On our drive towards Caleveras county, I had no idea what to expect. I joined a team from our field office that was working on the emergency stabilization and rehabilitation plan for the devastating Butte Fire, which had consumed about 70,000 acres of land over three weeks in September. As we got closer to the edge of the burned area, there were more signals of what lay ahead – signs thanking firefighters and law enforcement, warnings against looting and unlicensed contracting, stations offering free food, water, and clothes.

Abruptly, the ground on one side of the road turned black – then, both sides. Some properties had escaped the flames, and some had suffered minor damages.  Others were burnt to the ground – small traces, an above-ground pool or chimney, were all that remained. The desolation was hard to comprehend as we approached the public land that we were planning to survey.

It was a huge relief to get out of the residential areas. Without the painful indications of human loss, one could almost imagine being on another planet.  Here, all was grey, orange, and red.  Without leaves blowing, or bees buzzing, it was very quiet – flies were about the only thing that moved.   But even here, you couldn’t look far without finding some trace of human life – a charred beer can, or the metal threads of a tire.  Even when these remnants were difficult to identify precisely, their geometry, their unmistakable built-ness, served as inescapable reminders that this still was, after all, our world.