The trek down valley was crunchy underfoot. There was nothing sneaky or quiet about it. Each step was piercing as bone dry vegetation crinkled and snapped beneath my hiking boots. Destined for a rock-cropping down meadow, I couldn’t help but ogle the thick towers of ominous smoke billowing above the mountains just to the north.

They mushroomed above the mountainside which was brown and heavy with fall, a speckling of evergreens and the crystalline blue sky juxtaposed the desolate landscape. The smell of smoke whipped about sometimes chokingly and other times non-existent as the winds gathered in a torrent and blew furiously this way and that.

Upon reaching the valley floor, I nestled myself within the hillside, seeking reprieve from the air currents lashings, and opened my moleskin journal. The pages whipped about thwapped against one another, like a windbreaker, until I secured the elastic band across the lined sheet. 

Fire or no fire, I had a lab assignment due. Serendipitously, the focus of the assignment was all about absorbing your natural surroundings. So, I did exactly that, pencil to paper, on the evening of October 21st, 2020 from 5:15 pm to 6:19 pm as the East Troublesome Fire ballooned in size and began its tortuous journey across the Grand County landscape. 

The fire had started eight days previously tracing its way north and east from the towns of Parshall and Hot Sulphur Springs into heavy fuel-loaded beetle-kill forests. The Williams Fork fire was contained, but still actively burning just southwest of Fraser.

The Cameron Peak fire was devastating the northern front range. Countless other fires were underway raging across the state and the West. A historic fire season in which resources were spread paper-thin, smokey air was the norm and itchy eyes were a given, how acclimated we all were to fire looming in the distance. 

I sat there journaling for the better part of an hour, rubbing the dry dirt across my journal’s pages, trying unsuccessfully to spy on the rodents underfoot prepping for winter, questioning what the birds were squawking about, and convinced they were discussing everything that was going up in smoke.

At times, I forgot the fire was there, so focused I was on the flora and fauna that surrounded me. A stubby parsley-like succulent caught my eye spearmint green and pale pink. It looked so content inching out of the ground near a granite boulder. Lichen on the stone, some neon green, some rusty orange, was splattered as if by the flick of a paintbrush.

Nearby was a whole mess of matted-down willows home to some ungulate who recently bedded down under the stars. I began to search for clues, some scat maybe or some tracks, which might help me decipher if the bedroom belonged to an elk, or a moose, or a deer.

Other times I couldn’t help but gawk fixated on all that was swelling into the atmosphere due north. Listening to the helicopters and planes circling overhead, I started to question if I should be hiking. In what was normally a wetland, I watched as the sun began to set.

The alpenglow, which usually illuminated the mountains instead illuminated the plumes of smoke that stood in their way. They were terrifyingly beautiful, sunset stained and Ombre from deep purple, to red, to orange, and finally topped off in a yellowish gold. 

As I started back up to the house, my heart began to pound faster and faster, as each step I took reverberated across the landscape. I started to get nervous, no longer distracted by my assignment, my mind began to wander. Thoughts started to stream into my head cluttering and clustering together.

They stuck to one another growing ever bigger and fueling my anxiety. The Grand County drought monitor was at D3 extreme drought conditions, the wind was so ferocious and unrelentless, l lived in a timber box … all this wind, such dry conditions, it’s all ripe for fire. 

I burst through the front door, still catching my breath, shaky and sweaty from my apprehensive hike. My boyfriend, Mark, was just about to plate dinner when I dragged him outside to ponder over the horizon, which was starting to glow more and more red. One dark grey, one medium gray, and one light gray crag stood between us and the glow. His jaw aghast, his eyes wide, he squeezed my hand and said calmly, “Let’s load up the cars.” 

Thanks to fear and necessity, we were already packed for the most part. The Williams Fork Fire and the Meadow Creek Fire had offered us two not-so-dry runs throughout the course of fire season. Mark worked to load up his truck bed, and I worked on organizing the car fitting this and that together like Tetris blocks.

Each trip to the car, I took a mental note about where the glowing embers seemed to be positioned in the distance. They oozed like lava from northwest to northeast creeping up and over the mountainside throughout the evening, a red flag warning was well in effect. 

Once our vehicles were filled to the brim, we were drained. Ready to retreat at a moment’s notice, we decided to stay the night. Under pre-evacuation orders, we settled on departing should the fire jump Highway 34.

I clicked on the TV as we huddled together on the couch frazzled watching the late-night 10 pm news. After about a half-hour or so Mark started to doze off. Unable to sleep, I encouraged him to get some rest and told him I’d stay up and monitor the fire.

Concern and exhaustion enveloped us both as our hugs and kisses goodnight were much weightier than usual. Though I was worn out, there was no way I was getting any shut-eye tonight. I was scared awake. Each time the wind slammed against the house all the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. 

As the night grew darker the TV news feed became repetitive, so I put it on mute, occasionally, comparing the flames on the screen with the intensity of the glow that smoldered red and orange from outside my front door.

I watched on restlessly, my patience waning as I awaited some sort of CodeRed Alert on my phone. Thirsting for up-to-date information, I innocently clicked on a link that directed me to a live feed of the Grand County police scanner. At that moment, the grimness of the East Troublesome fire undoubtedly set in. It was clear just how out of control the firestorm had become: homes ablaze, businesses burnt, weather patterns so intense they created fire tornados.

I listened as the Hileman’s refused to leave their home and first responders doubled back trying to save them. I sat there as fire trucks took trip after trip into emblazoned neighborhoods until they ran out of gas. I stared on as the flames ripped through Grand Lake creeping ever closer toward the Continental Divide. Sitting in horror, absorbing each word, I listened helplessly as the fire consumed 87,092 plus acres, all the while praying it wouldn’t turn right. 

It was all I could do to wait until sunup and retreat. I called into work exhausted and in tears. Mark, to my dismay, headed to the office, assuring me he would be metro bound as soon as he was able. With his truck packed to the gills, he hugged me long and tight before pulling out of the driveway.

Sniveling and sobbing, I said my goodbyes to the house as I watched it retreat in my rearview mirror. Driving through town car, after truck, after SUV, after tractor-trailer was loaded up as if it were community move-out day. I felt numb. 

Seeking refuge, I ventured into the city and across the burbs to Mark’s sister’s house in Thornton. There was a comforting chill in the air upon my arrival that made me want to hibernate. I labored upstairs to the guest room painted pale blue and wispy with white cumulonimbus clouds; the thought of rain was welcoming even if it was only alluded to by the walls. As my head hit the pillow I crashed immediately, void of the adrenaline that fed my journey. 

It wasn’t until snow fell in the high country that we returned home full of gratitude that we had a home to return to. Though the fire hopped Highway 34 it did so only briefly and within a small inlet that butted up against Lake Granby.

Protected by a thin veil of luck, it’s only a matter of time before the next wildfire or the next mega-fire returns. The forests I love, live, and recreate in are littered with so much fuel-when the wind blows just so, when the monsoons pass by, or when I catch a whiff of wood burning, I shudder. The East Troublesome fire wasn’t our first, and sadly, the longer we choose to live in the mountains the more I realize it won’t be our last.