In the Ashes of Ruidoso
"See that big ass building back there? That used to be a hotel!" my crewmate remarked as we passed a pile of ashes, surrounded by a few bricks—the remnants of what once was the foundation of a classy hotel in the Swiss Alps of Ruidoso, New Mexico. As we made our way to our campsite after a day’s work, we found ourselves on a road that used to be a scenic drive lined with homes on both sides. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still scenic—the ponderosa and oak-covered mountains rise in the distance, and the sun breaks through the clouds—but now, if you look to the left, past my crewmate, or to my right, outside my mesh-covered rectangular window, you see metal roofs on the ground. Roofs that once covered someone’s home, now resting on a few inches of ash and debris from what were once furniture, photographs, and appliances. These metal roofs are silent markers, showcasing the homes of hundreds, if not thousands, of families who were evacuated and would soon return to a new, unexpected reality.
I’m one of approximately 800 firefighters who came to this fire. This is my perspective—one of many—and I can't say if others will see it the same way.
If you look closer at the mountains of ponderosa, they glimmer with the orange and black of burnt needles and bark. In the ditches, you might spot the body of someone’s horse that had escaped, lying belly-up, scorched and lifeless. Neighborhood streets are filled with stray dogs. White Mountain Elementary School no longer echoes with the laughter of children on swings and slides; instead, four tents stand in the woodchips where the soccer field used to be, already packed with firefighters. Herds of elk now pass through daily at 5:30 AM, perhaps wondering what happened to their home.
Speaking of elk, I’ve been thinking a lot about the animals affected by this fire. When we first arrived, two ravens perched side by side on a powerline, staring at the flames. What were they thinking? Were they warning others? Watching their home go up in flames? Do they feel sadness like we do? In our last days here, we walked through the burned land. The landscape is eerie—everything black and covered in ash. Imagine walking on the moon, except this moon has bare, lifeless trees. That’s the black we are in now.
The ground is littered with skeletons. Large ones catch your eye—elk, most likely. Maybe a cow or horse. Even if you could identify the animal by its bones, you’d need expertise to make sense of what’s left. I tried to pick up a skull, but it disintegrated in my hands. In my mind, I pictured an elk running down the hill, its eyes wide with panic, its teeth bared like a racing horse. It stumbles over a burned stump, and now I’m holding its fragile skull in my hands.
One last thing. We’ve been working alongside the Tatanka Hotshots. One night, a small kitten wandered into their camp. Her paws were burnt, her ears full of ticks, and her whiskers singed. She was so malnourished, her ribs stuck out alarmingly. Where did she come from? Did she have siblings? Where was her mother? I wondered what she would have said if we could understand each other’s languages. Brave little kitten. Smart little kitten. She’s called Smokey now and is on her way to a new home in South Dakota, where she’ll live a pampered life.
Despite the devastation and ferocity of this fire, it’s remarkable to witness the beginnings of reformation and regrowth.
Reformation: Yesterday was the first day residents were allowed back into town. Already, wooden foundations of new homes are being laid, and ash is being cleared. Dogs are now on leashes, walking alongside their owners, instead of running loose in the cul-de-sacs. People are helping each other. An elderly man brought a cooler of steaming hot burritos—at least a hundred—for the 60+ hotshots. People come together in tough times.
Regrowth: The edges of the fire still smoke, the ground hot to the touch, as the fire creeps through the layers of oak leaves piled from seasons past. Yet, just three days after the fire, green grass is already sprouting through the ash. Bugs are scurrying, and waxworms are burrowing back into the soil. Chipmunks leap from rock to rock as if nothing has changed, and at the bottom of the valley, the creek flows steadily, barely acknowledging what just ravaged its surroundings.
