Isabelle Taft, a reporting fellow at The New York Times, reflects on the similarities and stark contrasts between covering hurricanes and wildfires.
Before joining The New York Times last year, Taft had never reported on a wildfire. But hurricanes? She knew them well.
Her first full-time reporting job was at The Sun Herald in Biloxi, Mississippi, where she started in 2020—one of the most intense hurricane seasons on record. As storms loomed, she spoke with residents filling sandbags under the pouring rain. In the aftermath, she waded through floodwaters to interview families trying to reclaim their homes.
When entering a hurricane-ravaged area, the signs of destruction gradually emerge: fallen trees, downed power lines, pools of water where they shouldn’t be, and twisted fast-food signs. That’s why, when she drove into Altadena last month to cover the Eaton Fire, she expected a similar warning before reaching the worst of the damage.
Instead, she turned a corner and was met with the charred remains of a home—blackened ruins where a house should have stood. Yet next door and across the street, homes remained untouched. The fire had been fueled by hurricane-force winds, scattering embers unpredictably and igniting houses in a way firefighters couldn’t contain. The result was a haunting contrast—some homes left in ashes while others remained intact.
Unlike hurricanes, which usually arrive with days of warning and follow a somewhat predictable path, wildfires move with terrifying speed. The Eaton Fire spread faster than many residents could react, and its effects lingered long after the flames died down. Hurricanes are slow-moving giants, often leaving structures standing even as they flood communities. Wildfires, by contrast, consume everything in their path.
Even the aftermath smelled different. After Hurricane Helene struck Tampa last year, Taft met families salvaging water-damaged belongings. The air carried the scent of salt, sewage, and mildew. But in Altadena, two weeks after the fire, the smell of smoke still lingered, settling over the layers of ash and dust.
While speaking with residents sifting through what remained of their homes, Taft thought of Trey Camardelle.
In 2020, Hurricane Zeta destroyed the house where Camardelle’s parents had lived. Though the storm wasn’t as catastrophic as the Eaton Fire, it tore off roofs, downed power lines, and left his parents’ home—previously elevated on 18-foot cinder block pilings—collapsed in ruin.
The day after the storm, Mississippi’s governor visited the area, holding a press conference nearby. In the background, Camardelle quietly walked among the wreckage, surveying the shattered wood and insulation. “An entire life, just gone,” he had told Taft.
The causes of the destruction in Altadena and along the Gulf Coast were different—one by water, the other by fire. But the loss? That felt the same.