LOS ANGELES—In the
still-smoldering neighborhoods of Altadena, where
fires destroyed more than 2,700 structures, about 80 people have defied orders to evacuate, staying behind to protect
what is left of their properties from looters and
more fires after losing faith in authorities.
Residents patrol streets and interrogate strangers, living in a Hobbesian world without electricity or clean drinking water. Some are armed. They are hemmed in by yellow caution tape at neighborhood entrances flanked by National Guard troops, Los Angeles County Sheriff deputies and California Highway Patrol officers.
“We do feel like we’re in the Wild West,” said Aaron Lubeley, a 53-year-old lawyer who is one of the holdouts and serves as an unofficial emissary with police and fire representatives.
If Lubeley and the others try to leave, they risk being unable to return. On Monday, one of Lubeley’s friends, Janely Sandoval, delivered essentials. The real-estate broker drove her white Mercedes SUV up to the neighborhood checkpoint and stacked supplies for Lubeley and others at the makeshift border: water, bagels, bananas, grain-free tortilla chips and other staples.
“Can you guys hurry up?” one officer told Sandoval as she finished. “We just got an order not to allow any supplies through.”
Before Sandoval departed, Lubeley asked, “Can I hug my friend?”
The officer nodded, and Lubeley and Sandoval embraced across the yellow caution tape.
EveAnna Manley, one of the Altadena holdouts, had prepared for this moment. Her house has a natural-gas generator supplying 22 kilowatts of power, enough for several refrigerators, making her one of the few neighbors with electricity. She has 60 gallons of drinking water in the basement, as well as a reverse-osmosis water filter and hot-water tanks for showering.
“My old neighbor was a real prepper, I learned it from him,” said Manley, who runs an audio-equipment business. “I also replaced my wood shingles on my roof with concrete ones. I don’t know if that’s why my house survived.”
Farther west, residents of the Pacific Palisades, much of it in ruins, engage in their own standoff with public-safety officials.
Police and fire officials say they are keeping residents from returning to burned neighborhoods because of such hazards as downed power lines and precarious fire-weakened trees. “Do not go back in there. Do not sneak in there,” said Brian Rice, president of the California Professional Firefighters union. “It’s not worth losing your life over.”
The message isn’t getting across to everyone.
Pacific Palisades resident Ross Gerber, president of a wealth-management firm, is among those who have been sneaking past police to check on his house, official edicts be damned. “I have no patience for any of them,” he said. “After you survive this, you don’t care what they say.”
On Tuesday morning, Gerber, 53, was thwarted. “I’m trying to sneak in right now and it’s super hard,” he said by phone, his voice winded as he walked briskly, looking for an opening. Police had entry points “tight as hell,” he said. “They are everywhere now.”
Using a map, Gerber said he tried stairs and alleyways to slip past authorities until finally deciding to retreat. “There are literally so many police,” he said. “North Korea is easier.”
Gerber’s house sits in a neighborhood shaded by towering eucalyptus trees. It is set back from some of the hardest-hit areas of the Palisades, where opulent homes perched high above the Pacific Ocean now make up a landscape of smoking, gutted properties.
Houses still standing, including Gerber’s, have no electricity or safe drinking water. He has decamped with his family to the Ritz Carlton in the oceanfront Marina del Rey neighborhood.
Gerber joined with neighbors to hire a private water truck and driver to sit by their empty homes in case of another fire outbreak. The water truck was initially blocked from entering the neighborhood by law-enforcement officers.
“So we called somebody who was very important who called Gavin Newsom and told him to let our water truck into our neighborhood,” Gerber said.
Gov. Newsom’s office didn’t respond to a request for comment.
Unsafe
The Los Angeles-area fires have killed 24 people and destroyed more than 12,000 structures, sparing neither America’s priciest real estate nor the homes of middle- and working-class Californians.
“Nobody has ever seen anything like this,” said Rice, president of the union that represents 35,000 firefighters in the state. “It’s like the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and the fire that followed. It’s that bad.”
Last week, city and county law enforcement and National Guard stepped up patrols around the perimeter of neighborhoods struck by fires after dozens of people were arrested for looting.
On Saturday, a half-dozen residents pleaded with police officers to let them return to houses not far from the Mandeville Canyon fire in Brentwood. “We’re not letting people up there,” one of the officers said. “There have been looters. I don’t know who you are.”
Marica Zellers and a friend zigzagged around the outskirts of Altadena last Thursday, looking for an opening that would allow her to evade barricades and check on her house. “The police were guarding every single street,” she said.
