Raina had always approached life with meticulous diligence, evident in her comprehensive personal emergency preparedness plan. Residing alone in a rustic cabin on the precarious edge of Roaring Fork Valley, a region perpetually threatened by wildfires, she had developed a thorough strategy for crisis management: a meticulously packed go-bag containing vital supplies, a clearly delineated evacuation route, and a battery-operated radio for timely alerts. When the wildfire ignited in the hills in 2025, Raina believed she was adequately prepared. Unfortunately, she was mistaken.

It began with a sudden lightning strike at midnight, igniting the parched forest into a raging inferno. By 2 a.m., her radio emitted a crackling evacuation order as smoke infiltrated her home. Raina swiftly gathered her go-bag—prepared with water, sustenance, and a first-aid kit—and entered her aging sedan. Her strategy was straightforward: navigate the back road to the highway, then proceed to the community shelter located 10 miles away. She had practiced this plan numerous times.

The initial setback was immediate. The side road, a constricted dirt path chosen to evade the congestion of the main road, lay obstructed by a fallen pine, its branches ensnared from a recent storm. Raina’s strategy had not anticipated such impediments; she had presumed the route would remain unobstructed. Lacking the necessary tools to clear the tree, she retreated, her heart racing, as flames flickered ominously on the ridge.

Her backup route was the main road, but it had devolved into chaos. Vehicles clogged the two lanes, their horns blaring and engines stalled, as anxious residents abandoned their homes. Raina’s strategy hinged on a swift exit, but she had not foreseen this gridlock. The radio, now her sole connection to the outside world, began to falter—its new batteries depleted alarmingly fast under incessant use. The county’s alert system, reliant on a solitary cell tower, had failed, leaving her in the dark concerning the fire’s trajectory.

Raina’s next step was the shelter; however, upon her arrival, she was met with utter chaos. The community center, designed to accommodate 500 people, was overwhelmed with 800 individuals. She had anticipated finding food and water, yet all supplies had been depleted. The rations in her go-bag were sufficient for merely one day, not the three she would require. The shelter’s generator failed, casting the building into darkness. Raina, who depended on a portable oxygen concentrator due to her mild COPD, observed the battery level steadily deplete. She had not accounted for the possibility of power outages.

With no cell service and no means to summon assistance, Raina confronted a dire decision: endure the confines of an overcrowded shelter or venture onto smoke-obscured roads. Ultimately, she opted to remain, yet the encroaching fire soon became a stark reality. Her strategy had failed to consider the ferocity of a wind-driven inferno and the absence of timely state support, which was hampered by other concurrent blazes. By dawn, her cabin lay in ruins, and Raina narrowly escaped with her life.

Huddled in a Red Cross tent days later, Raina had an epiphany about her grand plan: relying on clear roads was like trusting a cat to stay off the counter, her supplies were as limited as a squirrel’s attention span, and backup systems? Well, they were about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Sure, she had survived, but her confidence in her own preparedness had gone up in smoke—cue the dramatic music. It seemed like rebuilding would require a total reboot, maybe even a crash course on “How Not to Be a Disaster.”

Goes to show, the best plans may not always work.