Thirty minutes.
That is how long Vicki Rose and her husband had to decide which parts of their life could fit in a vehicle.
Most of us imagine our lifetime safely stored in photo albums, dresser drawers, gun safes, recipe boxes, garages full of tools, and that mysterious closet container nobody has opened since the Clinton administration.
Then wildfire shows up.
Suddenly, a home becomes a countdown clock.
The Gazette reports that the Roses scrambled to gather clothes, supplies, cats, dogs, and whatever else their frightened hands could manage before leaving their Rye home as the Aspen Acres fire closed in. In the confusion, they even left behind their “important box,” the one holding passports and other critical documents. Nearly three weeks later, they remained unable to return home.
The fire is frightening enough.
The waiting may be worse.
Vicki knows her house was still standing the last time she saw it. Firefighters had clearly worked to protect homes in the area. But standing is not the same as safe, and seeing is not the same as knowing.
So she waits.
She watches the Watch Duty app. She studies every update. She notices every helicopter and every bucket of water. Good news arrives a teaspoon at a time.
That is the part we sometimes miss when wildfire becomes another red shape on a Colorado map.
Evacuation is not simply leaving.
It is sleeping somewhere that is not yours. It is keeping animals calm when you are not calm. It is paying for meals, fuel, hotels, and whatever emergency expense arrives next wearing work boots. It is depending on family, friends, strangers, firefighters, deputies, volunteers, and anybody else willing to help carry what suddenly became too heavy.
Some evacuees have been living in vehicles with their animals because they cannot find or afford lodging that will take everyone. Community members stayed together as long as they could, but time and money have a way of stretching even strong people thin.
Preparedness matters. We should have the documents together, medications ready, pet carriers accessible, and a real go-bag instead of a reusable grocery sack containing two flashlights and a granola bar from 2019.
But preparation does not remove the heartbreak.
You cannot pack eleven years of home in thirty minutes.
You cannot plan away every spark, wind shift, dry hillside, or bad break. Colorado is beautiful country, but sometimes beauty comes with smoke in the sky and ash on its boots.
What we can control is whether we pay attention before the map turns red near our own road. We can check on neighbors. We can make room. We can give money, meals, lodging, pasture, transportation, or simply a steady voice when somebody else’s world is shaking.
And we can remember that behind every evacuation number is somebody wondering whether home is still home.
Thank God for the firefighters and responders doing dangerous work in miserable conditions. Pray for the families still waiting. Then look around and see where you can help.
Because when disaster comes, regular people need regular people.
That is still how we get through the worst days.
Source: The Gazette
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