Fire On My Mind

Fiery sunset from Skyline Trail - December, 2023

​Growing up in Huntington Beach California in the 70’s, we had a woodburning fireplace. The logs gave out bright robust flames, and we had a screen for the sparks that sometimes shot out in tiny little explosions. Resting on the brick hearth was a metal mesh basket with a sliding lid on a long handle that my parents used to pop corn over the fire. One long weekend my cousin was with us for a Sunday night sleepover. We all four played Monopoly, drank hot chocolate (made with whole milk and Nestle Quik in a pot on the stove), and ate popped corn in front of the crackling fire. The warmth, the banter, and the joy of no school the next day all make that night one of my favorite memories.

We moved in 1980 to a home whose fireplace sported a tile hearth. We still had cozy fires, but I more clearly remember the smell of woodsmoke in the neighborhood - a smell that I associated with apples, pumpkins, Halloween and piles of raked leaves under our big willow tree. During the summer our fires were at the beach. We’d gather with friends and family around one of the many concrete firepits along the sand for a beach party on a weekend evening. We’d roast hot dogs and marshmallows. In the early days if you ran out of firewood a neighboring party would happily give you a piece of theirs. As the sun set, we’d inevitably end up bundled in a sweatshirt and pants - even thick coats and hoods as the ocean breeze could be chilly. Getting closer to the fire to warm up worked great until the wind shifted and you were enveloped in smoke. 

The nights around those fires were merry celebrations. Wind-whipped hair, bare feet dusty with sand, faces talking, laughing, looking into the fire that made their cheeks glow orange and their eyes sparkle. 

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Growing up close to the ocean meant I was oblivious to the other facets of fire. There was a phenomenon that occurred each year called the Santa Ana winds. The hot dry wind would blow, bringing the smell of smoke - but not fireplace smoke. This was wildfire smoke. And sometimes ash would cover the cars in the neighborhood. I was clueless as to what that might mean for the wildlife and people in the vicinity of the actual fire. The Santa Ana winds and the fires they stoked didn’t mean danger or loss - I could still associate the scent brought on the winds with special times. For me, the Santa Anas meant that fall had officially started. 

When I moved to Steamboat in the early 90’s, wildfire in Colorado wasn’t on my radar. It wasn’t until the 2000’s, living in the Front Range, that fire began to mean something very different. We experienced several smokey seasons, but the one I remember most was the High Park Fire in June 2012. We were living in Longmont at the time, and it was hot. Really hot. We didn’t have AC, and keeping the windows closed against the smoke made for a stifling indoors. Our normally exuberant dogs were in slow motion on our walks, as if we were under water, even in the early morning. They’d look at me with a question and expectation in their eyes: “Why in dog’s name were we out here? When would we go home?”

A Longmont neighbor told me about a friend’s home during the Fourmile Canyon Fire above Boulder. A story that stayed with me. The outer structure of the beautiful home survived the fire - it was built of stone. However, the intense heat of the burning flames exploded the windows; thus the fire found its way in. Sadly, the home was destroyed from the inside out. 

When I moved back to Steamboat in 2013, wildfire went off my radar again. Surely it would never threaten Steamboat itself. But things had changed. There were more fires - hotter fires. The top three largest fires in Colorado history (Cameron Peak, East Troublesome, Pine Gulch) occurred in 2020. Last year’s Lee Fire in Meeker is the fifth largest in Colorado history. And then we had the winter of 2025-2026. One of the lowest snowfalls in recorded history. Way too much of the wrong kind of history-making.

I once remember thinking how horrible it would be to live under the possibility of evacuation. And now, we are facing that very thing. We should all have a plan. A go-bag with the essential stuff (clothes, toiletries, meds). A box for the irreplaceable photos and documents. A designated place to meet up with family and/or friends. An alternate route out in case one route is closed. These are grim plans to make. But crucial.

Fire is mesmerizing, brings warmth and pleasure, gives light in the dark, cooks our food, eases us with its subtle crackling. But when it grows quickly, escaping boundaries, it is insatiable. It is an elemental force of nature, and just as wind, water and earth are a vital part of living on this planet, when these elements go unchecked, we see the incredible and awesome power of Mother Nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, mudslides, wildfires. 

It is fire that is front of mind these days. I walk under a milky sky, feel the irritation in my eyes from Utah - smoke from six hours’ drive away, smoke that first stung the lungs of my daughter. Strong stuff. I look up at the lurid orange ball that is the sun, lending an unnatural glow to the eerily silent evening.  

Resources

• Sign up for Routt County Alerts to be alerted about emergencies, weather events, evacuations, etc.
• Watch Duty app - download to your phone so you can stay on top of current fires and be notified of one in your area.
• Routt County Wildfire Mitigation Council website - mitigation tips, info on how we got here, evacuation planning guide, and a Wildfire Risk Viewer from Colorado State Forest Service. Much of Steamboat is in the red - highest risk.