In 23 years in the Highlands in Pacific Palisades, a one-way-in, one-way-out neighborhood, I had a rule: If a fire in the hills burned more than an hour, I left.

Fires broke out nearby about every year and a half. We never once had an official evacuation, but I’d still load the car with photo albums, computers and original art and wait it out at a friend’s. I never wanted to wait to be told.

On the morning of Jan. 7, 2025, still packed from a business trip, I walked the dogs and made my first latte. My husband called to remind me it was a “Red Flag” day.

A few calm sips later, I glanced out the kitchen window and saw a locomotive of fire and smoke chugging across the distant ridge.

I ran upstairs for my overnight bag, a few special pieces of jewelry, and my passport, and put them and the dogs in the car. As I dashed back upstairs for something important I’d forgotten, my phone buzzed: “Prepare to Evacuate.”

Now I knew we were in trouble. As I backed out of the garage, it buzzed again: “Evacuate.” Damn.

A mile and a half later, with giant black smoke clouds billowing ahead, I emerged from the canyon only to hit gridlock, with fire on the hills on both sides. The man in the next car looked over nervously, and we agreed it was better to pull over.

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My dogs and I set off on foot with my suitcase and purse, headed for my girlfriend’s apartment in Edgewater by the ocean. Fires never came to the beach, right?

She wasn’t home, but I knew how to get in. I had just settled onto her expansive, waterfront terrace when I looked up and saw the roofs across the street catch fire.

It was back on the road with suitcase and dogs in tow, but to where?

I landed in Gladstone’s parking lot, smoky wind whipping every which way. A local news cameraman asked to interview me. Sure, I said, if my dogs and I could hide in his TV van afterward. My phone was constantly buzzing. Husband, minister, friends from as far away as Australia.

One call was from my longtime friend, Emmy-winning LA broadcaster, Giselle Fernandez. Once she knew I was safe, and knowing I’d been podcasting for five years, she said, “Start a podcast about this. Call it ‘Palisades Strong’ or something.”

After 30 minutes the crew had to move to Will Rogers Beach, and no, I couldn’t come. Then, surreally, Councilwoman Traci Park walked up. “Are you unhoused? Stranded? Do you need help?” Behind her stood what looked like a police chief and a fire chief. Figuring they had more important things to do, I told her I was OK. (Really?)

The only thing open was the gas station at PCH and Sunset. I went in, grateful just to see other people. A few said they couldn’t fit me and the dogs in their cars. Then a woman in a yellow Certified FEMA Animal Rescuer cap, who looked like she knew her way around a paddock, offered to take us to Santa Monica.

My son, watching his hometown burn on YouTube from New York, had just told me traffic looked clear near my car. Couldn’t I go get it now? Not possible, she said. Two schools were now on fire between us and it.

So, Mel (the wonderful @melsobo on Instagram, I’d learn) kept the dogs and me calm as we walked along PCH, past burning bushes to her truck, parked a quarter mile down by Temescal Canyon.

Her parting advice: “Please try and wash your dogs tonight. They’ve soaked wildfire smoke into their fur for the past five hours.”

We did. And two weeks later, I launched the podcast, “L.A. Rising – Stories of Healing, Help and Hope.”

Guess who was one of the guests on the first episode?  Mel, the coolest FEMA worker I’d ever met … and will never forget.  

Kim Marshall is a 30-year Palisades resident, hosts “#L.A Rising – Stories of Healing, Help & Hope” and contributes to the podcast “How to Disaster.“