Courtesy of Emily Moore
- We bought our dream mountain home just outside of Boulder, Colorado.It had stunning views from roof-height front windows and nearby hiking trails that our dog loved.We knew the risk of wildfires when we bought, but the scope of mitigation was larger than we thought.
When I first set foot inside, I knew it was special.
My partner and I had been living in a 1,150-square-foot home in Boulder, Colorado, enjoying a 2.75% interest rate, but we were feeling cramped.
We both worked from home and shared a tiny desk in our spare bedroom and a full-sized desk in our dining space. Dinner parties required creative planning, and we had no garage or basement for storage.
Then, one day, our realtor excitedly called us up. A house that checked nearly all of our boxes was just about to hit the market. She asked if we could come see it right away.
The neighborhood was comprised of sprawling land plots and spacious homes tucked into an impressive foothill, with a winding road connecting them. Our future house was at the very top.
As I stepped inside, I could see Boulder's grasslands reach out toward the horizon through roof-height front windows. Take just a few steps into the backyard, and the craggy peaks of the Rocky Mountains poked into the sky.
Courtesy of Emily Moore
It was true mountain living, but only a 10-minute drive to Boulder's city limits. To us, it offered the best of both worlds: access to the community we loved, while gaining plenty of space to work remotely and feel connected with nature.
There was one major downside, though.
We'd have to factor wildfire risk into our day-to-day lives
Worsening drought conditions accelerated by climate change were leading to destructive, difficult-to-predict wildfires in the Western states, including Colorado's Front Range.
Our realtor connected us with her friend, a retired fire department chief, and we walked the property together.
Courtesy of Emily Moore
He pointed out the changes we would likely need to make: updating the roof with fire-resistant shingles, adding a gravel barrier, taking down trees, and keeping wild grasses trimmed.
He said to start by contacting a local nonprofit, Wildfire Partners, that assesses wildfire risks for homeowners.
So, after closing on our dreamy mountain home in the winter of 2022, we scheduled our assessment. Since Wildfire Partners would not come until spring, and our yard was blanketed in a protective layer of snow, we shelved our concerns for the first few months.
We faced a steep learning curve
We assembled mood boards on Canva, scoured vintage rug resellers, and shopped for the perfect leather couch to complete our dream living room.
Our houseplants thrived, and our sweet dog fell in love with the trails that started outside our front door.
Courtesy of Emily Moore
As the springtime rolled in, we watched the evening thunderstorms roll over the plains. Some mornings, we even woke up above the clouds.
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Mountain living wasn't all rainbows, though. Upon moving in, we had a long list of tasks to complete. We needed to install a radon fan. Our well required treatment for T. coli (total coliform) contamination. Getting contractors to come out was a monumental task.
We also discovered that many of the seller's renovations were hastily slapped together. We wondered what other corners he might have cut, and how much of our planned wildfire mitigation budget would have to go toward these unexpected fixes.
The scope of wildfire mitigation was larger than we expected
Courtesy of Emily Moore
When the Wildfire Partners representative came out that spring, he tagged over 30 trees that we would need to cut down. His 17-page assessment also involved trimming ladder fuels and fireproofing our house's exterior.
If and when we completed our wildfire mitigation checklist, Wildfire Partners would come back, verify the work, and issue a certification. They would also match up to $2,000 of arborist-related costs, but the rest would be on us to fund. The proposed scope of work would cost upwards of $50,000, or several thousand less if you were able to DIY some projects.
Our assessor assured us that most people take years to complete their checklists due to the time, money, and effort required. My partner and I debated our plan of approach and decided we would sleep better at night knowing we had taken all the necessary steps to protect our home.
A grassland fire put us on edge
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That first (and only) summer in our dream home, we spent weekends working toward our certification. We felled dozens of trees, stacked logs, and gave them away. Friends pitched in, and a kind neighbor lent us chainsaws.
We trimmed the wild grasses that covered our hillside. We installed a gravel barrier around the house to reduce the likelihood of a stray ember landing and catching flame. We interviewed contractors for more complex projects, like installing roofing and ledge flashing.
It was hard work, but it was rewarding. Before we knew it, we were only a few list items away from earning our certification and feeling accomplished.
Courtesy of Emily Moore
Then, one afternoon, a small wildfire broke out at the bottom of the neighborhood hill.
A neighbor told us that someone operating a weedwhacker had nicked a rock, and the resulting sparks had started a brush fire. I watched smoke curl over the ridge, and refreshed my neighborhood message board, anxiously waiting to find out if we needed to evacuate.
Fortunately, the firefighters acted swiftly, and the winds were not blowing that day, but this fire event brought back a devastating memory from just a few years prior.
On December 30, 2021, a grass fire in Boulder County transformed into a suburban firestorm, fanned by wind gusts of over 100 miles per hour. In a matter of hours, the Marshall Fire had claimed two lives and over 1,000 homes. People had minutes to evacuate. My partner and I read stories of neighbors knocking on doors to ensure no one was left behind, since there was no statewide alert system.
Wildfires are not only frightening because they are destructive. They are also infamously unpredictable. Just one ember—deposited by the wind onto a combustible ledge—could be the difference between avoiding disaster and losing your home.
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That's why our friends at Wildfire Partners were so stringent about handing out certifications. Details that could appear insignificant, such as decking gaps or the type of mesh covering your vents, actually make a big difference. There was also hope—but not a promise—that the mitigations would help keep homes like ours insured.
Insurance trends made us question our purchase
In 2024, the insurance landscape began to change. We heard through the neighborhood grapevine that a neighbor's insurer had dropped them.
A friend in another part of the state also lost her coverage. Finally, we read that State Farm, our insurer, would no longer issue new home policies in California. Could Colorado be next?
It occurred to us that our safety net, which we paid thousands of dollars annually to secure, might not be there for us when we needed it.
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We started wondering what would happen if we lost everything. Would our insurer provide us enough to rebuild in place? Would we even want to? And in the absolute worst-case scenario possible—if a fire broke out, would a neighbor rescue our dog if we were unable to get to her?
Over beers, the same neighbors who lent us yard tools recounted tales of their most recent evacuation. The 2020 CalWood Fire had burned over 10,000 acres. On their wall hung a framed photo of the blaze, which had ripped through the foothills just across the canyon and leveled 26 structures.
I was in awe of their casual attitude, but they revealed important truths. We cannot control nature, no matter how many preventative checklists we complete. Also, we are far from experiencing the worst impacts of climate change, especially as our government takes steps to halt climate action.
Committing to life in a wildland-urban interface would require acceptance and a come-what-may point of view on the matter of wildfires, which we weren't sure we were up for.
We sold in 2024
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Our life on the mountain was far from perfect, but it had become our home.
We looked forward to the wild irises and larkspurs blooming. We even felt fond of the wild band of turkeys that sometimes woke us up at 6 in the morning. Could we really leave it all behind?
Despite everything, we were not resting easily. No matter how much we enjoyed it in the present, we feared our dream home could not be insured or sold in the future. This is not a dealbreaker for our neighbors, who plan to spend the rest of their lives in this special place—come what may. It doesn't matter because they are in their forever homes.
As it turned out, we were not in ours.
Our trusty realtor listed our dream home in the spring, and by summer, it closed. Although we came out in the red, we exhaled a massive sigh of relief. A few days after closing, a wildfire broke out in South Boulder, and I told that familiar pang of fear to take a hike.
For those willing to accept the risk, our former mountain home is a magical place to live. We just weren't those people.
