Ned "Doc" Pittman went to a doctor's appointment on June 29 and ended up at an emergency shelter in Pueblo. The Aspen Acres fire had blown up that day, and the entire town of Beulah was evacuated. He never got the notice and wasn’t able to return home. All he had were the clothes on his back.
“It was clear as a bell out. No smoke or nothing,” Pittman said. “I never even got a warning.”
He had no idea whether his home still stood. He had lived there for years, and raised four children there as a single dad.
Two weeks later, he got an official reentry card, which was required at the time, joining a new club no one wanted to be part of. He got in his pickup truck, and entered a long line of his neighbors off of Highway 78, exchanging knowing nods in a somber procession.
Monday was the first time residents who lost their homes were allowed to return.
It was also the first time many members of the community had seen each other since the fire tore down the mountain. Many had only a few minutes to grab a few essentials and evacuate.
“It looks like a nuclear bomb up there,” Pittman told his neighbor in line. They passed scorched trees and a barren landscape that used to be a rich pine forest, filled with shade and cool air and the scent of pine.
Pittman is 70 years old, with a full long grey beard. He wore a large weathered sunhat. He got the rest of the clothing he’s wearing from emergency donation centers. They don't match the sunhat – or him.
Authorities began letting vehicles in, one by one, each with a firefighter escort. Pittman drove around a barren burned mountain into town. He was anxious. He knew his home was gone.
“It'll start getting darker and darker now,” Pittman said, referring to the color gradient of the landscape which quickly blackened. The few houses that stood untouched looked like they were in a different dimension.
He passed tragedy after tragedy with each burned down house of his neighbors. Some folks surveyed their property, pointing at where a garage once stood, a shed, a barn, a child’s playhouse – as firefighters stood by their side.
Others were doubled over or sitting in the ash with their head in their arms.
Pittman turned off the main road, drove up a little bit, and parked. There were more burnt trees — and a large rectangular pile of rubble and grey ash. His home.
“Here's my property,” he said. “Oh God ... takes my breath away.”
He slowly took it all in. The pine trees that used to shade his home were just burnt skeletons. The sun showed through on the ashen pile of the home he raised his children in. All that was left was a standing bathtub and a cooking range.
“These used to be, you couldn't see 20 feet. It used to be so thick.” He looked at the foundation, his burnt up stove, the plates scattered in the ashes, and his truck. "That used to be a green truck. That was a trailer right there,” Pittman said.
“It was like a jungle up here. You couldn't see 20 feet. Now you can see through the whole thing,”
Every mountain top is now visible through the spindly, needleless trees.
Pittman sifted through the ash, listing all the things that once were, like his tools, an old sewing machine, and hundreds of pages of songs he wrote. He cycled through emotions: hopefulness, humor, a tinge of frustration here and there. Sorrow.
He and many of his neighbors did not have home insurance. They said it was not available to them. The United Way of Southern Colorado is offering some recovery efforts.
Pittman’s daughter set up a GoFundMe to help with covering costs.
There are a lot of uncertain days ahead. In the meantime, Pittman's been staying with his brother in Pueblo and is taking things one day at a time.
“This is my heaven, man. You come up here and it smelled fresh and just the wildlife and the trees, everything was just … ” Pitman said, trailing off. “I mean, this is what I made for my life and now it's gone.”
