Ashes to Blame

It was early December when a wildfire scorched the area near Pepperdine University and burned through Malibu Canyon Road. A week later, driving down from Central California, I took the Pacific Coast Highway to see the aftermath.

The air was thick—foggy, smoky, and heavy with the smell of ash. As I neared Malibu Canyon Road, I found it still barricaded. I had to reroute through Topanga Canyon Road to reach the Valley.

Wildfires are part of life in Southern California. We live in a landscape that burns, pretending we’re in control—but we’re not. Embers leap unpredictably, and with low water reserves, brittle vegetation, and Santa Ana winds gusting up to 60 miles per hour, a single spark can ignite a wall of fire.

This is life here—a place where everything can be lost in moments. Even fire-resistant structures like the Getty Villa are not immune to nature’s fury.

“It’s the wind this time,” someone muttered.
“No, it’s the heat. The drought. The fireworks. The developers.”

Everyone had something—or someone—to blame. But as the ash floated down like gray confetti, I couldn’t help but think: maybe the blame is in all of us. In the way we’ve forgotten the rhythm of this land, how it breathes fire to renew itself—until we forced it to burn out of season, out of reason.

That night, we packed our things just in case. Not because the flames were close, but because we’d seen this story before. And each time, it feels less like an emergency and more like a consequence.