Photo by David Cordova
I wrote this on day 44 of the largest fire in New Mexico history. The Hermits Peak Fire began on April 6 with a prescribed burn and combined with the Calf Canyon Fire around April 22. The combined megafire has now expanded to over 301,000 acres, and is only 34 percent contained. It demands the services of 2,100 fire personnel, and has resulted in evacuation warnings in four counties throughout Northeast New Mexico.
My name is Anita Gonzales and I live in Las Vegas, New Mexico, in San Miguel County. Las Vegas is a quaint little town of 13,000 that lies along the Gallinas River and is in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. My family, like so many others, has lived here for generations and my life is one of thousands that have been impacted by this fire. San Miguel County borders Mora County and together, they form a centuries-old community that has existed since before New Mexico was a state. Our community is descended from Indigenous people who have lived in the area since before the United States existed. I can trace my family’s history here back seven generations.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones in my community. Though my family had to evacuate, I’m back home, in the house my grandfather built. I am writing this with the purpose of lending my voice to others who may not have been so lucky.
When the fire first started in Las Dispensas it was worrisome. It expanded quickly to the neighboring areas and evacuations were done quickly. After about two weeks the fire had expanded to about 7,500 acres and was 91 percent contained. No major property damage had been reported and there seemed hope for recovery. But by April 23, the fire had grown to over 42,000 acres and everything magnified. Massive evacuation orders were released, and the fire was growing exponentially, burning tens of thousands of acres each day. Extreme heat, drought, and red flag wind days added to the severity of the fire as containment crews were unable to stop the massive beast that was destroying our community one village at a time.
Immediately, my little town of Las Vegas (and surrounding areas) jumped into action to support its neighbors. An evacuation center was started at the old Memorial Middle School building and became a safe haven to those that had nowhere to go.
I will never forget the first family I met at the evacuation site. They were in a daze and still dirtied with ash and soot. They were a young couple who tried to stay in their home until they were forced out. They had nowhere else to go and the state police had dropped them off at the shelter as they needed clothes and a place to stay. Tears were flowing as they told me their story—they had just invested everything they had into their home a few months earlier and even their car was not working. What were they going to do and where were they going to go?
Even before the fire came to our doorstep, our small town looked post-apocalyptic with brown dark skies and covered in a smoky haze. Then, when the fire had nowhere else to go, it came our way.
As the fire traveled on the south end past Gallinas Canyon it threatened my town, and my house was under an evacuation order. I left my house for the first time on April 29. As I packed, I could see the fire on the horizon. Even though the fire had been on my mind for many days, once it was my turn, I wondered what was important enough to evacuate with. Family came over and together we ransacked my house, packing a suitcase for myself and for my son. When I was alone, the tears started to peek out. But I had to keep it together. My son was scared, and he needed comfort. Before driving away, we checked in with our neighbors to see their plans and lend help where needed. Then we took one last picture with the fire blazing in the background as an emotional goodbye, not sure what was to come.
After a shower and a night of rest, we were hoping to permanently be home, but we were evacuated again the morning of May 2. With the fire nearby in multiple directions and terrible air quality, we packed up to leave again. We moved to Albuquerque for the week. That night was the first night in a few days without a smoke attack, a middle of the night warning, and we had a somewhat restful sleep.
The time outside of Las Vegas was needed more than I realized. Emotionally and physically, I was tired. There is so much worry and heartbreak for those in the heart of the fire. I returned to Las Vegas on Mother’s Day and spent the day happy to be in my home. Everything was still packed, though.
Life has slowly returned to a new “normal” for us here in Las Vegas. The guilt sets in as our return to “normal” has meant a crisis for others as the fire continues to spread to the north and the west. And what about those who had nothing to return to? How is that “normal”?
As people were able to return to their homes, there is a range of what they are coming home to. For some (like me), evacuation ended up being a precaution and we were only gone for a short time. I have a messy house that reeks like a bonfire and piles of items to put back. For others, they have been evacuated for weeks, their jobs and lives turned upside down as they sought long-term refuge elsewhere. Their freezers and refrigerators are full of rotten food and meat that will need to be dealt with. Their wells, pumps, and infrastructure systems need to be fixed.
And then for others, the unimaginable. A return home to nothing but ash and molten rubble. Emotions are raw and different for everyone–optimism, empathy, heartbreak, guilt, denial, grief, sadness, depression.
The future of the fires is unknown, and it’s impossible to overstate the impact they’re having on communities like mine. As the fires rage on, we’re losing generations of culture, generations of existence—people’s herds, their crops, their ranching way of life is gone. People are returning to barren land to salvage. It will be hard, if not impossible, for many to rebuild. To date, over 600 structures have been lost with many more unaccounted and over 15,000 households have been evacuated and counting.
The fires have also left environmental devastation in their wake. We’re still dealing with terrible air quality and smoke. Water quality warnings have been issued to most of the affected areas. There’s a huge loss of livestock, green space, and so much more. In many rural areas, we’re looking at a huge loss of population along with a housing crisis, inadequate supplies to rebuild, and a reduced workforce. I can’t help but wonder whether folks will ever return back to our area after being displaced. They say memories don’t burn, but the things and places that trigger these memories do.
These wildfires are truly unprecedented. With each year that passes, fire season stretches earlier into the spring and later into the winter. As we experience the worst drought in at least 1,200 years, experts are cautioning that more fires could be on the horizon. We must cultivate resilience as the climate crisis’s impacts continue to grow. Our planet is hurting, and we must listen.
For now, I’m focused on relief. I’m working with local efforts that have set up evacuation centers and supply centers. All I can do is stay focused on supporting my community, and the communities across our state who are experiencing these huge losses.