This archive report was first published on 25 August 2021.
Indian Valley, California, has been a tranquil haven for generations, where summers were spent checking cattle, swimming in the creeks of the Feather River, and attending the Fourth of July rodeo and the Plumas County Fair. However, this summer has been different, as the Dixie fire has swept across the mountain forests of Northern California for six weeks, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.
For those residents who have stayed behind, hoping to protect their homes and herds, it is hard to avoid a sense of despair. 'They just want to let us burn,' said Butch Forcino, a resident who lost his home in Indian Falls to the fire. He has been living in a trailer in a friend's field, along with many others who have been displaced.
The Dixie fire has been a devastating blow to the valley, which has been my family's home since 1950. My grandfather built a racehorse ranch that doubled as a summer camp for children from Hollywood. My mother moved away but returned with me after her divorce, when I was 4. My aunt, uncle, and cousins are now among the dozen or so ranchers who call the valley home.
Some officials have tried to encourage them to leave, saying they put themselves and firefighting crews at risk. However, at a time when about 100 large blazes are burning across the West, stretching federal and state resources to the limit, they fear that if they do not protect their homes, no one will.
Residents have taken matters into their own hands, clearing brush and chopping down beloved trees as fire breaks. They have repurposed irrigation equipment to beat back the flames and rigged pumps to draft water from ponds. They have watched fire engines arrive and depart, moving in and out of the valley as the blaze advances or retreats.
Even before the recent threat, the valley had seen its population decline sharply over the last several decades, as its mines and lumber mills shut down. Many of those who remain are older, some from families going back generations.
Monroe White, an 85-year-old veteran and onetime gold miner and logger, is one of those who refuses to leave. 'I would only leave when I can read by the firelight and see it come over that hill,' he said.
