On a recent trip to the LA to visit family, we drove down the beautiful and winding Topanga Canyon road to the beach, and were oblivious of what we’d find below until signs thanking firefighters jarred our memory. Upon reaching highway 1, the Pacific Ocean view was phenomenal, but an eerie feeling quickly overwhelmed us. Hundreds of houses previously lined the coast there, and as we drove north to find a place to put our feet in the sand, the loss of so many homes was a stark reminder of our fragile hold on the built environment in California. The remaining homes in Pacific Palisades and Altadena tell a story of our lost California architectural heritage—English Tudors with their distinctive dark timbers, modest but sweet English Cottages, Mediterranean villas with red tile roofs, out of place American Colonials, climate southwestern adobes, and the classic LA Craftsman bungalow. Each structure that burned represented not just shelter and memories, but decades of embodied forest resources and craftsmanship.
With the loss of these historic homes to fire, we are also witness to the final destruction of old-growth trees harvested during California's building boom of the late 1800’s to the early 20th century. The Mediterranean Villas and English Tudors contained massive timber framing, much of it sourced from the ancient Douglas fir forests of California’s northern coast. The Craftsman homes that dotted Altadena's tree-lined streets were decorated with detailed siding outside with redwood that also came from the ancient groves of Northern California. And the Mid-Century modern homes from Pacific Palisades neighborhoods featured extensive use of fir for their exposed beams and ceilings.
The lumber industry that supplied these homes operated during an era when old-growth forests seemed limitless. Mill workers could select from trees that had been growing for 500, 800, even 1,000 years or more. The resulting lumber possessed qualities that modern timber cannot match: incredible stability, resistance to warping and checking, and that unmistakable tight grain that speaks of slow, steady growth under natural conditions. These weren't the plantation-grown trees we harvest today—they were giants that had been growing since before the Spanish arrived. The fir and redwood that supported and adorned these structures was cut from trees that measured six feet or more in diameter—dimensions that require centuries of growth.
Most heartbreaking for historians and architects alike were the historic structures that were lost. These homes represented the various layers of California's woodworking history, ranging from hand-hewn fir beams of the Will Rogers Ranch Estate to the vertical grain redwood paneling of the vertiginous Ray Kappe Keeler house in the Pacific Palisades. The Queen Anne Style Andrew McNally House and the Craftsman Scripps Hall in Altadena both represented periods where extensive craftsmanship dominated the design, and the old growth redwood and fir throughout each house would be a woodworkers dream today.
When we deconstruct similar homes scheduled for demolition, we treat every piece of old-growth lumber we salvage as precious. A single 12 inch Douglas fir No 1 beam might represent 300 years of forest growth. Redwood siding from a 1920s Craftsman bungalow contains wood from trees that were seedlings before the first Spanish missions were being built. This isn't just building material—it's a finite resource that connects us directly to California's ancient forests.
The circular economy principles that drive reclaimed lumber operations like ours become especially poignant in the context of fire loss. Every board we save from demolition is lumber that doesn't need to be harvested from the young forests currently regrowing across California. When we carefully deconstruct a Craftsman home in Berkeley and salvage its old-growth fir subflooring, we're allowing a second-growth tree in Humboldt County to continue growing, storing carbon, and rebuilding the forest ecosystem.
The fires in Los Angeles highlighted a cruel irony: while we lose irreplaceable historic lumber to flames, society chooses to continue to demolish similar homes elsewhere and send their old-growth materials to landfills. Construction and demolition waste accounts for ⅓ of materials disposed of in our landfills material. Much of that waste includes lumber that took centuries to grow and could serve for centuries more if properly reclaimed.
The architectural styles lost in recent fires weren't just housing—they were embodied carbon, craftsmanship, and forest resources built into structures that had already proven their longevity. The Queen Anne McNally home built in 1887 had weathered over a century of earthquakes, storms, other fires, and social change. Its old growth frame could have lasted centuries more, but in a single night, all that embodied history returned to the atmosphere as carbon emissions.
This is why the work of reclaiming lumber from urban environments becomes not just an environmental imperative, but a cultural one. Every old-growth beam we save, every piece of redwood siding we carefully remove and restore, represents a small victory against the forces of waste and loss. We cannot rebuild the ancient forests overnight, but we can honor their legacy by treasuring the lumber they provided and keeping it in service for generations to come.
The homes that survived the fires—scattered throughout the burn zones—stand as testaments to both the quality of old-growth construction and the random nature of wildfire. Their survival reminds us that these materials, when properly maintained, can last indefinitely. The question becomes: how do we apply that lesson to the lumber we still have the chance to save?