Burning Down the Santa Cruz Mountains: My Escape from One of the Most Destructive Wildfires in California’s History

Trevor Cambron

Trevor Cambron is an undergraduate at Stanford University from the redwood forest outside Santa Cruz, California. He is a second-year Earth Systems major currently researching the impacts of climate change on forest composition and wildfire in the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. He plans to pursue a PhD in Environmental Science or a closely related field, with the goal of conducting impactful research on the interactions between humans and the environment.

On the morning of August 16th, I got word that a small brushfire had begun several miles north of me in the town of Boulder Creek. It was caused by a rare summer lightning storm that passed over California and had actually woken me up early that morning. At first, I wasn’t particularly worried; fire had burned here once before in my life, and my family had made it through unaffected. I was sure that would happen again this time. 

In the summer of 2009, the Lockheed Fire burned thousands of acres in the mountain community of Bonny Doon, just miles up the road from my house. I remember my mom walking into the room that my brother and I shared at the time, telling us to gather up any belongings that were special to us and to put them in a clear plastic box. That box, along with others that she packed full of photo albums, drawings and letters, sat in a neat stack by the front door, ready to be quickly shoved into the trunk of the car in case of an evacuation order. Thankfully, none were issued.

The 2009 Lockheed Fire was sparked by an unattended campfire. Like many other fires in California, it had a human source. 45% of the 20 largest fires in California’s history were related to human activities, mostly powerlines and individual human sources [2]. These individual sources vary by region, but are primarily arson on the South Coast, debris burning and mechanical equipment on the Central Coast, and smoking and children playing with fire around LA and San Diego [3]. Targeted policies can reduce human sources of ignition, but a huge number of fires are still naturally caused by lightning. Even if anthropogenic ignition sources were completely eliminated, this would only lead to less fires, not no fires. 

Not only is fire a natural part of the landscape, but people have also actively used fire to manage the forest I grew up in, for thousands of years [4]. Indigenous peoples practiced controlled burns for many reasons, including cultivating desirable resources and reducing fuel loads for the goal of preventing catastrophic fire [5]. The Indigenous practice of burning was quickly banned by European colonizers, with one Spanish bureaucrat in 1793 criticizing the “childishness” of Indigenous communities for engaging in a “very harmful practice.” [6] European opinions about fire were prioritized over Indigenous Traditional Ecological Knowledge, leading to the failed fire suppression policies that dominated land management in the 20th Century. 

These policies, which were widely advocated by the US Forest Service, aimed to prevent fires from starting and in the event of a wildfire, to put it out as quickly as possible. There was even the 10 AM rule, which required that fires be put out by 10 AM the day after they were reported. Fire suppression policies led to dense forests full of dead and dying fuel in some areas, meaning that once ignited, fires could grow very large, very hot, and very destructive. A few hundred years ago, a lightning strike in the Santa Cruz Mountains may have likely led to a low intensity fire that would have burned the understory of the redwood forest. In 2020, decades of fire suppression policies helped contribute to the highly destructive, stand-replacing fire that ripped through the Santa Cruz Mountains, destroying many homes and forcing my family to evacuate ours.

By the time we got official word that our section of Felton had been placed under a mandatory evacuation order, it came as no surprise. The area covered by the order had steadily expanded south from Boulder Creek to Brookdale to Ben Lomond, following the path that the fire took as flames licked leaves and limbs, devouring centuries old trees in the process. Now, officials had determined that our house could be victim to that same fate, and it was time for us to leave.

Once again, my mom handed me a clear plastic box. Once again, she instructed me, “Put anything special in here. All your art, anything you need for school, your passport, things like that.” I found it strange that she thought it necessary to explain which basic items I would need to save from immolation, though as I stared at the mess of items in my room, I appreciated her checklist. Choosing which objects to take with me was far more difficult than I anticipated. I went through every drawer, numbly staring at whatever I held in my hand and wondering whether it carried the emotional weight that necessitated its spot in the clear plastic box.  

