Federal agents from the Department of Homeland Security arrested two firefighters who were battling the largest wildfire in Washington state.

The incident, which occurred on August 27, was the Seattle Times, and then confirmed to听国产吃瓜黑料 by a spokesman with the state’s department of natural resources.

On August 28, Washington Governor听Bob Ferguson that his office was investigating the incident.

“Deeply concerned about this situation with two individuals helping to fight fires in Washington state,” Ferguson wrote. “I’ve directed my team to get more information about what happened.

According to the听Seattle Times,听federal agents wearing police vests confronted firefighting crews on the morning of Wednesday, August 27. The crews were part of six separate firefighting teams battling the Bear Gulch fire in Washington’s Olympic National Forest, about two hours from Seattle. The blaze, which started in early July, has burned approximately 9,000 acres and is 13 percent contained.

Eyewitnesses told the Seattle Times that agents demanded identification cards from members of two private contractor fire crews. They prevented crew members from leaving the area during the check.

Speaking anonymously, firefighters who witnessed the confrontation told the听罢颈尘别蝉听that they were prevented from speaking to the detained members of their crew.

鈥淚 asked them if his [family] can say goodbye to him because they鈥檙e family, and they鈥檙e just ripping them away,鈥� one firefighter told the Times. 鈥淎nd this is what he said: 鈥榊ou need to get the [expletive] out of here. I鈥檓 gonna make you leave.’鈥�

A spokesperson for the firefighter’s incident management team said that the federal agents did not interfere with the firefighter’s response to the blaze.

Arresting firefighters marks a major change in policy by the Department of Homeland Security. In 2021, that it would not conduct immigration enforcement in locations where disaster or emergency response teams were working.

The incident prompted an angry responses from U.S. senator Patty Murray, who represents Washington. In a statement, Murray demanded answers from the federal government about the arrests, and then called the Trump administration’s immigration policy “fundamentally sick.”

“Here in the Pacific Northwest, wildfires can, and have, burned entire towns to the ground,” Murray said in a statement. “We count on our brave firefighters, who put their lives on the line, to keep our communities safe鈥攖his new Republican policy to detain firefighters on the job is as immoral as it is dangerous.”

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On Kelly Ramsey’s first day with a Californian hotshot crew鈥� an elite team of wildland firefighters鈥�she鈥檚 not only scared she won’t be able to keep up with the intense physical demands of the job, but worried how her fellow firefighters will take to her. She is the only woman in a crew of 20 men, as well as their first female team member in ten years. And at 38, she鈥檚 also among the oldest.

While Ramsey overcomes “the bro show” and her crew鈥檚 skepticism, she finds herself on the front lines of the some of the fiercest wildfires the West has ever seen. Bringing us along with vivid prose, she battles both the megafires and the insidious psychological toll, and ultimately earning her crew鈥檚 respect鈥攁nd even friendship.听

In her intimate and action-packed memoir, Ramsey wrestles with the power of fire to both destroy and renew while confronting her own internal struggles and self-destructive patterns. Asking herself:听 “Which fires do you fight, and which do you let burn you clean?鈥澨�

Watch Kelley Ramsey talk about her new book in this video below.听

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It鈥檚 been stiflingly hot all this week, and in Washington鈥檚 North Cascades National Park, wildfires have ratcheted the heat up even more. A blaze called the Sourdough Fire started on Saturday, July 29 above Diablo Lake, one of the park鈥檚 iconic roadside destinations. As of Thursday, August 16, it has burned .

The nearly 400-person crew has the conflagration about 11 percent contained, and they鈥檝e successfully protected the handful of nearby structures. Most urgently threatened were the Ross and Diablo dams, which generate electricity for Seattle, and the , home to many utility employees and their families.

The fire passed the town by without any injuries or property damage. Nicholas DiGiacco, the spokesman for the National Interagency Fire Center, that officials are 鈥渃onfident鈥� that the area is contained. Now, fire crews are shepherding the flames west, towards a preexisting firebreak, a wildfire scar from 2015. 鈥淥ur intent is to move this fire into that scar with the intention that it would run out of fuel,鈥� said DiGiacco.

