It was not easy to write this. As many reflections and reactions as I have given over the last five years, it does not get easier.

Remembering the events of October 21, 2020, and the following days of confusion and uncertainty are challenging enough, but so is having to sift through five years of life-changing events to find a short and sweet story to tell.

I have relayed the events of the day so many times, it has become a rote exercise. I do not remember the last time I added a detail or changed a perspective in my story. Perhaps there is nothing more to say.

The stories since the fire, however, are as varied as anyone else’s. Through the trials and tribulations of living in Middle Park, we do what we can to remain here with some semblance of comfort and continuity.

I moved ten times from October 21, 2020, to November 10, 2024, beginning and ending on the same property, though not in the same house.

First, it was my friends’ house in Hot Sulphur Springs, followed by a few days on a ranch north of Silverthorne, as the fire finally came under control. Then, a ski condo in Winter Park; a family property deep in the forest; a motel.

Whether after a year or just a few months, I moved my meager, yet growing collection of possessions up and down our local highways, thankful to own a small pickup truck and for the generosity of the friends who continue to give me their time, energy, and effort when I need it.

For most of 2022, I lived in a house with strangers; then at another friend’s house. Some places had internet, others did not. I cooked in fully-stocked kitchens, and over a hotplate. Some nights were quiet, away from the bustle of traffic and trains, and others were loud with activity of town.

I intended for each place to be the last place, before moving back to my property, before rebuilding. I tried not to get attached to any one house, always yearning to return to my home. It was easier to stay distracted in some of my living situations more than others.

It finally happened at Grandma Miller’s. I lived in two cabins, with the move between them being number nine, for those keeping track. By the time I arrived at this little intentional community outside of Fraser, I had come to learn more about the construction process of my house, which allowed me to settle into where I was living. I was now confident the house was being built and I would soon be back.

We broke ground and built a foundation and then, with the building permit in order, began putting the house together on the property in early 2024.

As long as it took to rebuild, I maintained hope in the end through my dog, Cauliflower. Over the four years we lived away from our property, whether it was Hot Sulphur Springs or Winter Park or on a friend’s ranch in the forest, she still knew when we crested over Coffee Divide.

She would get excited at the sight of Lake Granby and would wag her tail eagerly as we drove past the lake, past the Roadhouse and the town and onto Golf Course Road for the final stretch. It would not matter what was happening on the roads or how many trucks and pieces of machinery were moving on the property: Cauliflower was home, even without a house.

The fire could have scared me off the land as it did for others. It could have pushed me out of Grand County, even out of the West, to seek safer and less exciting adventure elsewhere in the country.

But instead, it reminded me of what I love about where I live. I was eager to return to the meadow, to watch the sun rise over Rocky Mountain National Park, to enjoy the quietude of this corner of the county.

It also reminded me of the strength of our community. Nearly every place I lived in the fire years came to me through friends and neighbors. For that and more, I am forever grateful.