel of the Browning 264 Magnum deer rifle he’d owned for about a quarter century. Its wooden stock had burned away, and Johnson held onto the breach end, using it like a walking stick as he picked his way through the rubble.

Besides the chimney, the tallest thing left standing was a nearly 6-foot-high gun safe that was supposed to be able to withstand three hours of intense heat. The door was buckled and blocked by ashen debris, leaving Johnson to wonder what had become of the two dozen guns inside.

“It can be fried inside,” he says, his face and its day’s growth of white stubble smudged with the ubiquitous ash. “But it’s one of the best safes you can buy. See? It held up, and it’s got insulation. But I won’t know until I get it open.”

Here and there, Johnson found little irregular pancakes of metal — coins that had melted and fused. Then his bleary blue eyes turned to a ledge behind the home where a concrete block shell stood.

The small structure had housed a tiled Jacuzzi with a faux cement waterfall in one corner.

Escaping the fire

When Johnson departed for Canada, he was not leaving the house unguarded. His housemate of six years, Jules Goff, and Peter Loretta, an employee who was living in a trailer on the property, were there keeping an eye on Johnson’s four dogs.

Despite having a motor home stocked with food, the two men had decided to stay and hope the fire would not reach this far. Besides, there was a Forest Service fire station less than a mile up the road.

But when the fire did come Aug. 29, it came with a speed and ferociousness that could not have been imagined.

As the flames bore down on the house, the two men decided their best bet was to jump into the Jacuzzi. As they opened the door, three of the dogs — Girl and Princess, miniature Doberman Pinschers, and Ammo, an abandoned chow mix Johnson had taken in — scattered.

Johnson’s favorite, a 4-year-old fox terrier named Rocky, went with the men. Although he “hates water with a passion,” the little dog jumped into the small pool with the men.

The three stayed in the tiny outbuilding until the roof began caving in on top of them. They could hear a truck coming down the road, and they decided to make a run for it.

Loretta scooped up Rocky. With the dog cradled in his arms, he tripped and was unable to catch himself — falling face first into some burning debris.

The three made it to the truck and drove out of the canyon. Goff and Loretta were later airlifted to a burns unit in Sherman Oaks, where Johnson says Loretta was undergoing skin grafts.

Rocky is safe, but Johnson can find no trace of the other three. He can only hope that they made it to the creek and that their identifications chips will eventually bring them back to him.