The crown jewel of Washington State鈥檚 Cascade Mountains, North Cascades National Park is a popular summer destination for climbing, camping, boating, and hiking, just a few hours from Seattle. It boasts a handful of road-accessible campgrounds and recreation areas, but the main attraction is 500,000 acres of remote alpine backcountry accessible by hundreds miles of trails, including a long section of the Pacific Crest Trail.

This year, though, the thru-hikers en route to Canada, along with other outdoor enthusiasts, are going to have to reroute or wait for things to cool off. In addition to the Sourdough Fire blazing in the heart of the park, the smaller is burning in the National Forest along the park鈥檚 eastern border, and that fire has closed the highway to traffic from the opposite side.

The park鈥檚 ecosystem is , and it has overcome small, cleansing blazes as well as larger and more damaging ones over the past decade. What makes the Sourdough Fire particularly worrying is its proximity to infrastructure. The burn area borders the North Cascades Scenic Highway, the only road through the park.

鈥淩ocks continue to fall down, trees continue to fall down, so we鈥檙e not putting crews in there unless we absolutely have to for transport back and forth,鈥� Northwest Interagency Incident Management Team section chief Dean Lange .

The dams at Diablo Lake and Ross Lake that make electricity for Seattle are also near the flames, and were taken offline. A on the shores of Diablo Lake had to be evacuated.

It鈥檚 not just people living in the nearby towns and would-be campers who are feeling the heat. At the beginning of the week, enough smoke drifted into the greater Seattle area to . Fortunately, the smog is nowhere near the levels it has reached , but it arrived in tandem with daily highs in the 90s鈥�very hot for the historically temperate area.

Slightly cooler temperatures are for later this week, but it will be awhile before North Cascades National Park and the highway are . The Sourdough Fire is , and there鈥檚 the possibility that it will continue to spread during the dry, hot, and breezy conditions expected in the next few days.

Wildfires and heatwaves are the new norm in a region best known for rain and lush forests. But with any luck, the worst damage from the fires in North Cascades will be on would-be visitor鈥檚 summer plans.

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鈥淲e fight fire with humans on the ground and hand tools primarily. Some are squirting water, some are swinging axes. We are nowhere near a technological solution to the human aspect. Either work on solving that at some point, or focus on how you can help the tired, dirty, hungry, firefighter who鈥檚 been up for 36 hours do his or her job better.鈥� Those were the words of one frustrated fire chief, at the Wildfire Technology Innovation Summit in March, 2019, to deliver real, effective solutions for his firefighters.

The way we fight wildfires today, in 2023, is not fundamentally different from how they were fought during the early 20th century. Firefighters on the ground cut breaks with hand tools, or perform controlled burns with drip torches. They coordinate those actions via handheld radios with command centers that are often miles away. And communication across the five federal agencies responsible for wildland firefighting, plus the myriad state and local entities that might also be involved, is fractured and disorganized.

As more and more Americans move into the wildland-urban interface, and climate change increases incidences and severity of wildfires, this outdated approach is no longer a match for the scale of the problem.

Enter the , which President Biden signed into law in 2021. It provides $5 billion in funding through 2026 to improve the way in which our nation fights wildfires. A lot of that money is going toward mitigation efforts, improved pay for firefighters, and burned-area restoration. But at the Department of the Interior (DOI) alone, $72 million is being devoted to modernizing firefighting technology, and training firefighters to use it.

Enter the 2024 Ford Bronco

With these improvements in mind, this 2024 Ford Bronco is one of the very first examples of what that new firefighting technology will look like. Built in collaboration between Ford (which is donating the vehicle to the DOI as part of its initiative) and , a vehicle upfitter serving defense and first responder agencies, it incorporates a host of communication abilities, as well as the ability to push fire command operations through rugged terrain, closer to the front lines.

Starting with a bone-stock Bronco equipped with Ford鈥檚 Sasquatch package, Darley incorporated an integrated satellite, cellular, and radio-based communications system that brings redundant compatibility across an array of government and civilian communications channels. It鈥檚 powered by a large, 3.5-kilowatt-hour battery pack that charges from the vehicle鈥檚 alternator, and is operated by a single-tablet running prototype-incident management software developed by Darley. A drone housed in one of the rear storage areas adds the ability for incident managers to take eyes even further than the vehicle can travel itself.

