Eleven years ago, while I was ending my senior year of high school a
forest fire swept into my hometown of Los Alamos and burned down the homes of over four hundred families. That's quite a bit considering the town only has a population of about eighteen thousand residents. We were forced to evacuate our homes the day before, while the fire was still a few miles outside of town. We went to grandma's house three hours away and watched our town burn down on tv, spotting what neighborhoods we could recognize and pointing out the remains of our friends' houses (our home didn't burn down). Everyone was safe, no one was harmed, we all were with our families. Two weeks later we came home to an unrecognizable place; a charred mountain-top with an eery orange glow in the air. We drove around the neighborhoods that had been hit, not to find houses, but piles of burned rubbish, and gnarled plumbing sticking out of the ground. It's not a memory I think of often, but when I do I still hurt inside for those that lost so much. The neighborhoods rebuilt themselves and Los Alamos began to heal. You would think after experiencing such a disasterous event that it would never happen again, right? I was silly enough to believe that.
![]()
Yet here we are again, stuck in a situation that feels strangely like it did before. There's
another fire moving close to town. How? I thought there was nothing left to burn! I spoke to mom last night. They're packed and ready to go at a moments notice, while many residents have left already. Most likely they're trying to avoid the nightmare of last time - being woken up at 1:00 am and then waiting in cars for eight hours before actually leaving town. Although evacuations aren't mandatory yet, I won't be surprised if they are real soon. I'm here just praying for my tiny hometown, and I'm praying for my parents too. But I also know it will end as it did before. Everyone will be safe, no one will be harmed, and hopefully they're all with family.
