By Elise Gray
Special to the Alpine Mountaineer
I’ve lost a home before. It was in the early 2000s. After the 2008 recession, many people couldn’t afford their mortgages due to the crash. Unfortunately, my mother was one of them. Eighty percent of our belongings were thrown into a garbage bin, and we bounced from couch to couch for almost a year before we got back on our feet. When I reached adulthood, I vowed never to experience anything remotely similar again.
But as they say, never say never.
On Sept. 6, 2024, I was spending my Friday night at our recently purchased home in Running Springs. I stared impatiently at the freshly painted walls, mulling over where each photo would go, when I received a concerned call from my husband. “It looks bad. They’re saying the fire might spread,” he said, as I peered out the window overlooking the deck. There was no visible fire, but fresh ash had already claimed its place. “There’s no evacuation order yet, but I say go with your best judgment,” he added before hanging up. He was halfway across the country at the time, so it was entirely my call.
As recent transplants from Texas, we’ve never dealt with fires. However, with a year of California mountain living under our belts and a lifetime of hurricane evacuations, we knew to heed nature’s signs. I opened the door to find the air had thickened with smoke that had crept up the mountain earlier in the day, and the forest was unnervingly quiet. No woodland creatures moving about. No neighbors frantically stuffing belongings in their cars. Just silence.
I paced back and forth, recalling conversations with other mountain town residents: “Depending on the evacuation order, you may only have 30 minutes, sometimes less.” I thought about my 85-pound dog, Moose, and how difficult it might be to get him into the car during an emergency. I remembered the terrifying scenes of those fleeing the Malibu fires years ago. The image of Rebecca Hackett’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as sparks flew and fires engulfed the mountain road haunted me. Would I be able to stay calm enough to drive through something like that?
The thought alone was enough for me to decide to leave before any evacuation order was issued. If I was being dramatic, I figured I could simply drive back the next morning. Considering the state of things, I didn’t grab much more than an overnight bag, Moose’s food, and essential paperwork before heading to my father’s home in Long Beach.
I drove an hour and a half before reaching the beginning of an even longer journey. The LA County heatwave had caused temperatures to reach upwards of 100 degrees. Coming down from the cool, airy mountain home at 6,000 feet, I hadn’t anticipated how oppressive the heat would be without air conditioning. With a pet to keep cool, I opted to sleep in my car.
By the time I began to become settled, it was clear the night wasn’t going to end quietly. I tossed and turned, listening to the eerie stillness of the alleyway, anxiously checking our Running Springs Facebook group every five seconds for an update. This went on for two nights, each time I awoke wondering if I still had a home. I would come to learn that the fire had spread further north and was inevitably heading towards our town. Just like that, it felt like 2010 all over again. I pictured our wedding photos burning and our home reduced to rubble.
When my husband returned from his tour, he booked a hotel, believing we’d be reimbursed. A quick call to our insurance company was met with the kind of bureaucratic response anyone familiar with insurance knows too well: unless there was damage or loss of property, there would be no help. A warm bed sounded like a dream, but reality hit quickly – between the new mortgage, utilities and daily expenses, a week-long hotel stay wasn’t feasible. Just in time, nearby family members opened their doors, hearts and kitchens to us.
It was a reminder of the importance of community amidst uncertainty, and how our mountain community had come together during this difficult time. From the start of the evacuation, neighbors checked on neighbors. Those not in evacuation zones offered their land, trailers, food, shelter and – most importantly – an outpouring of love. Even in the face of devastation, moments like these restore your faith in humanity.
I leaned on that faith when I learned someone had been arrested for starting the Line Fire. One thoughtless act of arson not only destroyed acres of our beloved mountain but also the one home of a local. It wasn’t just the loss of property that stung, but the betrayal – the idea that someone had so recklessly endangered not only our homes, but our lives.
To date, the Line Fire has destroyed one home and damaged three structures, burned through 38,421 acres and displaced thousands. Despite the threat, uncertainty and fear, people are still rallying together as I write this – offering updates, support, shelter and supplies.
With evacuation orders recently lifted in my area, I look back on the last week knowing it was more than just a few sleepless nights in different places. It was a reminder that, even in the face of disaster, you can count on your community.
As for mountain people, they’re as sturdy as the trees that surround them. It will be a pleasure to live among them as we begin to rebuild what we’ve lost.
0 Comments