Elizabeth Spear heard the evacuation order the old way. Firetrucks came down her road in Brantley County, Georgia, and someone said leave now. She told CNN she threw medicine and a cellphone charger in a bag and went flying out the door. No siren system. No push alert. A truck on the road, and minutes to decide what mattered enough to carry.
That was April 20. Two days earlier, a welding spark had started what became the Highway 82 Fire. Seventy miles southwest, a Mylar balloon hitting a power line ignited the Pineland Road Fire in Clinch County. Together they burned over 50,000 acres and destroyed more than 120 homes. Governor Kemp called it the most destructive wildfire in Georgia's history.
The fires moved through a landscape that had been getting ready to burn for months without anyone planning it that way. Extreme drought covered 71% of Georgia, the worst reading since 2012. The Georgia Forestry Commission issued its first-ever mandatory burn ban across 91 counties. But drought was only one layer. Hurricane Helene, which tore through in September 2024, had left dead trees scattered across South Georgia's forests. Those downed trunks became fuel. And several paper mill closures in recent years meant fewer buyers for the small trees foresters typically clear to manage fire risk. UGA's Erin Lincoln warned that without mills purchasing that timber, "you'll get more standing timber or downed timber that's dead and incredibly flammable."
Drought, hurricane debris, uncleared fuel loads. All of it feeding the fire. And a county of about 18,000 people whose firefighters are all volunteers had to answer it.
County Manager Joey Cason confirmed that every firefighter in Brantley County is a volunteer. Some of them lost their own homes while fighting the blaze. The fire doubled in size overnight on an unexpected wind shift. Cason posted a video to social media calling it "a dynamic situation" and begging residents to leave.
"This fire is moving at a fast pace and we do not have much control over where it's currently moving."
Evacuation updates went through the sheriff's office Facebook page. Anna Dudek, who fled with four kids and ten dogs, watched her family's home burn through Ring cameras on her phone from across the state line in Florida. A doorbell camera and a cellular signal. That was the notification system.
Four days after ignition, a federal incident management team assumed command. By the peak, the operation required 470 workers, five helicopters, 41 fire engines, 17 dozers, and Army Black Hawks. Volunteer crew to federal incident command in ninety-six hours.
None of it was unforeseeable. In January 2026, NIFC's seasonal outlook projected above-normal wildfire risk across the Southeast, linked to La Niña pushing precipitation away from the region. By May, their updated outlook named these fires specifically, noting they "produced extreme fire behavior resulting in the loss of dozens of homes." The forecast was there, months in advance. Locally, nothing was built to act on it.
Georgia Forestry Commission director Johnny Sabo explained that the swamps had dried out, and the peat soil underneath was 90% organic material. "It will burn for months and months and months," he said. Eight to ten inches of rain to fully extinguish. As of May 19, both fires sit at 90% containment. Still burning.
Georgia recorded its driest September-through-March since 1895. The conditions that made these fires possible aren't resolving on any timeline anyone can name.
Elizabeth Spear left with medicine and a phone charger. Brantley County's volunteers went out and fought a fire beyond anything they'd trained for, some of them while their own houses burned behind them. The will was there. The place had been built to handle something else entirely.