ON THE GROUND 

Urs Baur submits his experience “Too Close For Comfort: A Community’s Resilience in the Face of Fire”

I’ve lived in this canyon for 25 years, and while fires are a constant threat, they’re never routine. Each event carries its own dangers and lessons. Over time, I’ve learned to gauge the winds, to recognize the conditions under which a small spark could quickly explode into a catastrophe. 

When I heard about the Palisades fire around 11 AM on January 7, I was unsettled but not yet alarmed. The Santa Ana winds were blowing offshore, pushing the fire toward the sea. I monitored updates, checking official sources and local WhatsApp groups. It still felt manageable—close enough to track but distant enough to stay calm.

Everything changed around 2 PM when a WhatsApp message came through stating that the fire had jumped Highway 27 and the Reel Inn was burning. It didn’t sound right, and I felt compelled to respond: “EASY NOW” (I even used all caps). “That doesn’t seem possible—can anyone confirm?” Moments later, someone shared a video from a driver’s perspective, navigating thick smoke, with flames consuming the Feed Bin, the Reel Inn, and the Topanga Ranch Motel. It was real.

I knew it was time to prepare to evacuate. I grabbed the bins I keep ready for moments like this: a few essentials, irreplaceable items, and a bag packed for a week. At 4:30 PM, the power and Wi-Fi were cut, and I finished packing in the dark. I left through Old Canyon, checked on my girlfriend, and we both headed to a friend’s house in Woodland Hills.

The next morning, the news was relentless. Network TV showed nonstop coverage of apocalyptic fires tearing through homes and neighborhoods. WhatsApp groups and friends were clamoring for updates, but real information was scarce. Along with the fire that steadily encircled the canyon, an alarming amount of misinformation spread almost as quickly as the flames.

I realized I could best help by returning to the canyon. Familiarity with the geography, microclimates, and local connections allowed me to report accurate updates to my groups. Over the next few days, I returned whenever I could, scouting from different vantage points and relaying eyewitness reports from the only WIFI hotspot at the library. I shared updates with chat groups, loved ones, and friends who had been reaching out from around the world—some of whom I hadn’t spoken to in years.

At the same time, local efforts were gaining momentum. Vigilante fire brigades put out hotspots on the ground and directed airstrikes in coordination with county firefighters. A small army of volunteer admins streamlined digital communication channels, providing increasingly accurate and useful information. An impressive supply chain mobilization kept vital materials, caffeine, and gourmet meals traversing the barricades, fueling the volunteers and firefighters on the front lines.

In the midst of the chaos, Topangans came together. We relied on existing emergency plans and systems, expanding them as the crisis unfolded. Neighbors and strangers looked out for one another. Resilience, resourcefulness, and a deep connection to this land and each other carried us through. It was yet another reminder of why this place is so special.

After the fire settled, it became clear that Topanga was spared the worst, while others weren’t as fortunate. Malibu, the Palisades, and Altadena suffered devastating losses. In the end, what saved Topanga wasn’t just luck. Geography and favorable atmospheric conditions played a role, but preparation, quick thinking, and the strength of community made the difference. And yet, it’s important to remind ourselves that Topanga is always just one windstorm, one fire away from the next existential threat.

The photos accompanying this story capture only some of the stages in the fight against the fire. They tell one facet of a community in peril. While so much was spared, my heart goes out to those who lost everything.