Approximately two weeks after the Almeda Fire, the urban conflagration that destroyed most of Talent and Phoenix, Oregon, Jackson County released a website allowing residents and insurance agents alike to assess the damage without having to pay a visit in person. Fire remains are potentially toxic even weeks later thanks to burnt paint, gasoline, and other formerly-inert household substances. The website is interactive, showing a map of the entire county with large clusters of dots in a rainbow assortment. Users can either control the map and explore the area or enter a specific address. Clicking on one of the dots will show a street-view picture of the property. 

    I entered my address, knowing what I would see. I had photos, passed to me by my roommate who got them from our neighbor in apartment 4. We got them from him the day after the fire; he was one of the many that took the pilgrimage across the overpass to see the damage with their own eyes. 

    It was exactly the same scene, granted it was presented from a slightly different angle. The building itself was completely leveled, and only blackened appliances remain. The trees demarcating the border between our apartment complex and the one next door have been stripped of their needles and leaves. The place I once called home was barely recognizable.

    What brought me to tears, looking at this image, was the barren hibiscus bush that had adorned the corner of the building. Shortly after we moved in, that bush sprung into full bloom, producing beautiful white flowers tinged with pink. It was in full bloom the last time I saw it, but in the photo it had been reduced to a bundle of twigs sticking out of the ground. 

    It had been two weeks since the day I lost my home, and I was only one of thousands of displaced people in the Rogue Valley. My apartment complex alone was one of three on my street, each with dozens of units. When you look at where my apartment once stood on Jackson County’s fire assessment website, the dot on the map is surrounded by other red dots. Scrolling north toward Medford shows a veritable sea of red dots, all homes declared a total loss. 

    As the day of the fire drifts farther away, I’ve found myself experiencing something akin to anger. My anger is not directed at any one person or thing, rather it’s a reaction to the things I’ve seen in the wake of the destruction. I wish to share my personal experience of the day of the fire, as well as the days following, because I don’t want to forget this feeling; I share what our community as a whole has gone through because I want others to realize that I am not the only one. This feeling is actionable. It is my hope that it will lead us to the change we need to survive a scenario like this. My fear is that we forget, and recent history tragically repeats.

September 8th

    I left my home that day at about 11:30, reporting to my noon closing shift at the coffee shop I worked at at the time. The wind storm that had begun the evening before continued on, nearly knocking me over as I stepped out the door. I was greeted by a peculiar sight: ash on my car. Not an unfamiliar sight, I should note—Oregon’s yearly fires often left a dusting of ash like light snow. I was unaware at the time of any such fire close enough to leave this familiar visible indicator. This fire had just started.

    I went on my way, taking Highway 99 as I often did. As I traveled south toward Ashland I was met with a harrowing sight. East of the road a massive pillar of black smoke towered over the greenway. As I drove through the south end of Phoenix into Talent I drew ever closer to the origin point. In Talent I saw people coming out of homes and businesses to witness what was unfolding. 

    I drove on, asking myself one question: “Where was this fire?” I kept driving toward Ashland. I thought it may have been somewhere on the greenway across from the Jackson Wellsprings, but the tower of smoke was yet still further on. Past Valley View Road I saw a helicopter with a tanker heading our same direction. This fire was somewhere in town.

    Traffic slowed to a crawl past the train tracks over the entrance to Ashland proper. It wasn’t long after, off North Main Street in the neighborhood below, that I saw it. The fire was maybe an acre large at this point, though it was difficult to tell from my vantage point. I felt the pit in my stomach develop at the sight. This fire started in someone’s house, or backyard. I thought maybe I should turn around, but the northbound lane was just as backed up. Emergency services were already on the scene, and I was already so close to work that I thought I may as well just go on. I’ve lived in Oregon my whole life, and fires like this usually get taken care of. But the straight-line wind, blowing north-west harder than I’d nearly ever felt, made sure that this was no usual fire.

    In an effort to operate safely in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, the coffee shop where I worked kept the doors open to promote airflow and ventilation. When I arrived, I heard from my coworkers about the issues they faced all morning battling the heavy wind. As I told them about the fire, the wind knocked something over in our new retail space. 

