In Fire-Scarred Altadena, These Residents Refused to Leave

A few weeks after the fire, Justin Murphy counted off the houses that burned on this cul-de-sac in northeast Altadena.

“That one down there was the first,” he said, pointing to the end of the street.

For over a century, eight homes stood on this quiet, secluded street with panoramic views of the San Gabriel Mountains. Now, there are just two: A neighbor’s place across the street and the one belonging to Murphy’s 93-year-old mother, Jane Murphy.

In the wee hours of Jan. 8, and as flames bore down on the neighborhood, Murphy whisked his mom to safety and then raced back up the house. He and his brother had stayed up all night battling the disastrous Eaton fire with hoses, buckets and sprinklers — ultimately saving the home their parents bought 65 years ago but losing a detached garage and study.

Jane Murphy said her sons’ action that night not only saved her home, but others as well. Had her house and another across the street caught fire, they likely would have ignited others downwind of the cul-de-sac.

“He saved their ass,” she said, explaining that Justin also created a text chain to deliver updates to over a dozen evacuated neighbors.

Reflecting upon that night while sitting in the family home’s spacious living room, Murphy said he was still processing the experience.

“I really do believe that by what we did, we didn’t give the fire a foothold in this house,” he said. “And maybe on some level, I wasn’t afraid of the fire. I was willing to take the risk, to protect what’s ours and protect this neighborhood.”

Some combination of courage, adrenaline and profound attachment to their community kept Murphy and a handful of other holdouts on the ground— even as the fire immolated scores of homes around them.

Nearly three miles away, in southwest Altadena, retired U.S. Army Special Forces medic Tom Salinas made the same risk calculation the night of the fire as flames bore down on his neighborhood. His partner, Anna, insisted he evacuate. She said the house wasn’t worth the risk.

“That’s not it,” he said, as he tinkered with his vintage Volkswagen bug. “I said, ‘In the military, if you have a combatant injured in front of you as a medic, I can’t watch you die. I don’t have a choice,’” he told her.

“‘There’s two types of people: the ones that run to the fire, and the ones that run from the fire,” Salinas said. “I’m forever going to be the idiot that runs to the fire.”

In Salinas’ neighborhood, the homes tend to be smaller, and income levels a bit lower. It’s where Black and Latino homeowners were able to build up generational wealth at a time when they were denied mortgages in other parts of greater Los Angeles. But none of that mattered to the fire.

The only protective measure Salinas took while battling the fire was to pull his T-shirt collar up over his mouth and nose. No mask, no goggles, no protective clothing. An avid motorcyclist and thrill seeker, he admits being an adrenaline junkie.

“I love being scared,” he said. “I can go to Magic Mountain [Six Flags] on any ride, any theme park. I enjoy being flipped upside down and turned around. It’s just the greatest feeling,” he said.

For two weeks, strict military-enforced security checkpoints blocked anybody trying to get into Altadena. Police also arrested suspected looters.

Murphy was detained a few times himself while out on the street. He could have left anytime he wanted, but crossing the checkpoint meant not being able to return. At some checkpoints, though, police would allow supplies to be handed off to non-evacuees. That’s how he was able to get hold of a few essential items.

“I lived through the fire, and I lived after the fire, and I lived kind of as an outcast, really,” he said.

“People were going to their jobs, going to the market, doing their thing, and it was difficult not to be able to do that,” Murphy said. “But in a weird way, it made me look at myself and do some self-review.”

Once the fire was out, Salinas stayed busy and kept a routine. He cleaned up ash and soot as best he could, collected all the busted tree limbs and shingles that blew into people’s yards.

He made friends with a few other neighbors who also refused to leave. That included Carlos, a guy Tom had never spoken to but was sure was a neighborhood troublemaker.

“The (guy) that I thought was a cold-hearted, mean thug turned out to be this wonderful guy,” Salinas said.

To his surprise, the fire brought neighbors who barely knew each other together.

“Him and I were inseparable because we’d been through the same thing. We ended up putting hoses together and putting out fires on the roofs and in bushes, all these houses up and down the street. We did as much as we could.”

Salinas, Carlos and other neighbors also battled looters. With properties still on fire, thieves smashed into evacuated houses — including one right across the street.

“I got a chance to get to know all the neighbors,” Salinas said. “Carlos, Leandro, Martha— they’re like my family. Because I realized that I’m not in the fight alone, I didn’t have no fear,” he said.

Salinas wasn’t thrown by the fire, nor does he fret over the scores of properties all around him heaped with rubble laden with asbestos, lead and other toxins that can pose health risks. While the EPA has mostly completed phase one of debris removal in Altadena, the agency said dozens of properties are still considered too dangerous to enter and clear of toxic materials. Meanwhile, the removal of hard structural debris, phase two, is underway.

The exposure worries Murphy a bit, but he shares Salinas’ sentiment.

“There are some people that are throwing out their mattresses because some smoke damage came into their house, and I guess I don’t live in that camp. I cleaned everything out. I washed all the curtains. I washed all the floors. I’m not letting that fear rule my mind,” he said.

Even Murphy’s mother went right back home as soon as security checkpoints were lifted. She’s also resumed her daily two-mile walks.

“I am well known in the neighborhood,” she said.

A licensed therapist for about 50 years, Murphy continues to be someone her neighbors can lean on for some sense of normalcy.

“I know a lot of these people by their first names, many of whom have either lost their houses or can’t live in their houses because of the smoke,” she said.

“I have a little prayer, and I will say that to myself as I go by people’s burned houses,” Murphy said. “I also greet people, they come up and hug me because they’re so happy to see me because I represent some stability.”

But just because these holdouts have confronted the danger head-on doesn’t mean they’re unaffected by the trauma of losing so much of their community.

The Murphys can’t look outside or walk down the street without seeing widespread destruction. The same goes for Salinas and his neighbors.

“Man, I know what it’s like, and I don’t want to see it,” he said.

Unflappable in front of the fire, Salinas stays away from the ruins.

“I can’t even go to a funeral. I don’t do well with grief in this world.”