This all probably sounds pretty basic to you and me, and the supercomputers we carry around in our pockets. But it’s probably the best indication of how far behind fire-fighting technology really is. Right now, incident command is run out RV-size vehicles using simple radio equipment. Those vehicles are too large and unwieldy to get further than paved roads. So, on-the-ground information about fuel loads or fire behavior has to be radioed in by individual firefighters, then assembled and distributed again by radio. And anything from the exact location of fire crews, to localized fire behavior can easily be lost or missed in that process.

鈥淲e鈥檙e using a tracking system that was developed in the 1940s and it was developed primarily to move military equipment for World War II,鈥� one firefighter told the (PCAST) in March, 2022. 鈥淓very one of your cellphones sitting on the desk in front of you can order whatever you need and have it delivered to your house tomorrow.鈥�

Here鈥檚 How the 2024 Ford Bronco Will Improve Firefighting in the Field

With the 2024 Ford Bronco, incident commanders will be able to quickly鈥攁nd easily鈥攍eave pavement behind. Equipped with 35-inch tires and locking axle differentials front and rear, the vehicle will be able to drive right into the frontlines of an active fire, then use satellite data, firsthand observations, and drone footage to assemble a live picture of current fire behavior, wind directions, fuel loads, and crew locations. Darley鈥檚 new software will display all of that simply and intuitively on the tablet. And, all of that information can be distributed across the tangle of responders, agencies, and managers either present in the field, or remotely. The Bronco is equipped with transmitters to establish a large wireless network, giving field workers the ability to receive and transmit data even in the absence of cellular networks.

鈥淲e could put real-time fire perimeters鈥攁nd by that I mean one minute from collection to firefighters鈥� mobile phones鈥攊n the hands of almost every firefighter in the country right now if we pointed and wrote a few checks,鈥� another firefighter told the in March, 2019.

This integration of multiple data sources into a simple, intuitive interface is similar to the technologies soldiers and their commanders have been using to fight wars in recent decades. Darley tells me they鈥檙e basing the fire equipment on the same capabilities. And just like to coordinate their efforts more effectively, with less risk in the ongoing counteroffensive, American firefighters will soon be able to fight fires more effectively, more safely, in the near future.

鈥淥ur biggest hurdle with all these different technologies is what we call our 鈥榣ast mile connection,鈥欌�� a firefighter testified to PCAST in March, 2022. “How do we get this data to boots on the ground?… The communication infrastructure is just not there.鈥�

Next Steps: Getting Firefighters the Gear They Need

Ford and Darley are building two of these Broncos, with this first example going into use in New Mexico鈥檚 Bandelier National Monument later this year. Its capabilities fall exactly in line with the in February, which found that existing technologies are capable of augmenting wildland firefighting efforts right now, and are desperately needed as fire behavior grows more and more dangerous.

鈥淭he needs of our wildland firefighters overlap substantially with those of America鈥檚 warfighters,鈥� reads the report鈥檚 conclusion. 鈥淲hereas we have a national commitment ensuring that our warfighters are not sent into harm鈥檚 way without the best of American science and technology at their disposal, no similar organizational framework exists to protect and empower wildland firefighters.鈥�

Now, finally, a substantial budget is being applied to making that dirty, hungry firefighter鈥檚 job better. And that solution is going to look a lot like this Bronco.

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Working the front lines of America鈥檚 wildfires is a difficult and dangerous job, but that doesn鈥檛 mean everyone who signs up is chasing adventure. While physical and mental challenges are part of the attraction, what draws many to the field is the camaraderie that comes with working in an unpredictable environment alongside a committed crew. And what makes a great firefighter isn鈥檛 a high tolerance for risk so much as the ability to be calm and assertive no matter what the day brings. In this episode, we speak to a trio of firefighters about how and why they fell in love with one of the most demanding jobs out there.

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Greg and Julie Welch were relaxing at their campsite in Minnesota鈥檚 Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in August, 2011, when a tiny fire in a nearby bog suddenly exploded into a massive inferno that began racing toward them. At first they were confused: they knew there were small wildfires in the area, but all forecasts suggested there was nothing to worry about鈥攊t was humid and rain was on the way. However, an extremely rare convergence of atmospheric events had set in motion what would become known as the Pagami Creek Fire, consuming more than 92,000 acres over several months, making it the biggest wildfire in the state听in more than a century. And now the Welches faced only one choice: jump in their kayaks and paddle for their lives.

