Altadena Rebuild | A Town on Pause

It feels like the great Los Angeles Fire was long gone, though it’s only been six months. Angelenos have moved on, the weather’s turned hot, news turned to the riots, and life keeps going.

But over in Altadena, the mountains still haven’t grown their color back, and for many people, life hasn’t moved forward at all.

The Altadena "Nomadland"

The debris is gone, leaving behind empty lots and a few wooden stakes marking where houses once stood. Some families have already moved RVs onto the land—there’s a quiet, scattered look, almost like a scene from Nomadland.

USACE Clean Up

USACE teams have been working hard—so far, almost 90% of the lots have been cleared. The landscape feels open but unfinished.

Speed Limit 25?

The road stretches out, wide and open—you almost feel like you could roll down the windows and pick up speed. But the sign quietly reminds: SPEED LIMIT 25.

RVs with tents look set up and steady, but life here is tough—no water, no power. Many families haul daily water tanks on trailers. For some, no internet feels unlivable. For these folks, every day starts with fetching water.

We joined in a little event a couple weeks ago, called Dena’s Home Festival—meant to help fire survivors, but it ended up more like a builder’s meetup. Rows of tents, contractors handing out flyers, most of the visitors were other builders. The actual survivors? Just a few.

I’ve been volunteering there these past six months—sitting in bars with them, swapping stories, watching slow, almost invisible changes.

In the beginning, people showed up in tears, asking questions they didn’t even know how to ask. Now their questions are sharper, clearer. You can feel it—something is shifting. Slowly, though. Painfully slow.

When I drove by today, Altadena no longer looked like a wasteland. It looked more like quiet American countryside—RVs scattered on the slopes, weeds growing in the empty lots. No water, no power, but strangely still.

Don’t let the “pastoral charm” fool you.

Many people still don’t have a stable place to live. They don’t dare buy even one more jacket, afraid it’ll be just another thing to carry when they have to move again. Some lost jobs. Some pulled their kids from school. They work by day and spend their nights reading building codes, making life-altering decisions they never thought they’d face.

And insurance? Don’t even get me started.

Altadena isn’t a ruin anymore, but it hasn’t really started rebuilding either.

It’s like someone pressed pause on this little town, and now it’s just waiting—waiting to catch its breath before it can move again.

The mountain is tired.
The people are tired.

So maybe, for now, let them rest here in the quiet. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

The Home Depot guard dog has taken its post here. Since the army and police pulled out, looters and scavengers have wandered through, and trouble still lingers. The dog stands guard under the message: "ALTADENA NOT FOR SALE!" Nearby, the ground reads: "NO HEROES IN WEST ALTADENA"—a quiet, bitter irony.