On the evening the wildfire erupted, I joined the crowd of onlookers at Bicentennial Park. For hours, helicopters dropped graceful red plumes and thousands of gallons of water from the sky. Still, the mountain burned. It was a moment of collective awe and painful dismay. We watched helplessly as the eastern horizon glittered like hot rubies, wondering, Would our houses be spared? Would the charred remains still feel like home?

That night, I imagine heaven was drowned in prayers.

At 11 p.m., spectators drove away and Provo Police Department barricaded the park as the firecrew set up camp within view of my window. They were between me and Buckley Draw; Slate Canyon Drive offered a break between them and the wildfire.

It felt safe to go to sleep.

Early the next morning, the crew exited their tents, grilled a hearty breakfast, and left to face the fire. Their hike to reach the blaze is a two thousand-foot elevation gain across formidable terrain. At sunset, they returned. Before zipping up their sleeping bags-Provo’s young heroes watched in exhaustion as flames continued to lick the mountainside. The next day, they got up to do it all over again.

Four days after the first spark, “Jesse,” a 22-year-old homeless man from Provo, told me he has genuine interest in becoming a fireman. He’s been on the street since April following a domestic dispute with his parents. Since then, he and his father have reconnected, but he doesn’t feel safe to go back.

“I would fight a forest fire in a heartbeat if I could set up a tent in the park,” Jesse said, twisting the CTR ring on his finger. He has a job offer working security in Salt Lake City that seems promising.

“It sucks being homeless. You’re hungry, tired, and the cops are always after you.” In the four months he’s been on the street in Provo, Jesse has been cited for camping four times.

“Maybe it’s five,” he said. “I forget.”

Since the warming centers closed, Jesse has spent his time volunteering at the hydration station outside of Genesis Project; the church that ministers to the homeless on 900 South in Provo. He’s also taken odd jobs as a mechanic. Undeterred by heat or getting dirty-Jesse is perfect fire-fighting material.

It’s been difficult looking for work with a criminal record, even though the infraction was sleeping in the wrong place at the wrong time. Recently, Jesse was accepted to Utah Valley University, where he plans to study automotive technology. He hopes the security job will pay enough to cover court fines and a rental deposit before he registers for classes. If the job doesn’t pan out, Jesse said the fire academy is a consideration.

“I just have to figure out where I’m going to sleep.”

According to the recent release of Utah’s 2025’s point-in-time count, homelessness in the state has risen 18% since last year.

On July 25th, a field-fire ignited the Willow Glen Apartments near the border between Holliday and Millcreek. Seventy-nine people were evacuated from the buildings. After the smoke cleared, nearly half of the residents were allowed to return to their apartments. The other 40 renters-people who never thought it would happen to them-were suddenly homeless. Just like Jesse.

A week after the Buckley Draw fire broke out, I called Provo Police Department’s non-emergency dispatch to report trespassers in Bicentennial Park. I explained that several people had entered illegally. I was questioned. Did I see juveniles engaged in questionable activity? Were there drugs, alcohol, or weapons?

No, I said. They were average residents doing average-people things – but, because signage indicated that the space was reserved for the firefighters, their presence fell under the definition of criminal activity. My neighbors, however, seemed surprised when the officers arrived to clear the area. In the park-goers’ defense, it’s likely they were unaware that they’d crossed a line. And because I didn’t make the call out of spite, I’m grateful no one was cited.

I believe it was out of simple human decency that Mayor Kaufusi placed a moratorium on the camping ban during the emergency. I have no qualms with the police about the park barricades. Our firefighters deserve privacy and sleep while they work. Who would deny someone a calm environment after a long day battling the heat?

When the crew rolled in that night, I was waiting in my apron with a jug of whole milk and a pan of fresh home-baked chocolate chip cookies. A young fireman about Jesse’s age crossed the parking lot to meet me. I don’t know which agency employs this young man, but he is probably a Provo resident-someone’s brother, father, or son. I thought it best to treat him that way. Weary from the knife-edge cliffs of Buckley Draw, he smiled and accepted my gift.

“You have no idea what I had to do to clear this park for you tonight,” I said. “Thank you for everything you do. I care about you guys like you’re my kids. Get some rest, and please, stay safe!”

The next morning, the crew broke down the camp, packed the trucks, and departed for the mountains above Mapleton. Once it was over, I realized the seven nights our neighborhood hosted the firefighters were a once-in-a-lifetime honor. But during the same week, hundreds of homeless Utah County residents like my friend Jesse couldn’t find a place to sleep.

Last Sunday, when the Bicentennial Park barricade came down, my neighbors resumed family picnics, frisbee golf, and walks through the wetland reserve. I don’t mind. Police continue to do sweeps of the area after curfew. When they do, Provo’s ordinance warrants camping citations for people with nowhere else to go. That fact keeps me up at night.

The next time we smell smoke, or when lightning crashes and rain pounds outside our doors, perhaps it’s something to think about. Because, honestly, I pray our city doesn’t burn to the ground. I pray our lack of hospitality doesn’t justify washing us off the map.