This episode was brought to you by Go RVing, which wants to help you make the most of your adventures. Learn how easy it is to work from the road or take your family and furry friends with you on your next trip at .

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Filmmaker began his career fighting wild land fires in 2003, so in many ways, his latest film project felt like a return home. The Wild Land, a short documentary made in partnership with the , follows the Colorado Craig Interagency Hotshot Crew as it battles wildfires in California and Montana during the 2021 season. It was a 鈥渄ream come true鈥� to combine his two loves of wildfire and filmmaking, Irving says.

Wildfires are burning hotter and stronger than they used to, in large part due to severe drought caused by climate change, as well as a that have let wild land fuel build up. Hotshot crews use a variety of tactics to fight these fires, as shown in the film. One technique requires crews to build their own line of fire (away from the head of the blaze), with the goal of sending it back toward the wildfire and burning up all the fuel in its path.听

While a big part of the film shows the crew hiking through the backcountry and fighting the fires, Irving wanted to focus on the important relationship between the crew and the crew boss, one that requires trust and respect when hotshots are putting their lives on the line. The Colorado Craig Interagency Hotshot Crew, led by Logan Blankenship, is a close-knit group and even holds a small birthday celebration for a team member at the end of a long night. Blankenship, Irving says, is the best crew boss he鈥檚 ever seen or worked with.

The working conditions are a big part of retaining career firefighters. Previously, it was common for hotshots to work 36-hour shifts, which led to burnout among crews. 鈥淗opefully this film shows other firefighters that it doesn’t have to be that way,鈥� Irving says. 鈥淚t’s okay for a crew boss to care about their crew, to look after them, and make sure they’re staying healthy.鈥�

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On July 22, the Oak Fire started in Midpines, California, 37 miles from Yosemite Valley. At the time of publication, 18,532 acres and 41 homes and buildings have been destroyed. This is the story of one Mariposa resident .

On Friday, July 22, I鈥檇 just returned home from hosting an e-bike ride with a family of six鈥攍eading bike tours is my side gig鈥攚hen I noticed smoke nearby. My house is down Triangle Road, next to the Butterfly Creek Winery in Mariposa, California, just 40 miles from Yosemite National Park. I鈥檝e called Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada foothills home off and on for 30 years. They are my favorite places in the world.

The flames were visible from my front yard, beyond Carter Road, which climbs Buckingham Mountain, near where we were riding. The fire looked to be growing quickly, but it was also far enough away that it didn鈥檛 seem threatening.

Concerned but not overly alarmed, the family and I piled into our van and headed toward Midpines to get a closer look. Snarling flames paralleled Highway 140, and thick billowing smoke filled the sky. Temps were in the high nineties, and a breeze blew. As we passed the Midpines Country Store, we decided to turn back because I was worried the road might close, and we didn鈥檛 want to get stuck.

Once we flipped back, the fire鈥檚 severity increased. The flames were more significant now, the fire more intense. We agreed that we needed to evacuate my house as soon as possible and get everything to a safe location.

Phone reception is non-existent in the Sierra foothills, so instead of cutting back to Triangle, we went to town so I could call for help. Fire trucks sped down the highway. The sky was orange. I rang everyone I could think of, including my friend and Stone Nudes photographer Dean Fidelman from Yosemite West. He tried to come with his van to pick up my e-bikes, but a closed road stopped him. I also called Josh Holmes and his son Jax in nearby Nipinnawasee, who immediately got in their car and drove to my place.

