Last week a fast-moving wildfire swept through the rural communities of the Lake Isabella area, 40 miles east of Bakersfield.  At least 285 residences burned and there were two deaths. The fire was one of the state’s most destructive. 

As I drove into Kernville  on my way to the emergency Red Cross shelter at the elementary school, I saw people at the river park barbecuing and fishing. Rafters guided the rapids. But on the other side of the lake, the Erskine Fire had scorched the hills black. Whole neighborhoods were burnt to ash.

By the time I arrived on Day 4, the fire had moved deep into the Piute Mountains.  Evacuation orders were still in place.

I came to report on those displaced by the fire, but I also have family in South Lake and Squirrel Valley. Both communities were hit hard by the fire. I was last there three weeks ago on another assignment. The day after returning home to San Francisco, I got a text from my dad: “Our house is most likely gone due to fire on Cook Peak.”

When I got back to Kern County, I learned that my aunt and uncle had lost their home in South Lake. The community attracts retirees and those on a fixed income. People who can’t make it elsewhere come here. The neighborhoods are mostly mobile homes.

On my way, I stopped by the Faith Community Church in South Lake, which had been turned into a distribution center run by volunteers. They had just smuggled in 10 truckloads of supplies using dirt trails surrounding the lake. Not even well-intentioned church folk were allowed back in to the area. But many people were without water and electricity, and were ill prepared for a disaster. They needed water, food, pet supplies and more.

Chunks of neighborhoods in South Lake had been reduced to charred rubble. It was hot, 105 degrees with no shade. As many people have said, it looked like a bombed-out war zone. I found my aunt’s house only because I recognized the burnt cars in the front yard. The fire took out six homes on her block. Some homes remained untouched by the fire.

I used my press pass to help my parents get past the roadblock up to Squirrel Valley so they could check on their house. They had been stressed and agitated for days. My dad was nearly manic, trying to do everything and talk to everyone. He was barking questions to cops and public information officers. They were staying at a campground with full hookups, but they have to leave soon because the place is booked for the Fourth of July holiday. My mom was terrified of the heat. Both of my parents are in their mid-60s and  I reminded them how older people are the most at risk for heat stroke and death. My mom smirked and told me she knows that already.

The fire damage in Squirrel Valley was different than in some of the other places I saw. It was more spread out. One house would be reduced to rubble while the houses around it were untouched. On one property  the fire consumed the house but left a boat and a propane tank.

We pulled up to my parent’s ranch home and a buck, with velvet horns, was eating leaves over a fence. The house was fine.

My dad couldn’t believe it. The last time he saw the property, the air was thick with smoke. Flames shot up high on the hills and fires were breaking out in the neighbors’ yards. He was certain their house was gone.

My parents  were lucky. Only a stone’s throw away, on a cul-de-sac, a group of houses had vanished, except for the foundations and stone chimneys.

Many people here lost everything and weren't insured. My aunt and uncle did have insurance. But they say they can't bear to rebuild. They'll be taking their insurance settlement money and leaving the area. For my aunt, there are just too many memories.