by Blaine Howerton | NorthFortyNews.com
A Journalist’s Personal Story of Fire, Loss, and Recovery
A lifetime of close calls, loss, and recovery shapes why wildfire coverage remains a priority—both across Northern Colorado and for me personally.
There are certain experiences that don’t fade with time. They stay with you, shaping how you see the world—and what you choose to pay attention to.
For me, fire is one of those things.
In 1994, early in my career, I was covering the Black Ridge Fire near Durango, in Southern Colorado, for KOBF TV. The fire burned roughly 17,000 acres.
I went into the backcountry with a tactical firefighter—a smokejumper—documenting the response. We were driving along a rural road when the wind shifted.
In a matter of moments, the fire turned toward us.
I remember the wind picking up, carrying heat and ash across the road, the sky shifting from clear to something harder to see through. The flames were moving fast—faster than anything we could control.
We got in the truck and drove. Fast. Faster than you should ever have to on a road like that.
He told me to get my fire shelter ready. If we had to, we’d ditch the truck and deploy our shelters next to each other.
Not long before that, several firefighters had died in a similar situation.
We made it out.
But it was as close as I’ve ever come to understanding how quickly fire can take control—and how little control you have once it does.
A few years later, in 1997, I was on another fire scene in Pueblo, working for KOAA-TV.
A mobile home was burning. I was behind the camera, documenting the scene, when I heard firefighters shouting.
There was a child inside.
They brought him out.
He didn’t survive.
Those two moments never left me.
One taught me how fast fire moves.
The other reminded me of what’s at stake when it does.
Years later, fire became personal in a different way.
The High Park Fire burned through the area where I own property. More than 87,000 acres were lost. Hundreds of structures were gone.
In King’s Canyon, nearly every neighbor lost their home—except one.
Since then, I’ve spent years working to recover that land.
Rebuilding roads. Maintaining the main access. Cutting and clearing hundreds of trees—many of them burned, many more weakened and falling years later. It’s not something that ends when the fire is out. It stays with the land, and with the people who return to it.
And it almost happened again.
In August 2020, during the Cameron Peak Fire, I was evacuated.
I found myself in a fire shelter in Laporte, waiting to hear whether everything had been lost.
That waiting—uncertain, quiet, stretched out over days—is something you don’t forget.
Thankfully, I was fortunate. Again.
But the work hasn’t stopped.
Even now, I’m still out there—cutting up massive trees that come down in the wind, clearing what I can, knowing there’s always more to do.
Recovery from fire isn’t measured in days or months.
It’s measured in years.
Every time I write about fire, these experiences shape the coverage—because the memories never go away.
That’s why I don’t take fire lightly.
And it’s why we cover it the way we do at North Forty News.
When you see us reporting on fire restrictions, dry conditions, or active fires across Northern Colorado, it’s not routine.
It’s awareness.
Because here, the conditions build quietly—warm days, low humidity, and wind in the afternoon. It doesn’t take much.
And when something starts, it moves fast.
Too fast.
We’re not here to create fear.
We’re here to help you understand what’s at stake—before it happens.
Because I’ve seen how quickly things can change.
I’ve seen what happens when they do.
And I’ve lived what it takes to come back from it—and it’s never easy.
See you out there,
Blaine Howerton
Publisher, North Forty News
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