We sped back home and everyone grabbed what they could. Josh and Jax carried boxes of books, climbing gear, and technical outerwear. A lot of my stuff was stored in bins and big haul bags, so it didn鈥檛 take long to fill my SUV and Josh鈥檚 pickup. I didn鈥檛 bother unplugging power cables from the wall; I didn鈥檛 care which of my many bikes went on the rack; I assumed I would be right back to move more gear. Looking toward the fire from my front yard, I thought, 鈥淭his is going to burn my house down tomorrow.鈥�

I loaded听my 100-pound boxer, Fenster, into the front seat, cranked the windows down since the AC was out, and we drove fast to Paul and Julia Wignall鈥檚 place, owners of , on Mount Bullion, about 21 miles away. Due to detours from closed roads, it took more than 40 minutes to get there. I unloaded, lifted Fenster back in the car, and prepared to get as much stuff into my vehicle on the next run as possible.

It looked like I was peering into the gates of Hell.

New roadblocks kept me from returning. I took a back way to one junction only to be stopped. 鈥淭he fire is throwing flame a mile or more down the road,鈥� one officer told me. 鈥淪omeone almost just got taken out from a speeding emergency response vehicle,鈥� said another.

Out of options, my attention turned to Fenster and making sure he didn鈥檛 overheat. (Boxers have short little noses, which make them prone to heat stroke.) I tried three bars and restaurants, but two were closed due to fire; the third, the , was open, so off we went. I hadn鈥檛 had the time or the insight to pack his leashes, so I made one by ripping a Fourth of July ribbon off a pole on Main Street and tying it to his collar.

Soon the pub filled up and everyone talked about the fire. CAL FIRE described it as 鈥渆xtreme with frequent runs, spot fires, and group torching.鈥� As I write this on July 26, it鈥檚 16,000 acres and is now the largest California wildfire of the year.

鈥淵our place is gone,鈥� everyone told me. I had no reason to doubt them.

The news鈥攖he loss of my home鈥攄idn鈥檛 faze me. I鈥檇 already spent the week in and out of the hospital, and I was freaking out because tuffs of hair suddenly started to fall out of my head. A visit to the family physician one day turned to the emergency room the next.

The doctor told me I had alopecia, and he didn鈥檛 know why. His choice of language (鈥渃hronic illness鈥�) and my rapidly deteriorating condition made me think I could die. In short, I was battling an autoimmune disease for an unknown reason. This condition will significantly change how I look, too. Hair falls out of my head and may never grow back. If it does, it comes back white and wispy. I can鈥檛 grow a beard, and I fear my eyebrows and eyelashes are next. I cried in the ER, bawled alone in my house, and cried on my landlord, Dale鈥檚, shoulder. I wailed away, sobbing like I was at a funeral. But I was just alone at home.

Overwhelmed with thoughts of death and my newly balding head, on July 22, I went back to Mount Bullion and pulled up to the summit. There, I watched flames devouring my old neighborhood. Under the blackness of night, burning red lit up the hillsides. It looked like I was peering into the gates of Hell.

Early reports said the blaze charred ten homes, which was later updated to 41. The flames took out every inch of terrain I鈥檇 e-biked this year. My Strava report says I spent 150 hours since January in that area, covering some 218,000 vertical feet and 1,800 miles in the process. I was absolutely in love with that region, which climbs into Jerseydale and the Sierra National Forest. You can see into Yosemite at one spot and directly at El Capitan. Now, .

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As an out-of-control blaze approached their home, a couple made what seems like a crazy choice: they ignored evacuation orders and stood their ground. Fire officials tell us that decisions like this puts lives at risk, including the lives of firefighters who may need to come to the rescue. In the U.S., authorities universally agree that escaping to safety is the only reasonable thing to do. And yet some people still insist on staying put to defend their own homes. In this replay of an episode from 2019, we tell the extraordinary story of Gary and Lori Lyon, who survived seemingly impossible odds during one of the world wildfires in California history.

This episode is brought to you by Aruba, an island in the Caribbean that offers so much more than a vacation. Learn more about what awaits you at this very special destination at听

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I was thousands of miles away from home when the Camp Fire ignited not far from where I grew up. It was November 8, 2018, and one month since I had moved to Berlin, where the day was cold and darkening. But back home in Butte County, California, it was hot and windy. At 6:45 A.M.,听the fear that permeates in that corner of the world was realized: a spark lit, and a blaze was born.