Then Zellers got a tip from a friend: The parking structure of the Super King Market offered an entry point that bypassed the roadblocks.
When Zellers arrived, she saw that her house on West Mariposa Street was rubble. She hunted for her safe, which was intact. After she and her friend managed to pry it open, she said, they had to jump back. “The safe was burning inside because it was holding all the heat,” she said.
Her house was gone, she said, and so was everything in her safe: birth records, property records, sports memorabilia, family history documents and $40,000 worth of Treasury bonds.
Regret, resolve
The Jan. 7 evacuation warning for Altadena came while Lubeley was away from home. His wife and 26-year-old son fled with such haste that his wife forgot her purse. Late that night, as fire spread through Eaton Canyon, Lubeley returned to retrieve passports, family photos and anything else he could think of.
After he was done, Lubeley said, he stayed in the driveway for the better part of an hour, too scared to go back into the house and too reluctant to leave. He recalled being barely able to afford the house when he bought it 15 years ago for $800,000. Online estimates recently valued it at around $1.8 million.
Lubeley returned to his neighborhood the following morning. Some homes were untouched. His was a charred shell. Small fires still burned in his neighbor’s yard, and Lubeley reached for a fallen shovel. Its fiberglass handle unraveled like silk threads in his hands as he picked it up.
Little but a brick fireplace remained of his house. “I built that fireplace by hand,” Lubeley said, his voice choking as he walked through the property Monday. Lemons, looking like lumps of coal, still hung from branches of a backyard tree.
When hot embers had rained down last week, igniting lawns and trees, the neighbors who refused to evacuate stomped out spot fires all night to preserve as many homes as possible. “If I had stayed and saved my house, I could have saved three of my neighbors’” houses, he said.
Lubeley’s regret turned to resolve. He has stayed over the past eight days to defend what is left in the neighborhood against fires springing from buried embers. His wife has pleaded for him to abandon his vigil. “I could be having a Manhattan and a steak, but I couldn’t live with myself if I did that and my neighbor’s house goes up,” Lubeley said.
Standing guard, Lubeley said, “gives me a sense of value and purpose.”
He wears the same clothes—sweatshirt, fleece pants and L.A. Dodgers cap—that he bought at Costco after the fire. He sleeps in his SUV and wakes up to the sound of parrots in the Sycamore trees, he said, much as he did before the fire. He said he keeps a 9mm handgun.
During the day, he checks in on residents and passes out supplies. His moods swing from grief to a moment of gallows humor about his home’s new “open floor plan.”
On Monday afternoon, he discovered more holdouts in the neighborhood, a family of four adults. They were covered in soot and hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. They eyed him with suspicion, and he broke the ice by offering them bananas.
In the first few days after the fire, Altadena neighbors said, sympathetic law-enforcement officers looked the other way as Lubeley and other holdouts slipped through checkpoints to buy supplies at Costco and Home Depot. After restrictions were tightened, Lubeley turned to family, friends and acquaintances.
Monday was the third time that volunteers came to checkpoints, like smugglers, to deliver supplies. It might be the last trip. Officers told Lubeley the supply drop-off would no longer be allowed.
That night, Lubeley and others gathered before the mandatory 6 p.m. curfew to figure out ways around the new rules. Some law-enforcement personnel brought them sandwiches, he said.
Rebel force
Gerber, the Pacific Palisades resident, managed to check his house on Thursday and Friday last week without interference by authorities. He carried a firearm, he said, and walked around local streets with neighbors, questioning anyone the group didn’t recognize. “The whole neighborhood banded together,” he said.
Many residents waited hours for police escorts to their property. Officers led small groups of cars to their properties, warning residents they had only a few minutes to gather valuables and essential belongings. Gerber said he was able to navigate his way past authorities alone.
On Sunday, officials ended those home checks. “People are saying: ‘I just want to go to my house and see what’s left,’” Los Angeles County Sheriff Robert Luna said Monday at a news conference. “We know that, but we have people literally looking for the remains of your neighbors.”
“I get that they’ll say this is ‘the rule,’ but it’s our land and our neighborhood and as much as I respect the authorities, we’re much more competent than them,” Gerber said. “Let us in to defend our neighborhood.”
Gerber and his neighbors have turned to their community WhatsApp, which had been used largely to air minor gripes about traffic and such. Now, it is an organizing tool, he said, “better than any government.”
He had long been skeptical of the system, he said, but the fires further showed him that communities need to be prepared to fend for themselves.
After this disaster is over, Gerber said, he hopes the neighborhood will build “our own fire-like militia.”