By Shawn Hubler
For a long time, it has been a local belief: Catastrophes in Southern California are seldom as vast as they appear.
Delaware and Rhode Island could fit comfortably within Los Angeles County. A trip from Pacific Palisades to Pasadena takes almost an hour, even in light traffic. During the 1992 L.A. riots, Americans were horrified by the fires illuminating the downtown skyline. What was not captured was the tranquil suburban streets lined with jacarandas, where most of Southern California observed the chaos on their screens.
This time, however, things were different.
In a fierce onslaught that commenced Tuesday morning and persisted into Wednesday night, a wildfire and wind phenomenon assaulted a vast urban area of 4,753 square miles, home to nearly 10 million residents, unleashing flames that ravaged communities across all socioeconomic spectra.
Luxurious homes turned to ash in Pacific Palisades, a celebrity-rich area of West Los Angeles. Residential neighborhoods were obliterated 35 miles to the east in the neat suburb of Altadena. Ranch hands in rural Sylmar, located 25 miles to the north, fled the fiery chaos, leading their horses to safety. New residents in recently developed areas hours away, such as Pomona, prepared for evacuations as gusts reaching 59 miles per hour rattled their windows and palm trees.
By late Wednesday, the infernos had resulted in at least five fatalities and more than 1,000 structures devastated, with further damage anticipated as winds picked up with nightfall. An additional fire erupted in the evening, engulfing parts of Hollywood Hills. Over 80,000 individuals were under evacuation orders.
It wasn’t merely that the area was ablaze. It was that flames seemed to rage everywhere simultaneously, as numerous separate wildfire incidents ignited in populated areas throughout the region, each igniting its own array of spot fires fueled by wind-driven embers. Psychologically, if not literally, they converged into a sort of mega-catastrophic event for Southern Californians. Ash, smoke, wind, and flames carried a heart-wrenching realization that spread like wildfire: a new and less controllable reality lay ahead.
“The only thing I can equate this to would be a massive earthquake,” remarked Zev Yaroslavsky, 76, who served as a City Council member and county supervisor in Los Angeles for decades. “Except earthquakes have a focal point.”
He paused, coughing hoarsely from the smoke that enveloped the area. “This is happening everywhere,” he noted. “It’s affecting everyone who breathes the air. When I went out to fetch the newspaper this morning, a giant black cloud loomed over the city from the Eaton fire. It was like something from the Bible.”
To outsiders, Los Angeles may appear to be a vast, faceless sprawl filled with artificiality and isolation. Yet, for its residents, each neighborhood and every backyard serves as its own universe. Every hub of the region boasts its unique character, cuisine, dialect, essence, and landmarks.
The fire in Pacific Palisades not only claimed the homes of prominent individuals — “One day you’re swimming in your pool and the next day it’s all lost,” actor James Woods told CNN, tearfully — but also dismantled the infrastructure of a small town with a population comparable to Pottstown, Pennsylvania.
The Palisades has a median household income of $155,433, nearly double that of Los Angeles County, according to city and census statistics that include nearby Brentwood. The site of the initial flames is valued at an estimated $4.5 million, which is midrange for the area. Even more expensive properties are famously perched in the hills, owned by family-friendly moguls such as Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg. Sugar Ray Leonard’s estate is listed for just under $40 million.
However, many of the residences that were lost were located in a section of town referred to as the Highlands, where townhouse developments from the 1970s and ’80s have long provided a more affordable alternative for retirees and single parents. Long-term residents have inhabited the Palisades for decades, having purchased homes years ago in a hidden gem that was more accessible than Beverly Hills yet less rustic than nearby Malibu or Topanga Canyon. As firefighters fought to safeguard the central business district and local schools, generations of “Pali High” alumni anxiously implored them to protect the site of their adolescent memories.
The communities surrounding Eaton Canyon, located an hour’s drive eastward, represent another entirely different Southern California. Centered around Pasadena, with a population exceeding 133,000, the area serves as a majority-minority hub for the region’s middle and upper-middle classes. Altadena, the unincorporated area closest to the fire, is recognized for its sprawling ranch-style homes and tidy bungalows nestled at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains.
On weekends, locals hike in the canyon and discuss the advantages of drought-resistant landscaping versus rose gardens. Decorating for Christmas is treated as a competitive event. The beauty of the Angeles National Forest offers a local sanctuary. Yet, the looming threat of wildfires remains ever-present.
“This is my fourth fire and the only instance we’ve evacuated,” shared Muffie Alejandro, 74, a manufacturing company owner who has lived near Eaton Canyon since 1989. On Tuesday, she and her husband, Jan, along with their dogs, Mingus and Clinton, fled to a hotel. “This is the most severe I’ve ever encountered,” she stated.
Sylmar represents yet another facet of Los Angeles, rugged and remote, situated far north in the San Fernando Valley, a barren region of ranches and working-class neighborhoods once famous for its olive tree groves. Its population is around 80,000, with three-quarters being Latino. The Los Angeles Aqueduct system’s end is located there, as is the Olive View-UCLA Medical Center.
The area is also no stranger to wildfires. One incident in 2008 consumed nearly 500 homes. El Cariso Community Regional Park, a notable site, is dedicated to the firefighters who perished in a 1966 blaze.
This week, these distinct paradises converged, united in fear.
“There’s a saying that when the winds pick up, Los Angeles burns,” remarked D.J. Waldie, 76, a historian well-versed in Southern California and a lifelong resident of Lakewood, a Los Angeles suburb. “That holds true again, but there’s a foreboding feeling this time.”
This calamity, he observed, has arrived suddenly and from all directions, seemingly heralding further disasters: “I believe Angelenos are contemplating, ‘This will persist indefinitely. And what will happen to us?’”