I鈥檇 spent my whole life in Northern California, where summers always carried the existential threat of wildfire. I鈥檇 seen a few pass through Butte Creek Canyon, where I grew up, slowly burning the ridges for weeks before simmering to a stop. But in recent years, climate change鈥攁nd in this case, negligence on the part of Pacific Gas and Electric (PG&E), which supplies the majority of the state with power鈥攈as been creating conditions that we鈥檝e come to consider a 鈥渘ew normal鈥�: wildfires that burn hotter, bigger, faster, later in the year, and less predictably than ever before.

On November 8, PG&E was supposed to shut off the power in Butte County, but it didn鈥檛. A transmission tower failed in the Feather River Canyon, and within an hour, the ensuing flames were headed straight for the tiny town of Paradise, which sat on the ridge above the canyon where I grew up. Back in Berlin, I opened my laptop to gauge the threat on my home and watched the chaos unfold. I read accounts of people鈥檚 cars burning on the Skyway鈥攐ne of the only roads out of Paradise鈥攁s traffic snarled their escape. I saw videos of fire lining the roads, civilians fleeing on foot. I heard about people trapped in their homes and those who didn鈥檛 make it out before their cars ignited. Not long after, the fire swept down into the canyon.

It was days before I knew that my sister鈥檚 home in Butte Creek Canyon had burned down, along with the majority of homes in that area, and that my childhood home had miraculously survived. It took weeks before anyone knew the total tally of the devastation in Butte County, but as November 8 drew to a close, 85 people were dead, 18,804 structures were destroyed, and Paradise had been wiped off the map. The Camp Fire would soon be known as the most destructive wildfire in California history.

News teams streamed into Butte County for months after the blaze, telling and retelling the gut-wrenching tales of those who survived and those who didn鈥檛. But watching from so far away, I felt like I didn鈥檛 understand it, like I couldn鈥檛 get a full picture of what happened that day. What I did know was haunting, but what I didn鈥檛 haunted me. Until I read former San Francisco Chronicle听reporter Lizzie Johnson鈥檚 new book

Paradise, out this month, is a harrowing minute-by-minute account of the Camp Fire, combining on-the-ground stories from the town鈥檚 residents, first responders, and officials, with a complete picture of the environmental conditions, urban-planning missteps, corporate negligence, and bureaucratic failures that coalesced into this unprecedented disaster. By the end, I closed its pages with the paradoxical realization that the devastation this fire wrought was completely avoidable, but also that we鈥檙e doomed to see it repeated over and over again鈥攁nd already are.

The book opens at dawn at fire station 36 in the Feather River Canyon, where California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (Cal Fire) captain Matt McKenzie wakes to the sound of 鈥減onderosa pine needles [falling] like the raindrops that refused to come.鈥� An hour later, he鈥檚 forced to abandon the breakfast he鈥檚 preparing for his crew, when news of a nearby fire pings his phone. From there we watch in slow motion as the fire explodes, traveling an acre a second and cascading through the tiny community of Concow鈥攚here residents only knew of the fire when flames licked their homes鈥攂efore bearing down on Paradise.

Johnson takes us through the chaos as emergency responders try to calculate the speed and threat of the fire, which moved faster than anyone could wrap their heads around. City officials stall evacuation orders, not fully comprehending the magnitude of the impending disaster. We see how vulnerable Paradise was: because the town is located atop a ridge with just a few routes out, evacuating all of the听nearly 27,000 residents at once was impossible.

In the end, it didn鈥檛 really matter how they timed the orders鈥攄ue to a technological error and a low registration rate, the emergency alert system failed to send an evacuation notice to 80 percent of Paradise鈥檚 residents before it was too late. As the flames neared the town, smoke turned the sky a 鈥渂ruised navy, then black鈥� before a 鈥渉ail of embers鈥� like 鈥渕illions of lit matches flutter[ing] from the heavens鈥� bore down, starting hundreds of spot fires. The residents knew for themselves it was time to flee.

The bulk of the book takes place in the firestorm. Packed with so much suspense and detail that it sometimes reads like fiction, Paradise delves so deep into the experiences of every character听that we see the fire through their eyes, feeling the weight of their every decision, every close call. My heart pounded as flames closed in on Rachelle, clutching her hours-old baby in the back of a stranger鈥檚 car. My eyes welled as Tammy, a nurse at Feather River Hospital鈥檚 Birth Day Place (the labor and delivery unit where my niece was born one year earlier), called her family to apologize for past transgressions and say goodbye, not sure she would make it out alive. I had to put the book down several times to catch my breath鈥攚hen Travis watched his friends get sucked screaming into the flames, or when police-department dispatcher Bowersox listened as elderly residents stuck in their homes cried for help, knowing no one was on the way to save them.

