Rob Wilson stood on his home’s back deck in Flagstaff, in the U.S. state of Arizona, as the wildfire approached. All was chaos: Utility trucks rushed through his neighborhood, shutting off gas and electricity. Fire engines wailed and roared by, as police cruisers blared evacuation warnings.
But Wilson had prepared for this moment. When he purchased this idyllic property abutting Coconino National Forest in 2004, he knew his home was at risk for wildfires.
He consulted with buddies at the local fire department and in the building trades, and ran a 4-inch (10-centimeter) pipe from his timber-constructed home to the road to provide for a fire hydrant, and cleared a firebreak around the property. His siding was cement-based, his porch built from fire-resistant tropical hardwood. More importantly, he insulated the home with spray foam insulation, sealing soffit vents so no embers could get in the attic and set his house ablaze.
But this wildfire, like many that have ignited in the past decade, was an altogether different beast than what he’d planned for. When Wilson drove away, he took a last look at the house, thinking he wouldn’t see it again.
The home did survive, while his neighbors’ houses burned down to their foundations. But Wilson came to wish his home had burned too. Because it’s now too toxic to live in.