I emerged with my loaded box and set it by the door in the living room. Through the plastic I could see a painting my brother had made for me before I left for college, my favorite collection of poems by Stephen Crane, and a stack of photos that ranged from my mom standing in front of a Yves Klein painting to my friends carelessly dancing in front of a Sierra Nevada sunset. 

With my belongings packed and the fire still miles away, I googled How to prevent house from burning in wildfire. I found articles and checklists that espoused defensible space, a 30-foot vegetation-free zone and additional 100-foot limited vegetation zone that is supposed to protect a house from fire. I read about how many houses burn because an ember lands on a pile of leaves on a roof, and to be sure to clear out the gutters for that very reason. And so, I did.

The air outside was some of the worst I had ever seen- so bad that I could taste the smoke. I put on one of the surgical masks that I had lying around due to the concurrent catastrophe of the pandemic. Even though they aren’t designed to block out the particulate matter in smoke, I reasoned that any protection had to be better than none. 

I gathered up anything that could possibly burn in the yard and set it as far away from the house as possible. I used a leaf blower to clear off the roof and the gutters. I trimmed back plants and disposed of the leaves. I even jury rigged a hose to spray the roof for 15 minutes every 6 hours. Despite my last-minute preparations, I had to contend with the fact that my house was not fire safe by any stretch of the imagination. The fundamental structure of my house was one that was prone to destruction. The actions that would have really made a difference, like using fire resistant building materials, enclosing eaves, and installing vent screens, could not be done frantically in the process of evacuation [7].

Reducing the vulnerability of my own house to fire would have actually helped protect the houses of my neighbors, too. Due to the flammability of most building materials, structure fires can release a lot of heat and intensify fire [8]. Materials, such as shakes and shingles, can also travel hundreds of meters while on fire [9]. When they land in the forest or on someone’s roof, fire can spread in this way. Such spread is what devastated Coffee Park, a suburban Santa Rosa neighborhood destroyed in 2017. 

After I finished my last-minute preparations, I paused to sit on my roof and look at the tree-lined Ben Lomond Mountain in the distance. Back in the 1800s, every mountain surrounding me had been clear cut. Ancient redwoods were razed to burn in lime kilns and fuel local industry. Even if the entire forest burned down, it would regrow as it had done in the past. I then understood that fire was clearly more of a threat to people than to trees. 

Here lies the simple reality of living in a community like mine: the forest will burn, and if there is a building in the forest, it will burn too. Many homes and businesses are located in the Wildland Urban Interface (WUI), the zone where natural landscapes and human structures interact. Amenities such as space, vistas, and recreation opportunities make the WUI the fastest growing land use type in the lower 48 [10]. But those amenities also come with a cost: an unpredictable and devastating wildfire could destroy everything.

The problem was not that the forest was burning. The problem was that my fire prone house was in the middle of a burning forest. 

Instead, because this fire was spreading relatively slower, we had hours to pack, prepare, even to have a last meal at home. I had lemon bunt cake, left over from my birthday the night before we evacuated. I cannot say it was the best birthday party I ever had, with the anxiety of being in the path of a wildfire. But I was lucky to be able to celebrate with my mom, brother, and grandparents sitting around the table, despite how altered and strange it was. 

We seemed to be one of the last families to leave the Valley. Throughout the morning, I watched as vehicles filled with the belongings of my neighbors raced down the hill. Some honked as they drove, telling others that it was time to get out. 

After my truck was loaded, I turned back to look at my house, unsure whether it would be the last time that I saw it. I thought of the whiffle ball games I played with my mom and brother in the front yard, my graduation party with all of my family, the hours I’ve spent sitting on my deck admiring the surrounding trees. It was all so close to being taken away.

My mom stayed behind for a few more hours. She later told me that two of her goals in life were to raise a family and own her own home, both of which she accomplished, but one of which seemed to be slipping away from her. 

