The Day Greenville Burned

A firefighter uses a water hose in Greenville, CA on August 4th, 2021. Photo by Daniel Brown.

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By Daniel Brown
(Full text published in the Chico Enterprise-Record in August 2025)

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​In July 2021, the Dixie Fire ignited, eventually burning more than 963,000 acres in Northern California before it was fully contained in October. In the end, it was the largest single source wildfire in California history, scorching an area about the size of Rhode Island.

The burn stretched as far north as the Lassen Volcanic National Park, as far south as the Plumas National Forest, and as far east as a few miles from Nevada. Perhaps the most notable incident came on August 4 when about 75 percent of the historic mining town of Greenville was lost to the massive blaze. I arrived in Northern California three days before it happened.

The fire was dormant when I arrived, smoldering like an old campfire. But three days later, the winds picked up, and the fire burst back into flames. At this time, it was burning in the mountains where the abounding forests are dry and winding state highways connect old western style towns and resorts. The area is rural and rather desolate. There are no interstate highways, and there are only a handful of state highways going in and out of the small towns. Only State Route 89 goes through Greenville.

It was late morning on that fateful day when I called the Dixie Fire media line for information. One of the public affairs officers told me that heavy fire activity had burned a few structures in the town of Chester. He also said that fire was threatening Greenville, that containment lines were being dug, but that it hadn’t broken though. We hung up, and I decided to drive to Chester. It was closer to my motel than Greenville anyways.

​I often stayed in cheap motels in the valley off of Interstate Highway 5, where it’s flat and dusty and dry and hot. The I-5 runs north and south right through the middle of the valley, right through working class towns such as Corning and Anderson and Red Bluff and Orland. These towns are slightly larger than those in the mountains, and they have fast food franchises and Walmarts and other big box stores. When the Dixie Fire burned, it was not uncommon for ash to rain down upon these towns, despite being about 70 miles away or more.

I left my room and got in my rental car and drove east on Route 36, crossing over I-5 and the East Sand Slough River. I drove past a Del Taco, past the M & M Ranch House restaurant and a Dutch Bros Coffee shop, past the Tehama County Fairgrounds and other businesses and residential blocks with ranch homes. After the road veers north at the Tehama County Sheriff’s office, I drove past a couple industrial companies and a few more residential streets before the skyline opened up.

I drove out of town, past rolling fields of dry grass speckled with green trees until they met mountains in the distance. I accelerated to about 65 mph, driving up into the mountains and towards the fire clouds looming over them. The elevation dramatically increased just beyond the Iron Canyon Hiking Trail. Gulches lined both sides of the road and semi-trucks slowed way down to save gas.

I drove through the small communities of Dales and Payne’s Creek and past the panoramic viewpoint of Canyon Overlook and the community of  Mineral, home of the Mineral Lodge. At this point, I was fully in the mountains, and the color of the sky was in constant flux. It churned between dark gray and various hues of orange. Smoke sat on the ground like fog and ash intermittently fell from the sky. I drove about another 30 miles until arriving in Chester on the northern shores of Lake Almanor.

‘I wouldn’t stand there’

​I entered town on the Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway and saw the Chester Airport on my right, and on my left was a dirt parking lot with several rows of industrial trucks and other vehicles on fire. I couldn’t discern what kind of business it was, but dark black smoke billowed from the vehicles. I pulled over on the shoulder of Route 36 away from the fire. I got out and walked towards the vehicles and photographed the flames from a few dozen feet.

It was quiet, except fire popping. There was no one around, except a few passing first responder vehicles. When one fire official drove by in a pickup truck, I asked him if any of the vehicles had exploded.

“I wouldn’t stand there,” he said, then drove away.

Continue reading here at the Chico Enterprise-Record.