    After a brief meeting with my boss, who also saw the fire, the day proceeded normally, in the procedural sense. Emotionally, however, my coworker and I were trying our best to get on with the day, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread seeing that looming pillar of smoke on the drive in. 

    It was only about 20 minutes later when we got a call from my boss. Shut it down, he said, because you guys should get home. We got busy closing up the shop; I instructed customers to leave while my coworker got to work stacking the outside furniture and putting the food away, amongst other closing duties. We were finally able to leave around 1pm.

    Attempting to leave Ashland proved to be a futile effort. By the time we finished closing shop, Main St. was already beginning to back up. I only made it two blocks before hitting a complete stand-still. At this point, I had to make a choice: wait in traffic for as long as it would take to drive back to Phoenix, or jump ship and wait it out somewhere else. I reversed course, taking advantage of the intersection I was stopped at to head back. I would learn later that at this point authorities had closed both I-5 and Hwy 99 northbound, thus I didn’t actually have much of a choice.

    The hours that followed were fraught, laced with anxiety and tension. I stayed with a coworker that lived near the shop for a little while, but we spent most of that time getting in touch with everyone else and keeping tabs on the fire through Facebook. I never received any official notice from Jackson County about the fire or evacuations. We relied on first-hand accounts from people in the community. We were constantly refreshing feeds, checking evacuation levels, hoping for containment updates. I was desperately trying to get in touch with my roommate and our neighbor, hoping someone was able to pick up my document folder or my laptop, but I had no such luck. By 3pm we learned the fire had reached Talent. By 5pm it had jumped the freeway, traveling west with still no sign of slowing down. And I was marooned in Ashland, with only my purse and the clothes on my back.

    It was around 7:30 when I received a text from my roommate: The Chevron station across the street from our apartment complex exploded. That was it, in my mind. If they couldn’t stop the fire from reaching that point, there was little chance for our home. I finally landed at my boss’s house, where he and his wife were listening to the police scanner. We listened together as they listed off properties that were “engaged.” It wasn’t long until Cheryl Lane came up.

    I didn’t get true confirmation until the next morning. My roommate sent along pictures and video, though it took me a few days to feel prepared enough to look at them. Even then, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. The entire complex was gone, completely and utterly. The metal carport awning, collapsed on the ground, was the only indicator I really had to identify that this was actually our apartment.

    More pictures surfaced in the coming days, all different perspectives on the same pain we were all experiencing. Homes that looked much the same as ours but with a few details swapped; replace our charred washer/dryer with a brick-and-mortar fireplace, or a Volkswagen whose wheels now sat on puddles that were once its tires. Local businesses like Puck’s Donuts, whose building was destroyed but the sign in front remained untouched, also shared in the devastation. La Tapatia, a restaurant and meat market on Hwy 99 in Phoenix, was a place particularly close to my heart. I was transfixed by the photos I had seen of what remained; the side walls still stood, but the front and roof were gone, showing the world the metal shelving that was once home to snacks and canned goods was the only thing left standing.

I was finally able to make my way north to Central Oregon, where my parents live, about a week after the fire. The day I left Ashland I learned that Talent and Phoenix were now available to most of the public; up to that point both cities were closed off to through traffic and residents that wished to enter their property could do so with a police escort. I opted not to; the wound was still too fresh.

October 9th

    I returned to Southern Oregon about a month after the fire. Pictures weren’t enough; I needed to see it for myself. The complex was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with one entrance on the end nearest Phoenix High School. Bowls of water and kibble dotted the sidewalk, placed by hopeful pet parents. The street-facing side of the fence was festooned by hand-made signs expressing love and anger in equal measures. Memorials to beloved cats hung next to indictments of Jackson County’s fire prevention policies. 

    It all seemed so much smaller, once all the walls and floors had come down. Our apartment was small but it was plenty for us. I spent little time sifting through the rubble, mostly because it was littered with exposed nails and metal supports. The caustic smell also did not help. I was surprised to find what I did, though, only because the few pictures I had as reference showed next to nothing that I recognized. My metal bed frame was slightly warped but mostly intact, laying on top of our kitchen sink. Next to that was a pot that housed the basil plant I kept on the windowsill. I took home two treasures that were essentially intact—a HydroFlask and a mug commemorating the 2016 solar eclipse. 