Once my mom and brother arrived, we sat and drank coffee with my grandparents in their backyard. Given the circumstances, we were in the best situation possible. I felt lucky to have somewhere to go that was comfortable and familiar to me as I waited for news that my house had or had not survived. Many others from the San Lorenzo Valley were forced to take refuge in trailers, sleep in cars, or join those living in tents and on cots at a temporary shelter at the Santa Cruz County Fairgrounds. Not to mention the already unhoused people in the Santa Cruz Mountains, who would have to move to denser and more dangerous encampments. 

As the others headed inside, I walked to the far side of the yard, where a deck overlooks views of the Peninsula. Through the haze of friends’ and neighbors’ houses, I could see the terracotta roofs of Stanford University, where I was about to begin my second year of college. I thought back to almost exactly a year ago, when I stared down at the campus with the overwhelming anticipation of a rising freshman. But now I felt world weary, having been evacuated from campus in March due to the pandemic and now being evacuated from my own home due to catastrophic wildfire. A year ago, not even my most neurotic catastrophizing could have led me to believe that this is where I would be as I turned 19 years old and prepared to begin my sophomore year of college. 

After settling in, I got a text from my mom that read “Scotts valley was just told to evacuate, the fire is growing.” Scotts Valley, the incorporated city a few miles from my house, full of cookie cutter houses and generic strip malls, was being evacuated. I thought it would be spared from destruction by virtue of the wide streets, lawns, and sprinklers that made up the quintessential suburb. If even the McDonald’s and Kmart were in danger, surely my house didn’t stand a chance. 

Before I went to sleep and immediately after I woke up, I would google CZU Lightning Complex Fire Perimeter. I would zoom in to the area by my house. Each day, the red line on my screen inched closer and closer to my address. 

In the Valley, people put up signs that read messages like “Thank you Firefighters!” or “Thank you for Saving Feltopia!” Feltopia: the combination of Felton and utopia. How could my hometown be a utopia if it existed under the constant threat of complete destruction? Despite the risk, many people view Felton as perfection. They love waking up to bird songs and deer in the yard, hiking beneath some of the tallest trees in the world, and having enough space to breathe easy. We can’t pretend that we can move people like this out of the WUI, residents here wouldn’t go for that. If people are going to live here, what can we all do to minimize the risk that wildfire poses to residents?

Throughout the next few weeks, this question was on the minds of many, including public officials. President Trump berated Californians for failing to take his “leaf raking” theory seriously, while Governor Newsom attributed the blazes to climate change. Their words frame the way that many people think about wildfire risk, but they are oversimplifying the issue. Fundamentally, both failed to grasp the complexity of wildfire dynamics, and most importantly, failed to offer effective approaches to decreasing the risk that wildfires pose to communities like mine. 

Instead of pretending that a single issue is driving California’s ballooning wildfire seasons, we must view wildfire through a framework that acknowledges its complexity. Reducing wildfire risk must be understood through three distinct lenses: preventing ignition, limiting spread, and reducing human exposure to wildfire.

Obviously, a fire cannot spread without first being ignited. Policies that aim to reduce sources of ignition, such as powerlines, individual actions, and arson may help prevent many anthropogenically sparked wildfires. It is undoubtedly important to take these steps, but assuming that these will prevent all fires is misguided. The wildfire that burned the Santa Cruz Mountains was sparked by lightning, with no human source whatsoever. Actions must be taken to reduce the spread of fire once it has begun. 

Fire spread can be limited by land management decisions such as prescribed burns. These types of policies reduce the amount of fuel in a forest with the goal of preventing wildfires from growing too large and intense. This can prevent fires burning the vegetation on the ground from spreading to the branches of trees, leading to less destructive blazes [11]. 

Of course, the most effective way to save property and lives would be if people didn’t live in rural, fire prone areas. For many people, like my own family, the benefits of living in the WUI outweigh the risks, but each resident must make this careful consideration on their own [12],[13]. Smart rebuilding, like using fire safe building practices or choosing not to rebuild in certain very high-risk areas must also be considered.

As I walked through my front door for the first time in 9 days, I couldn’t help but smile. I was home. Burnt leaves littered my front yard and my windowsills were covered in a layer of ash, but my house remained, unchanged if only messy from evacuation. The fire ended up burning around a quarter mile up my road, and I can only imagine how something as trivial as a changing wind could have completely transformed the situation. 

