Randy and Steph Herrera had become accustomed to seeing smoke billow from Peavine Mountain, which separates their mobile home community from the casino town of Reno, Nev., roughly 15 miles south.

Brush fires came and went, but only once, about six years ago, did they need to leave their home. That was just for a single night.

The Hawk fire, which overtook the mountain this weekend, was different, Mr. Herrera, 42, said on Tuesday afternoon as he sipped a Coors Light outside his camper, which was set up in the parking lot of a convention center near downtown.

It was “like being in a war zone,” he said, describing the smoky, ashy darkness and chaotic exodus of hastily packed cars from the North Valleys neighborhood, which was ordered to evacuate Friday evening.

Mr. Herrera and his wife, 36, were among 45,000 people in the Reno area ordered to flee over the weekend as the Hawk Fire burned 15,000 acres and destroyed 32 homes. Their mobile home had survived, and despite evacuation orders, the threat of widespread devastation appeared to have subsided.

The fire was a wake-up call for communities on the Sierra Front, the rugged eastern slope of the range that divides California and Nevada where wildfires are regular. But never had one been so near to becoming a major urban conflagration, like those that tore through Los Angeles last year and Spokane, Wash., this month.

As the West suffers through a deep drought, and climate change increases the footprint and ferocity of wildfires, flames are spreading where few imagined, forcing communities to catch up on safety measures. And in a state like Nevada, where residents prize individualism, persuading them to get on board can sometimes be a challenge.

“Even if you’re thinking about fire, it’s still difficult to imagine it coming into your own backyard until it does,” said Christina Restaino, director of the education program Living With Fire.

Ms. Restaino’s group, managed by the University of Nevada at Reno Extension, has since 1997 been sounding the alarm about fire risk from the downtown casino corridor to the foothills on the outskirts of the 280,000-resident city.

She and her colleagues have gone to farmers markets and rodeos to extol “home hardening” and “defensible space,” changes residents can make to their houses and landscaping to reduce the risk of fire. Many local leaders and homeowners have jumped at the chance, Ms. Restaino said, but much work remains — and the Hawk fire may mark a turning point.

“This serves as a reminder that the more prepared you can be ahead of time, the less scary and overwhelming it’ll be if something like this happens,” Ms. Restaino said.

Mr. Herrera counted himself among those who always thought about fire. He’s an outdoorsman equipped with solar power and resources to fend for his family off the grid.

“We’re always like ‘Oh yeah, we’re ready to go, we have all our stuff in place’,” Mr. Herrera said. “But like, you never really do.”

The couple was among roughly 15,000 people who still remained under a mandatory evacuation order on Tuesday afternoon. They were living out of their two S.U.V.’s and camper tent in the parking lot with their two dogs Doc, 2, a Chihuahua mix and Mila, 12, a pit bull.

The Herreras and other residents described the disconcerting moments when they were placed under evacuation orders, and the mad scramble to pack up their valuables.

Christina Vang, 37, recalled making a dash for her wedding dress and family photos when her neighborhood in Cold Springs was placed under an evacuation warning on Saturday night, and a hunt to dig up birth certificates and other important documents.

“We don’t have renters insurance, so that’s why we’re kind of like, ‘What the hell do we grab?’” Ms. Vang said.

“If the fire had come faster and we had to go at a moment’s notice,” she said, and her husband, Charlie Vang, finished her sentence: “We would have lost a lot.”

The Vangs ultimately decided to stay put, and were relying on a generator on Monday to see them through as they waited for the electricity to be restored.

The Hawk fire offered a stress test of the local infrastructure’s capacity to support a timely evacuation when tens of thousands are ordered to flee on short notice.

It was an unsettling experience for Ms. Herrera. Her father’s wheelchair lift did not have power on Friday when he was told to evacuate, and the gridlock stalled the arrival of emergency responders who were sent to help him get out.

“It took an ambulance an hour and a half just to come get my dad,” Ms. Herrera said.

It took Curtis Monastero, 44, and his girlfriend, Jennifer Cadra, 37, two hours evacuate their home in the same North Valleys neighborhood. They went to stay with Mr. Monastero’s parents on the other side of the burning mountain.

On Monday evening, Mr. Monastero, Ms. Cadra and Ms. Cadra’s 11-year-old daughter were getting some air at a hilltop park overlooking Reno.

Mr. Monastero said that wildfires, often ignited by human activity during dry and windy conditions, had grown more frequent in recent years.

“I don’t know if it’s climate change, things like that,” Mr. Monastero said. “It gets hotter and drier every year, we don’t get as much rain.”

He was coming to terms with the possibility that his homeowner’s insurance could go up, and had already heard of some neighbors getting dropped by insurers after the recent spate of fires.

But much of Mr. Monastero’s mind was still on an apartment complex and a storage facility that burned not far from where he lives. He mostly felt relieved that he still had a home.

As a convoy of fire engines came down the hill on the street below the park, Mr. Monastero and Ms. Cadra and others broke into a cheer and applause. One of the trucks honked in acknowledgment.

Kirsten Noyes contributed research.