When the smoke cleared, the Rio Blanco Fire, one of the worst in Archuleta County’s history — had left 1,388 acres blackened. From County Road 335, dark shadows stretched across the north face of the mountains, a solemn testimony to the fierce blaze that had swept through our little valley.
The fire began with a lightning strike near the top of Archuleta Canyon. Strong winds pushed the flames, which raced down the canyon, showing no mercy to the pine trees, brush and landscape in their path.
The ranch-style house at the mouth of the canyon stood its ground. Against overwhelming odds, and through the tireless work of firefighters who fought back the flames, the Wylie home was spared.
What could have been a day of sorrow became a day of gratitude.
The annual shrimp boil, hosted by Al and Allison Wylie, went on as planned. Guest gathered, not merely to enjoy an evening of shrimp, crab legs and fellowship, but to celebrate the preservation of a home, a community and the people who had worked without rest to protect them.
Everyone who attended had been touched by the fire in some way. Some had evacuated. Others opened their homes to the displaced Blanco residents and each person carried a story — of fear, hospitality, loss narrowly avoided and kindness freely given.
As I listened, one word came to mind: vestige — a visible sign, a footprint or a physical reminder of something from the past that remains. The scarred forest was a vestige of the fire. So were the burned leaves resting against the bright flowers on the porch. They seemed to whisper of what had passed through as life continued around them.
For 17 years, Al and Allison Wylie have hosted their shrimp boil for neighbors along the Lower Blanco and throughout the community. This year, however, the gathering carried a deeper meaning. It honored the heroes of the Blanco: the firefighters who worked nonstop for 10 days protecting homes and safeguarding lives. County employees were also recognized for the many hours of service, energy and care they gave during the crisis.
The sheriff’s office guarded the entrance to the Lower Blanco Road, recording names and addresses of all who entered. Their presence helped protect evacuated homes and the precious memories they held. They remained at their posts until evacuation and pre-evacuation orders were lifted, allowing families to return and find their homes, as much as possible, just as they had left them.
That evening, 15 long tables lined the driveway, and there were nearly 150 people gathered around them as shrimp, crab legs and all the trimmings were poured onto butcher paper and spread the length of the tables. Laughter rose into the evening air. Conversation continued. Children played. Neighbors hugged.
Only yards away stood the place where the fire had stopped. It was impossible not to recognize the narrow margin between destruction and deliverance, and many who felt deeply the faithfulness of God.
The wild turkeys provided their own kind the entertainment.
“The turkeys are confused,” Al said. “Pushed back by the fire, and bears invading their peaceful space, they don’t know where to go.”
Cameras were aimed, videos recorded and smiles shared as the birds became an unexpected part of an evening no one would soon forget.
I chose a table where I knew no one except a writer friend. While others played Wiffle ball, I found myself in conversation with a man named John, whose stories became one of the highlights of the evening for me. He was the son of those with Gamble’s store in Pagosa Springs, and he remembered the people and places that had shaped an earlier Pagosa.
He spoke of Ruby Sisson, who taught him math and algebra and, according to John, never missed a day of school. And I remembered seeing Ruby in her green 1966 Chevy, traveling snow-covered roads from the Upper Blanco to teach her students. Today, the Ruby M. Sisson Memorial Library bears her name — a small but enduring footprint of a woman whose influence reached generations of Pagosa children.
Our conversation stirred memories of my own: two great floods that had raged through the Blanco, water spilling over the Rio Blanco’s banks and coming within feet of our home. County crews filled sandbags and built a barrier around our house as the river surged nearby.
My Sweet Al and I are among the oldest couples still living on the Lower Blanco. We came full-time in 1976 and 1977, years marked by historic and bitter cold temperatures often 8 to 13 degrees below normal — and a river frozen hard by winter. So many of the old-timers we knew, including the Ross’s and the Rackhams, are no longer with us. Their children and grandchildren now carry their stories forward.
Those stories, like the blackened mountainside, are vestiges. They are footprints left behind by people, seasons, hardships and acts of courage and mother nature. They remind us where we have been and who has helped us endure.
Final brushstroke: As guests departed from the shrimp boil that evening, it seemed that more than smoke had cleared. There was a renewed appreciation for the generosity of Pagosa Springs, the Lower Blanco community and all those who stepped forward during the Blanco Fire of 2026. We are, indeed, a blessed people.
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