My family was lucky that our home survived. Many others drove home to find all of their belongings burnt to the ground. If Californians want more stories of coming home like my own, it is imperative that wildfire risk mitigation strategies comprehensively address ignition sources, fire spread, and human vulnerability.

References

[1] KTVU Digital. 2020. “Cal Fire Declares CZU Lightning Complex Fire Extinguished.” KTVU FOX 2. December 28, 2020. https://www.ktvu.com/news/cal-fire-declares-czu-lightning-complex-fire-extinguished.

[2] Cal Fire. 2020. “Top 20 Largest California Wildfires.” https://www.fire.ca.gov/media/4jandlhh/top20_acres.pdf.

[3] Keeley, Jon E., and Alexandra D. Syphard. 2018. “Historical Patterns of Wildfire Ignition Sources in California Ecosystems.” International Journal of Wildland Fire 27(12): 781. https://doi.org/10.1071/WF18026.

[4] Cuthrell, Rob Q., Chuck Striplen, Mark Hylkema, and Kent G. Lightfoot. 2016. “A Land of Fire: Anthropogenic Burning on the Central Coast of California.” In Contemporary Issues in California Archaeology, edited by Terry L. Jones and Jennifer E. Perry, 1st ed., 153–72. Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315431659-9.

[5] Mishima, Christopher, "A Comprehensive Look at the Benefits of Traditional Ecological Knowledge of Native American Indigenous Communities for Fire Management Practices in Northern California" (2020). Master's Projects and Capstones. 1017. https://repository.usfca.edu/capstone/1017 

[6] Roos, D. (2020, September 18). Native Americans Used Fire to Protect and Cultivate Land—HISTORY. https://www.history.com/news/native-american-wildfires

[7] Keeley, Jon E., and Alexandra D. Syphard. 2019. “Twenty-First Century California, USA, Wildfires: Fuel-Dominated vs. Wind-Dominated Fires.” Fire Ecology 15 (1): 24. https://doi.org/10.1186/s42408-019-0041-0.

[8] Trelles, J., and P. Pagni. 1997. “Fire-Induced Winds In The 20 October 1991 Oakland Hills Fire.” Fire Safety Science 5: 911–22. https://doi.org/10.3801/IAFSS.FSS.5-911.

[9] Davis, James B. 1990. “The Wildland-Urban Interface: Paradise or Battleground?” Journal of Forestry, January, 26–31.

[10] Radeloff, Volker C., David P. Helmers, H. Anu Kramer, Miranda H. Mockrin, Patricia M. Alexandre, Avi Bar-Massada, Van Butsic, et al. 2018. “Rapid Growth of the US Wildland-Urban Interface Raises Wildfire Risk.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 115 (13): 3314–19. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1718850115.

[11] Martin, Robert E., and J. Boone Kauffman. 1989. “Use of Prescribed Fire to Reduce Wildfire Potential.” In: Berg, Neil H. Tech. Coord. Proceedings of the Symposium on Fire and Watershed Management: October 26-28, 1988, Sacramento, California. Gen. Tech. Rep. PSW-109. Berkeley, Calif.: U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Pacific Southwest Forest and Range Experiment Station: 17-22 109. https://www.fs.usda.gov/treesearch/pubs/26919.

[12] Cohn, P., Williams, D. R., & Carroll, M. 2008. Wildfire risk and attribution: Viewpoints of wildand-urban interface residents. In W. Martin, C. Raish, & B. Kents (Eds.), Wilfire risk: Human perceptions and management implications (pp. 23-43). Washington, DC: Resources for the Future.

[13] Depietri, Yaella, and Daniel E. Orenstein. 2020. “Managing Fire Risk at the Wildland-Urban Interface Requires Reconciliation of Tradeoffs between Regulating and Cultural Ecosystem Services.” Ecosystem Services 44 (August): 101108. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.ecoser.2020.101108.

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