The Spark The Changed My Life--Part 3 {Evacuation}

Evacuation

I had brought plenty of blankets to keep me warm during the cool desert nights but found that I hardly needed all of them since the nights were significantly warmer than they had been in previous years. No rain, all sun, with temperatures rising each day. In the winter of 2017-18, New Mexico had a significantly lower snowfall compared to the average snowfall. The effects of this became apparent late in the spring when the vegetation turned from young green to brown and crunchy, drying out under the harsh sun. Usually, there are snowcaps on the mountains through the spring and summer that slowly melt into streams which flow freely through the valleys in the mountain range. But this year the streams were only a trickle if they were running at all.

What the fire danger board looked like most of the summer.

Jokes quickly began to pop up among staffers about this being the year that the southern part of Philmont would be burned down from a fire. The northern part (about ⅕) of the property was destroyed by The Ponil Complex Fire 16 years ago and that land was just now starting to have some significant recovery. The forecast for this summer was trending toward a very fire-friendly temperament. The south country, nicknamed the Tinder Box for its overpopulation of trees and downfall, was in prime condition to house a wildfire. If we were to lose the south country to fire, Philmont would become desolate, uncomfortable and unpractical for backpacking. Those jokes about a fire were just jokes though. Although the possibility was high, it wouldn’t happen to us. That’s the attitude that resonated from those jokes anyway. However, in the back of my mind, the possibility still hung. After all, the leadership and conservationists of the ranch kept telling us that, “it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when we’ll have a fire.” Something inside of me was preparing for the “when”, not the “if”. It was a weird feeling, knowing something was coming when there was really no way of actually knowing the “if”, “when”, and “how” of that event.

View of the smoke from Lovers Leap.

On May 31st, I took my newly formed crew of rangers out into the backcountry to start our training trek. Our first camp for the night was Crater Lake, so we were bussed and dropped off at the Lovers Leap turnaround which is one of the drop-off points in the south country. We stopped at Lovers Leap, a rocky outcropping that is a popular place for hikers to stop and explore. Although the afternoon was warm and we still had a ways to go, it was a nice spot to take a breather. After about 20 minutes, we continued on towards our camp, hiking farther into the backcountry with each step. As we crossed an open, meadowy area, I looked to my right and saw a large, oddly isolated cloud forming over Tooth Ridge, which was less than 2 miles away from us. It was growing at an alarming speed and the more I looked at it, the more I began to realize that it was no storm cloud at all but a huge pillar of smoke.

I needed to get more information but had minimal resources to do so. My cell coverage in New Mexico is spotty at best but in the backcountry, I'm lucky if I get enough connection to send a text on the peak of a mountain. Although Philmont has a large radio system, rangers are not authorized to use it so my only options were to wait for someone to come find us or get my phone to work. I pulled my phone out, hoping for a miracle. To my surprise, I did have some cell service and was able to call my ACR, Harrison, to ask about the smoke. Sure enough, a fire had just recently broken out right in the center of the property in an area called Ute Park. Harrison instructed me to continue on with my crew but be prepared to receive updates.

The hike seemed longer than I remembered. Maybe it was because none of us were in hiking shape yet. Ben, one of the boys in the crew, hadn't been feeling well for a few days and hiking wasn't helping. He kept a positive attitude and assured me that he could keep going but I could tell that he was tiring quickly. We finally arrived at Crater Lake camp, tired and hungry. The sun was already setting so we set up our backpacking stove on the terrace in front of the cabin and started cooking dinner immediately. The view from the tiny cabin is beautiful with the lake set nearby and the Tooth of Time peeking through the trees. The only difference in this view than normal was the smoke covering the pinkening sky in the sunset.

View of the smoke at Crater Lake.

Ben’s condition continued to worsen so I called Harrison back to ask for advice. Again, my cell service was working amazingly well. I updated Harrison on how Ben was feeling and we both agreed that I should monitor him through the night and decide in the morning if he needed to come off the trail. He also gave me an update on the fire: it was growing rapidly and all of the crews north of Tooth Ridge had been relocated farther south. By the time we had finished and cleaned up dinner, it was dark, so we decided to skip setting up tents and rolled out our sleeping bags under the stars as the smoke cloud, now glowing in the dark, continued to hang behind the ridge.