    I didn’t spend long at the apartment. A part of me wanted to drive down Hwy 99 to continue my journey toward Ashland, but following my former commute in the same manner as I did the day of the fire seemed too much even for closure’s sake. Those photos were enough for me. 

    It seems backwards, in a way, that I was able to gleefully sift through the rubble of my own home but not stomach the sight of the rest of the neighborhood. As I become farther removed from this event, I’m realizing how lucky I truly am to have had the outcome I did. Everyone I know that was impacted by this event is safe and sheltered. My possessions were few, and most can be replaced. But looking at the remains of my neighbors’ homes, I feel a deep sadness. So many people lost much more than I did: treasured possessions, family pets, savings, years and years of hard work gone in a matter of hours. The true loss caused by this fire cannot be measured.

The Aftermath

    As of this writing, the official death toll of the Almeda Fire is three, and while an arrest was made in potential connection to secondary fires started in Phoenix that night, the cause of the initial brush fire in Ashland is still unknown (McNamara, 2020). The fire destroyed about 2700 structures and displaced 3000 people, myself included. In addition, about 65% of the homes lost were in mobile home parks (Sickinger, 2020). Residents of these parks often belong to vulnerable populations, particularly those with low income. 

    But to pull the scope a bit further out, it’s important to understand who lives in the Rogue Valley, and where. Residents of Talent and Phoenix tend to commute to work in Ashland and Medford. Ashland specifically has been in a housing shortage for many years, and of course numerous factors play into why it is so difficult to live in Ashland. Southern Oregon University’s presence means housing availability fluctuates wildly during certain times of the year, but there has been a steady trend upward in housing prices. According to apartments.com, the average cost of rent in Ashland is $841. This does not reflect availability of housing in that price range at any given time, however. At the time of this writing, the cheapest available rental in Ashland is a 2-bedroom, 880-square-foot apartment listed at $1350. This is base rent cost, which doesn’t factor in utilities, internet, and other costs of living tenants face. Meanwhile, Jackson County’s minimum wage stands at $12/hr in 2020, following Oregon’s minimum wage increase schedule. It should suffice to say that living in Ashland has become more difficult for the students and working-class people Ashland relies on to stay afloat. 

    The Rogue Valley’s Latinx population was disproportionately impacted by the fire, as many lived in the Phoenix-Talent area thanks to the affordability factors discussed above. As demographic information on the cities in the Rogue Valley is limited, allow the school districts to serve as a working cross-section of the population. The Phoenix-Talent school district is one of the most diverse in the area, with over 40% of students being Hispanic or multiracial (niche.com). The Ashland school district, on the other hand, claims about 25% Hispanic or multiracial students. In addition, about 60% of students in Phoenix-Talent qualify for free or reduced lunch, versus 36% in Ashland. Median household income in Phoenix-Talent stands at $34,318, against Ashland at $50,613. This data is only meant to illustrate the disparity between Ashland and its neighboring communities, and the differing trends in socioeconomic status. It does not state absolutes for any group of people or individuals. What it does show us is that a greater portion of the population in Phoenix and Talent is non-white than in Ashland, and that those communities tend to have a lower income in the Rogue Valley. 

    What does that mean in terms of the fire? Many of those living in the areas affected by the fire, including the mobile home parks, were uninsured or under-insured. And many relief funds, including aid from FEMA, ask for a social security number to qualify, barring undocumented residents from applying. The only option, in these circumstances, is to return to work; hazardous conditions that were already exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic now were made fully dangerous to the health thanks to the thick blanket of smoke that covered the valley after the winds died down. And if your home was somehow spared? It’s very likely that your living conditions are unsafe because of the toxic debris (Davidson and Ehrlich, 2020). 

    What about those that didn’t have a home before the fire? Many homeless people utilized the Bear Creek Greenway, a hiking trail that provided the fuel and direct path for the fire, as a campground, and were also displaced by the fire. Hawthorne Park in Medford became a destination for homeless mutual aid efforts in the wake of the fire. Law enforcement saw fit to break up the camp and arrested 11 people in the process, including volunteers providing aid and two journalists (Giardinelli, 2020). To treat these people in such a manner shows a lack of empathy for a population that also suffered, as well as baffling contempt for those compassionate enough to help a population most vulnerable. This response makes plain the disdain toward homelessness endemic in our social conscience.

