Nov 21, 2023
10 years after Bastrop fire 2011, a look back at Texas' worst wildfire
Alice Traugott remembers standing in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn in Bastrop
Alice Traugott remembers standing in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn in Bastrop 10 years ago, surrounded by dozens of others in a similar situation as hers, after having to evacuate her home as the Bastrop County Complex Fire began to roar.
Homeless. Fearful. Shocked.
She remembers looking up to see a growing, monstrous billow of smoke slowly swallowing the county's sky. All she could think about, she said, was her house — a charming cream paneled and red trimmed house — and everything else she had to leave behind.
Her sons’ handmade Christmas ornaments. Family photos. Her socks.
Two minutes just wasn't enough time for her husband, George Traugott, to grab all their belongings.
More:'Road to Recovery': Community event to commemorate 10th anniversary of Bastrop County Complex Fire
Traugott said her Swiss chalet-style house was made of Hardie plank boards, a fire resistant material.
"But it isn't, obviously," said Traugott, whose home was one of the more than 1,600 engulfed by the Complex Fire, which ignited on Sept. 4, 2011.
Three separate fires sparked that day: two near the Bastrop State Park, and one in Circle D-KC Estates, where Traugott lived.
Strong winds from Tropical Storm Lee on the Gulf Coast, and the particularly dry and hot summer that year fueled the fires, which eventually merged into one violent blaze at the green heart of Bastrop County. The wildfire went on to rage for longer than a month.
The wildfire burned 34,356 acres, scorching countless neighborhoods, dozens of commercial structures and around 1.5 million trees — making it the most destructive wildfire in Texas’ history. The fire was extinguished on Oct. 29 that year, leaving a burn scar in the shape of a teardrop, according to pictures from NASA.
Traugott, who was 63 at the time of the fire, was at H-E-B buying deli meats when her husband called to tell her they were being evacuated from their home, and to meet him at the Roadhouse restaurant on Texas 21.
She left her groceries on the conveyor belt of the checkout counter and drove straight to her husband, to find him with their four dogs in his truck, a few of his musical instruments, her kindle and jewelry.
"And that's all," Traugott said, a mother of four sons.
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They spent the next two nights at a Holiday Inn, which did not take long to reach capacity.
"I was aggravated because I thought, ‘Oh this is stupid,’ because I thought the firemen would put the fire out," Traugott said. "I had no concept of what a wildfire was … I thought the firemen would put the fire out because that's what firemen do, they put out the fire. I didn't understand what a wildfire was."
A couple days later, residents who were asked to evacuate were told to go to a local middle school. A large map of the county was hung on the wall of the school's gymnasium, and a firefighter was telling people whether their home was burned or not.
Donning clothes she had been wearing for the two days, Traugott approached the firefighter and gave him her address.
"He looked at the map and he said, ‘I’m sorry, your house is gone,’" Traugott said. "And I said ‘get out.’ I couldn't believe it.
"People say it's just stuff, you know. It's just your house, it's just your furniture. But it doesn't feel that way at first. It feels like you almost don't know who you are, or what you’re supposed to do, where you’re supposed to go."
She returned to her 3-acre estate a few days after the fire passed it, equipped with a mop, rags and pail full of soap, thinking she would just have to clean her house.
"There was nothing left," Traugott said. "There was nothing to clean, there was nothing to scrub. There was nothing to sift. It was down to the tad, down to the cement slab. There was nothing left, and I kept thinking: where did the refrigerator go? Where did the washer and dryer go? Where's the bathtub?
"It was just unrecognizable rubble and ash, that's all that was left — and that's when I realized what a wildfire is."
The Traugotts now live in a home closer to downtown Bastrop, away from the woods where wildfires can spark.
Traugott's favorite part of their old home was the large deck that wrapped around much of the second floor, where she maintained a small garden and spent many peaceful mornings with her husband.
"When you were up there, it felt like you were in the treetops because it was so high up, and there were hundreds of trees around you," she said.
That view no longer exists, but in the past decade, residents and volunteers have been working to restore and regrow its greenery.
The nonprofit Tree Folk reached out to the couple years ago to ask if it could plant pine trees on their old property. Now, a young forest of loblolly pines is growing on the land where her beloved home once stood.
Traugott said her husband visits the property every now and then to water the trees, but she can't. It's too hard for her.
But she's glad the land is being used to restore the county's pines. The trees are currently around 15 feet tall, and they have a long way to go to become the 100-foot pines that stood there before.
The woods Traugott once appreciated from her porch won't be recovered in her lifetime, but she is at peace knowing they will someday.
And with the generous and resilient residents of Bastrop County, Traugott said, the past 10 years have revealed how strong the community can rebound when it binds together.
"Bastrop is a really nice community, and by and large, people take care of each other," she said. "And that's really all you can do in a crisis like that, just help and be kind. And I felt that that day, people went out of their way to help, I was proud. It made me proud to live here."
The Bastrop County Long Term Recovery Team is hosting an event Saturday at the Bastrop Convention Center, 1408 Chestnut St., from 12:30 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. to commemorate the 10th anniversary of the Complex Fire.
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