First thing in the morning, I called Harrison to inform him that Ben was feeling much better and to get the status of the fire. He told me that an evacuation still had not been called but was possible so we should hike on and call him before we went over the next ridge when I would undoubtedly lose cell service. We packed up and ate breakfast before starting our hike. As we sat eating on the small porch of the cabin, we could hear the radio inside busy with traffic. Cracking open the door so we could hear it better, we listened for any more news on the fire. I was going to do what I was instructed to do but I was really hoping an evacuation would be called before we got farther into the backcountry.

The uncertainty of what would happen made me nervous to lose cell service. We were about to get up to put our packs on when we heard an announcement on the radio. None of us heard exactly what it said but we definitely heard the word “evacuation”. Almost immediately, Harrison called me; the evacuation of the backcountry had just been called so he instructed me to get my crew down to the Lovers Leap turnaround where we would be picked up and brought back to base camp.

View of the smoke during our hike back.

Although it was much steeper and exposed, I made the decision to take the dirt road, as opposed to the trail. My goal was to get to the bus as quick as possible and this option would get us there the fastest. I kept the pace brisk despite the fact that I could feel hot spots forming on the bottom of my feet. In just over an hour, we made it to the bus that had just arrived at the turnaround and joined a couple of other crews who had made it there already. As I sat on the bumpy bus ride to base, I contemplated how I would tell my mom what was happening. I wanted her to hear the news from me before anyone else, but I didn’t want to scare her either. I finally found the wording I was looking for, “I don't want to freak you out but there is a big wildfire on property. We're all being evacuated and far as I know everyone is safe. I'll keep you updated. Send prayers that everything will go smoothly and we won't lose the whole property.” She answered with a flurry of questions, which I answered to the best of my limited knowledge.

Getting to base camp.

When we arrived in base, everyone was buzzing around, preparing for an evacuation. An evacuation had been called for the Village of Cimarron, but it was still not a given for us at Philmont which is only 4 miles from town. Everyone was instructed to pack a bag to last a few nights, but many people were prepared to bring all of their belongings just in case the fire did make it to basecamp. The smoke now hung above us in a thick, dark trail arching across the sky. The smell of smoke was undeniably thick. Although it was said that an evacuation would be called because of air quality and not because we were in immediate danger of the fire reaching us, I heard that people could see the flames from certain spots in basecamp. The fire was quickly destroying the land that we all loved and was now coming straight toward us. I kept my rangers near, feeling like a protective hen looking over her chicks, praying that the evacuation would happen soon.

View of the smoke from the staff parking lot.

View of the smoke from the ranger office.

At lunch, it was announced that plans were made and being put into place to move all 1100 of the staff to the Colfax County Fairgrounds in Springer. People who had cars filled their vehicles with people and luggage, while buses were arranged to take the remaining people. Two of my rangers had cars and we managed to get everyone in my crew into those two cars. The group that I was with sat for nearly an hour in the staff parking lot waiting for our turn to get out. I could see the flames licking the side of one of the ridges about a mile away. In that hour, I watched the flames climb all the way up the side of the ridge. I felt a wave of sadness come over me. One of my favorite camping spots was on the side of that ridge. Only a short hike from that camp was Window Rock, one of the prettiest views on property. That camp was now nothing but ashes and the once beautiful view would be a view of blackened tree trunks and mountainside. I knew there was a plan and that we were fairly safe, but I still felt anxious to get out of that crowded parking lot and get far away from there. Far away from the danger and the sadness.

Firefighting plane about to drop flame retardant.

View of flames from staff parking lot.

When our car finally made it out of the parking lot, we followed behind hundreds of other cars on a slow, start-and-stop 30-mile ride down the road to the fairgrounds. After a few miles of winding through the flat plains that meet the edge of the mountains, I turned around to see the smoke cloud towering over the iconic Tooth Ridge making the ridge look so tiny and insignificant. I prayed that that ridge would stay untouched. That the fire would stop in its tracks and not destroy any more of the beautiful land that meant the world to me.

Smoke behind the Tooth of Time.

The exhaustion of the day got to me and I dozed off in the back seat for the rest of the ride. I woke, mildly refreshed, as we pulled into the fairgrounds. The southern half of the property was the designated parking lot and was already lined with many parked cars. After parking, we got out, unsure of where to go or what to do. The other car with the rest of my rangers had gotten there awhile before us and they were excited to see me, wondering what they should be doing. I laughed, answering that I was just about as lost as they were. They had been setting up tents, brought from the outfitting warehouse, since they got there. The tents were set up on the east side of the property. Rows and rows of them. It looked like a refugee camp. That’s when it really started to sink in: we WERE refugees--displaced from our home--safe but lost. I was supposed to help, teach, and lead these 10 rangers, but we were so out of our normal element that I was of no real help to them. At least it felt that way. I knew that the leadership above me was only a little more informed than I was. They were making decisions on the spot to decide how to best keep over 1000 people safe, healthy, and organized. From my perspective, given the circumstances, they were doing an impressive job.