The Ensigns of Command

    The purpose of this piece is not only to serve as a personal therapeutic release but to aggregate the things I’ve seen transpire in the aftermath of this fire that I feel individual conversations are lacking. Focusing on any one contributing factor in the fire’s spread does everyone a disservice. While the greenway and mobile home parks did provide a great deal of fuel, it was not their existence that truly allowed this fire to spread uncontrollably. It was a lack of adequate resources for fire crews to fight the fire, which was spreading so quickly due to uncharacteristically dry and strong wind conditions. Unusual conditions like this are becoming more common because of climate change, evidence has shown (LeCroy, 2020), and the longer we refuse to acknowledge this the more we will all suffer. 

    Something that has also been lost in the discussion of this fire is the reason Jackson County’s fire crews struggled so much to contain the fire: it was happening all over the state. The unusual wind storm that created the conditions for the Almeda Fire also downed power lines and sparked fires in nearly every corner of Oregon. We were not the only ones to lose everything; just ask Mill City, Gates, and Detroit, communities that were changed forever by the Beachie Creek Fire. A photo of Eugene’s red sky caused by this fire went viral, but what many across the state—and the country—don’t realize is that what we saw in Mill City could have easily been the scene in Eugene or Springfield, or even Portland. 

    If the wind had been going the other direction on September 8th, we would have been mourning the loss of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s historic theaters and Southern Oregon University, in addition to homes. I shudder to think of this alternate scenario, and prefer not to engage in what our conversation would look like if Ashland had experienced our current loss. All I know is, if the shoe was on the other foot I would be cramming as many people in my 800sqft apartment as I possibly could, doing what so many in Ashland have done for not only me but so many of the other victims of this fire. 

    What I saw in Southern Oregon the week following the fire was a community that was ready to step up and give to the people that needed help. The community came together in a way I’ve never seen before, and I’m grateful every day for the support and love I felt from those around me. Immediately after the fire, donation sites sprung up all over Ashland and Medford. Local businesses provided food, clothing, and services for victims. Several mutual aid programs are still running as of this writing. 

    This will happen again, if we do nothing. The Paradise Fire in California and the Australian bush fires of 2019 should have been the motivator, but they were merely canaries in the coal mine. Fire season has escalated every year, we have all seen it happen. When are our leaders going to do anything about it? When is anyone going to care that entire communities are burning down every summer? When our communities scream in anguish, does anyone actually hear it?

    If you are reading this and have been affected by any of these fires, I hear it. And if you are lucky enough to be reading this from the safety of your home, listen to us. Make an emergency plan, and know where your valuables are. Above all, know that possessions are mere things that can ultimately be replaced. The people in your life can never be replaced. When we look for solutions to this problem, people must be the priority.

    Finally, know that when this does happen again, I will do everything in my power to help. 

    Stay safe.

Articles Cited

Davidson, K., & Ehrlich, A. (2020, October 27). Their mobile home parks burned. Now rent is due. Oregon Public Broadcasting. https://www.opb.org/article/2020/10/27/almeda-fire-wildfire-oregon-environment-economy/

Giardinelli, C. (2020, September 22). Hawthorne park arrests shine light on old illicit camp issues amplified by COVID and fires. KTVL. https://ktvl.com/news/local/medford-police-department-arrests-reporter-while-vacating-homeless-camp-in-hawthorne-park

LeCroy, H. (2020, September 16). 90 percent of wildfires are human-caused, but climate change isn’t helping. KTVL. https://ktvl.com/news/local/50-percent-of-wildfires-are-human-caused-but-climate-change-isnt-helping

McNamara, K. (2020, October 14). Detectives still investigating Almeda Fire origin. KTVL. https://ktvl.com/station/detectives-still-investigating-almeda-fire-origin

Phoenix-Talent School District. https://www.niche.com/k12/d/phoenix-talent-school-district-or/

Sickinger, T. (2020, September 27). Almeda fire’s destruction of mobile home parks exacerbates Rogue Valley’s affordable housing shortage. The Oregonian. https://www.oregonlive.com/pacific-northwest-news/2020/09/almeda-fire-ravages-mobile-home-parks-in-rogue-valley-exacerbating-affordable-housing-shortage.html