The details of these accounts are painful enough. But Johnson鈥檚 powerful ability to pull us so completely into the lives of each person makes them almost unbearable. We don鈥檛 just pick up with the characters in the midst of the flames; we get their entire backstory (sometimes excessively), learning how they ended up in Paradise and why they loved it. Beloved Paradise Unified School District bus driver Kevin McKay, for example, moved to the hamlet from Santa Cruz, California, when he was 12. After growing up and buying a house in Magalia, a small community north of Paradise, he enrolled in school and took a job that gave him the time he needed to study鈥攄riving the school bus. During the Camp Fire, McKay navigates a busload of children through the flames, asking the two teachers on board to make a manifest of everyone鈥檚 names in case they didn鈥檛 survive.

The effect of these backstories is an intimacy that makes each escape feel personal. That鈥檚 the true feat of Johnson鈥檚 meticulous account: she humanizes a tragedy that is otherwise too big to fathom鈥攅ven for those of us, like me,听for whom the tragedy was already personal anyway.

Paradise delves so deep into the experiences of every character that we see the fire through their eyes, feeling the weight of their every decision, every close call.

This humanization extends to the aftermath, too. After we see all of the characters escape the flames, Johnson takes us to the reckoning, where we begin to understand that, while climate change, poor infrastructure, and flawed emergency systems were all contributing forces, the real blame rests on the shoulders of PG&E. The fire was caused by a single hook installed in 1920 and then neglected, on a transmission tower that failed. It would have cost just $19 to repair. 鈥淚t was the hook that took the lives, the hopes, dreams, the health, the sanity, the wealth, the happiness of a community,鈥� Johnson recalls Butte County district attorney Mike Ramsey saying during the court proceedings against PG&E. 鈥淏ut etched into the very soul of this community is a concern: What will happen next? Will this happen again?鈥�

Those questions are already being answered. Since the Camp Fire, wildfires across the West have exploded and consumed more towns whole. In August 2020, the North Complex Fire burned through California鈥檚 Butte, Plumas, and Yuba Xounties, killing 16 people and leveling the communities of Bery Creek and Feather Falls. As of press time, Butte County is 鈥攏ow the largest single wildfire in California history鈥攚hich started just ten miles from the ignition point of the Camp Fire. Again, it looks like ,听and again a handful of small towns are threatened.

In this landscape, it鈥檚 hard to land on a note of hope, and Johnson doesn鈥檛 try to. Like everyone else, she admits in so many words that the solution to this swelling problem is anything but clear. But before the book鈥檚 epilogue, Johnson brings us to the conclusion with an Indigenous legend from Butte County鈥檚 Konkow tribe, something she weaves poignantly听throughout the book. In the legend, a wildfire as destructive as the Camp Fire kills the majority of the tribe and displaces the rest, forcing them to wander for generations before finally making an exultant return home.

The modern-day residents of Paradise haven鈥檛 been so lucky. Just 2,034 of the town鈥檚 26,500 residents returned to the ridge. Houses are being built as quickly as possible, but for every person who promises to return, it seems, there鈥檚 one who vows they never will. The memories of the fire are still too raw, or the price of building materials too high, or the insurance payment still pending. More than that, the Paradise they knew is gone. The beloved Johnny Appleseed Day parade, the weekly football games with residents piled into the bleachers of Om Wraith Field, the thousand American flags that lined the Skyway on Memorial Day. Gone, too, are the 鈥渂almy summer evenings at the drive-in movie theater, a mattress thrown in the truck bed鈥� and 鈥渢he air that smelled like heaven after the first winter rain or the first warm day of summer.鈥�

For now, at least, these memories have been preserved. More than just a portrait of destruction, this book is a small act of restoration. Paradise will never look the same again, but Johnson captures its pre-fire charms with enough compassion that, for some, reading Paradise may feel something like coming home.

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