A Fire’s Fury: A Personal Journey Through California’s Blazing Storm
The winds came on Tuesday morning, roaring like a tsunami over my family’s home in western Malibu. The utility company, anticipating the danger, shut off our power. We knew the risk of fire was high, and the memory of the Franklin Fire, which had burned the hills black just weeks before, still lingered. As I stepped back into my hometown for the holidays, the familiar scent of smoke and ash greeted me once again. When my dad and I ventured out to find electricity, a massive plume of smoke billowed over the burned hills, stretching out over the Pacific Ocean. It was a sight all too reminiscent of the Woolsey Fire, which had devastated Malibu in 2018. The winds were relentless, rattling our car and scattering debris across the roads. We knew this new fire was heading straight for Topanga Canyon, the mountain community where I grew up.
Dad and I decided to drive to Topanga Canyon to help our former neighbors, people who, like my family, had lived here for decades. Yet, there’s a familiarity with evacuation warnings that can breed complacency. Some of our friends and neighbors initially saw the fire as manageable—until it wasn’t. By the next day, the fire had become a terror, an inferno unlike anything we’d seen before. It was a reminder that, as a seventh-generation Californian, I’ve lived through fires that have destroyed places I’ve loved since childhood. This fire was different, though. It moved with a ferocity that left even the most seasoned veterans of California’s fires in awe.
As we made our way to Topanga Canyon, we stopped to watch the fire burn. The flames were encroaching on a neighborhood where two of my childhood friends grew up, just beyond the Pacific Palisades. The fire’s intensity made me question whether the Palisades was still standing. The main road was closed, the winds dislodging rocks that could rain down on cars, so we took back streets. Dad remarked on the driving of others, noting how the tension in the air was evident in every reckless maneuver. We eventually reached the home of an old friend, another survivor of the 1993 fire that had warped the double-pane glass in my childhood home. He told us he’d be fine, based on the wind’s direction, and even offered us coffee while he still had power. But as Dad pointed out, the flames had already reached the mouth of Topanga Canyon, and our friend reluctantly promised to prepare for evacuation. “But nothing will ever be as bad as ’93,” he said, a statement that would soon feel hollow.
When Dad and I returned home, the power was still out. Evacuation warnings had been issued for a nearby neighborhood, and we debated whether to prepare to leave. A month earlier, during the Franklin Fire, we’d packed our family photos and birth certificates, only for the fire to spare our house. Our neighbor, who had stayed behind during the Woolsey Fire, was her usual calm self, but even she admitted that this fire felt different. The winds were stronger, the flames more relentless. That night, Dad and I decided to venture out again, determined to see how close the fire had come. When we finally managed to push open the front door against the gale-force winds, we were coated in a fine layer of ash. The houses around us were dark, their power gone. On the highway, we didn’t just see smoke—we saw flames.
Our friend from earlier called us, his voice shaking as he said, “I’m on the freeway now. I got the hell out of there. We’re toast. I’ve never seen anything like this.” The radio broadcast we tuned into was patchy, but the gist was clear: the fire had already claimed landmarks that were part of my childhood. The Malibu Feed Bin, where we’d buy dog food and pet rabbits, was gone. The Topanga Ranch Motel, where I’d waited for the school bus, was gone. The Reel Inn, with its handwritten ocean puns under the neon sign, was gone. So was Cholada Thai, a high-school staple where my friends and I still gathered, and Wiley’s Bait & Tackle, a wooden shack that had stood since 1946, where my brother and I would marvel at the lugworms. Each loss felt like a piece of my past being erased.
As the night wore on, the fire raged on, its glow visible over the hills. My parents and I kept our phones close, waiting for any emergency notifications. By morning, the power was still out. We’d packed the family photos and birth certificates into the car, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Even as the fires burned on, my parents were already talking about how we’d handle the next time—and there would be a next time. They discussed getting a larger coffee press for when the power goes out and a camp stove for when the gas lines shut off. But for now, all we could do was wait. Mom just told me that one of her friends had sent her new photographs: my childhood home, the one she and Dad had built together in Topanga Canyon, might be gone. For now, the fire is still on the other side of Malibu, and the wind is still blowing.