NEDERLAND — Almost a year ago, one morning changed everything. The ever-present piercing needles of anxiety suddenly shattered like icicles in my chest, and the adrenaline running in my veins flowed like caffeinated lava, melting those cold shards away. I became only as a vessel, as it was my duty to record in real time the destruction of what, in my mind and in my heart, had become the physical symbol of what made Nederland so unique. 

 It was weird taking photographs of a disaster: a disaster for the town, for business, and a personal disaster for every individual in Nederland who ever set foot at the Caribou Village Shopping Center—from business owner and tenant, to customer, employee, and community member. 

It was weird taking photographs of the firefighters of the Nederland Fire Protection District fighting the blaze. The entire building went up in red heat and black smoke, and as Scott Harrison stood between his creation—our beloved Carousel of Happiness—and the encroaching fire. 

It was weird, but picking up The Mountain-Ear’s camera and running to the site was the only thing I could think of to do when I saw the shimmering orange glow in the distance from my apartment window. 

It was October 9, 2025, at just past four in the morning. I had a bag packed and was waiting for my ride to the airport. I was pacing, sweating, feeling crushed by the ceiling and sky above me. I hate airports; I was filled with intense anxiety, as if the air were being stolen right from my lungs. 

My wife suddenly jumped up from her phone and ran to the window. “Oh my god!” She exclaimed. 

Running through the Visitor’s Center parking lot, I saw familiar faces, folks standing in their pajamas outside their cars, staring in astonishment at the site of the fire, barely able to hold back tears. 

As I approached, there was no time to assess the whole scene, only to zoom in and focus on what drew my attention at any given moment. The first photo I took was at 4:23 a.m. The center was already a burning shell, as so many top floor spaces had their walls and windows blown out. Both ends of the center were starting to burn more furiously. Pops of little explosions could be heard, mingling with the sound of glass shattering.

“That’s me,” said John Thompson, aka The Mountain Man. "That’s my store.” On display right in the window of his outdoor store, behind which he had sat for the last decade, were stacks of camping gas.  

I had dusted and restocked those bottles of gas quite often as an employee of Mountain Man Outdoor Store. Working shifts at the Caribou Village Shopping Center was my introduction, and crash course education, to Nederland and the community. 

While writing freelance for The Mountain-Ear connected me to the town’s government structure, to its history, and to much of its long-lasting controversies and grudges, meeting and talking with people from the community at the shopping center was truly where I learned what Nederland was all about. 

Watching cars come in early to grab some sustenance from B&F, waving hello to the grocery store workers as we crossed paths outside, changing shifts for our smoke breaks. Familiar faces going by for their morning walks, or arriving for yoga, clutching coffee cups and water bottles and holding rolled-up foam mats under their arms. 

The kids arriving to the nature center for camp, then walking by the Mountain Man’s cluttered window in a joyfully cacophonous single-file line, on their way to adventures in the park. The smell of Ben Roy’s seasoned beef getting prepared upstairs, like a delicious, enticing signal, a warning waft to remind us that the tourists were coming. The sound of Statler and Waldorf-esque mockery and laughter coming from the Backcountry balcony mingled and harmonized with the sounds of bluegrass blissfully rolling out from Brightwood Music, or from Very Nice—there was so much life in that shopping center.

Business owners look upon what was the sacred ground stained with their blood, sweat, and tears. Now, they have sanctified new locations with refreshed dreams and ambition.

Photo by Christopher Kelley

As an employee of the outdoor store, I never wanted to leave that bucolic sense of living. I was addicted to that Norman Rockwell high. As a burgeoning journalist, I cut my teeth on stories that came to me at the shopping center. It became my source, my “beat.”

I talked every day with an officer from the Nederland Police Department while sitting at the Mountain Man counter. One of the first big articles I wrote for the community was about the Town losing its police force.

I would go shoot the shit with Ben in the Tres Gringos kitchen as he did his prep, and as I was stealing smells, I was also learning about Nederland’s staffing issues and how it related to the Town’s lack of affordable housing and inability to support its local businesses. 

In my short time at the Caribou Village Shopping Center, I began to truly believe that it was the beating heart of Nederland. I didn’t think of that as I inhaled the thick black smoke that blew in my face, as I ran to capture every angle of the fire that I could. I couldn’t stop and think for very long. My brain was only giving me two directives: observe and report. 

Over 80 photos between 4:23 and 4:55 a.m., but by that time I was short of breath and my throat ached and was scratchy like a brick chimney. I went home and sat in silence for a short while, but even then, the devastation hadn’t hit me. 

Instead, I had to work. I needed to cover it, I needed to cover everything, partly for my own sanity. But it was not for The Mountain-Ear, not because of some embedded sense of duty or loyalty to earning a paycheck, but for history, for posterity, to preserve the intangible sense of Nederland’s magic into some tangible form.

And in that I failed, because I was too late—like chronicling the life of a loved one but starting when they’re in hospice. 

I have so many pictures of the death of the shopping center. 

I think that’s why I’ve been continuing with this “phoenix” analogy in this recent series of articles. I’ve been meeting and talking with the shop owners and employees, hearing their stories of before and after the devastation. Because the magic lies in the Nederland people—it always has. They carry the stories that matter, they are what make a physical place special, for they imbue it, possess it. 

Witnessing the literal rebirth of the strong, independent people in our community is beyond inspiring, beyond humbling, beyond what weighted words can convey without the risk of sounding like some schmaltzy mutant hybrid of Hallmark and Mister Rogers, and beyond pictures that seemingly only show a piece of heaven burning down. 

But even pictures of heaven burning proves it existed in the first place. Though words are all I feel I have to give, I will always use them to highlight that magic that exists in this community, especially in those affected by, and who bravely fought, the Lakeview Fire.

I hope the words I have written truly honor the weight you all carry.