My crew waiting for instruction.

View of the rows of tents from the bandstand.

An all-staff meeting was called to explain details. Tent assignments were made, and dinner was brought from the commissary at base. As it got dark, the floodlights were turned on over the rodeo arena where the ranches wranglers and horsemen put on a “human rodeo” for entertainment. I had a meeting with my rangers to talk about logistics and debrief the day together, but I kept it quick because they were all eager to go watch the show. I sent them off and went to go talk to Teddy. We sat under the expansive starry sky and talked about how devastated we were, imagining what might be totally gone when we got back. Although the stars were bright, there was still a dark ring around the horizon: the smoke from the fire. It was a reminder that we had escaped to physical safety for now but the future was now uncertain--as uncertain as where the fire would go next. When I had arrived at the fairgrounds earlier that day, I had looked around and seen that the smoke was still nearly surrounding us, even 30 miles away. I was disappointed because I thought we had come here to escape and forget.

Support from Katie.

In the morning before breakfast, we had a leadership meeting to give us updates and plans for the day. The fire had reached an estimated 27,290 acres and the firefighters, now numbered at about 450 personnel, were unable to get it into any kind of containment. The good news was, training was going to move ahead. “Normalcy. This is still Philmont,” Robert Fudge, a head conservationist, assured everyone. And that it was, as much as was possible. Normalcy. I liked that word. It brought a sense of stability to the uncertainty of the situation at hand. We still had meals at regular times, the staff activities center staff had brought games and movies for free time, and each department continued its training.

TC photo taken in the barn.

It became the designated first aid training day for many staff training groups. Usually, this would be done throughout training trek for the rangers, but getting it done in one sitting was nice. I teamed up with two other ranger trainers to teach the 8-hour Philmont First Aid course to our rangers. Half of the day was spent in the barn and the other half in the grandstands when the barn got too crowded. Lecturing and first aid roleplay took up the day until dinnertime. Dinner was catered from the basecamp kitchen this time so we had a hot meal of hamburgers and hotdogs. The rest of the evening was relaxed with a musical show put on by many of the backcountry staff members in the barn. Spirits were high as I met with my rangers to do Philmont’s end of day tradition called Roses, Buds, and Thorns. Everyone shared their favorite and least favorite part of the day and what they were looking forward to. My crew laughed and joked, invited passersby to join us, and topped the night off with a silly rain dance. It was a relief for me to see that my crew was keeping such a high morale.

All-staff photo. 

The plan for the rangers on day two of what was now being called “Springer Break” was to hike to a nearby park and practice camping skills. My crew was eager and had everything that we would need packed and ready to go when we all gathered for the 8am all-staff meeting after breakfast. The first announcement was that, although the fire was still at 0% containment, there had been significant progress in controlling the fire and rain was in the forecast. The excitement and joy rippling through the bandstand where we were gathered was exhilarating. Even the smallest glimmer of hope was all we needed to keep going.

But much to our surprise, the next announcement was that we were heading back to base camp immediately. The crowd erupted into elated screaming. A lump formed in my throat as I felt tears of happiness fill my eyes. Everyone sat, squirming in their seats as the exit plan and schedule for the rest of the day was explained. As soon as the word was given to get up and clean up camp, the mass of people rushed to their tents to pack their belongings. In under two hours, everything was packed up, put in vehicles, and a police line was formed to pick up all trash that could be found across the campground. We filled many trash bags full of trash, leaving the property better than we found it.

Handfull of trash that I picked up.

As people began to pile into cars and busses, I looked around the now empty fairground, with few signs that over 1000 people had been living there for nearly 48 hours. It was truly amazing that through the whole evacuation process, our group as a whole was prepared to handle a situation like this. With the organization of Philmont and its resources combined with the skills and training of the staff, we were able to work and even thrive in that situation. Most people had their own camping gear, knew how to pack light, and many of us learned and used camping skills for our jobs. Philmont had enough food stored to feed thousands of people for the entire summer, camping gear to supply for those without any, and there was already an accountability system set up which made it easy to keep people accounted for and informed. Although Red Cross had set up two evacuation centers to provide food and shelter for the people of Cimarron and Ute Park, the Philmont staff, which outnumbered the citizens of both Cimarron and Ute Park combined, had operated nearly independently through the whole process.