Peak tourist season had arrived in Ruidoso, New Mexico, and Mayor Lynn Crawford was campaigning to convince the public that the village was safe. A Republican with white hair and a Texas drawl, Crawford said he was frustrated with residents who were sharing warnings of flooding on social media. “They spout stuff off,” he said in a radio address on June 30, 2025. “And I don’t know why they’re so afraid. I do not understand it.” 

The community had experienced severe flooding the previous summer, after two wildfires burned 25,000 acres above town, in the Sacramento Mountains. The fires and floods had destroyed about 1,000 homes. Together, the Village of Ruidoso and its smaller neighbor, Ruidoso Downs, are home to some 10,000 residents, but that number more than doubles during the summer.

Since then, residents had been on edge. A new monsoon season had arrived, bringing sporadic flooding that jeopardized the town’s economic engine of horse racing. At stake were big crowds to celebrate the Fourth of July, watch quarter horse racing and enjoy cool weather that’d lured Texans here for generations.

“We have flooding temporarily,” Crawford had told a Texas news anchor in an interview. “And just almost as fast as it came to town, and went through town, it’s gone.” Crawford, who is 64, managed an exclusive club at the Ruidoso Downs Race Track & Casino and once called that his “real job.” He made less than $26,000 as mayor.

But if the town’s economy was precarious, so was its geography. The South Fork and Salt fires charred the landscape, leaving soils that didn’t easily absorb water. Imagine spilling hot wax on a carpet, letting it cool and repeatedly pouring water over it. Now place the wax on steep hills above a river lined with log homes, tourist shops selling wooden bears and an iconic racetrack. 

Officials were aware of the threat but clung to Ruidoso’s animating idea: that nature could be subdued for the enjoyment of tourists and profit of the community. Nowhere was this more apparent than at the track, where the Rio Ruidoso, channeled through culverts, crossed the infield. After the 2024 flooding damaged the track, the culverts had been rebuilt with a $16 million public investment authorized by New Mexico’s Democratic governor, Michelle Lujan Grisham.

The track had only recently reopened, and flooding was again threatening to derail the racing season. On June 26, internal records show, Ruidoso’s emergency management department was at a heightened threat awareness level. Flooding had destroyed a bridge upstream of the town, and the forecast called for more rain. 

But publicly, the village maintained it was prepared and the community was safe. The next day, the emergency manager reduced the threat level a notch, and the communications department chided residents for sharing warnings of catastrophic flooding on social media, noting that some posts featured old videos. “Protect our community from fear-based falsehoods,” the village implored in a public service announcement.

On July 4, and one state over, violent flooding killed more than 130 people in central Texas. But multiple tourists who were arriving in Ruidoso said they had no idea the town was in danger. At the racetrack, the horses ran, and Crawford hosted members at the Ruidoso Jockey Club, where private tables cost as much as six figures.

That weekend, Sebastian Trotter and his family traveled to Ruidoso from El Paso, Texas. Trotter was an Army helicopter pilot stationed at Fort Bliss; his wife, Stephanie, was a nursing student. They thought the place looked family friendly; they saw no warnings online. They brought their two children and three dogs. On Sunday, July 6, they parked their trailer in a desirable spot on the water’s edge at the Riverview RV Park. In online photos, the river appeared gentle. “You could go put your toes in,” said Sebastian.

That day, the Rio Ruidoso — “noisy river,” in Spanish — briefly flooded and firefighters rescued at least four people. The Trotters saw the water rise, but the campground host said it was a regular occurrence. Then the river receded.

In the park, the Trotters’ children, Sebastian Rowan, 7, and Charlotte, 4, biked under the tall pines. The boy was a soccer player who was enchanted by the idea of camping in the woods; Charlotte was bright and cheery, sometimes applying glitter to her father’s mustache. Later, the family walked through the village, where elk and wild horses occasionally graze near tourists.

On Tuesday, July 8, the Trotters were visiting a lake when they saw clouds form. They decided to head into town, ordering pizza before allowing the children to pick out souvenirs. The younger Sebastian selected a rainbow gemstone, Charlotte a bracelet and a ring. Then they returned to the RV park, where they relaxed by the river. 

At 1 p.m., Crawford presided over a council meeting at Village Hall. He began by recognizing the Texas flood victims and nodding to Ruidoso’s relative success. “We want to keep all of central Texas in our thoughts and prayers and see how bad it was and how fortunate we’ve been,” he said. “The goal of the village is to protect the village.” That meant balancing public safety with tourism, he said.

At almost the same moment, storm clouds gathered in the mountains. Even short periods of moderate rain on severe burn scars can unleash post-fire floods. By 1:30 p.m., radar indicated storms might douse both scars simultaneously. A little before 2 p.m., firefighters texted images of the radar to one another. “It could be interesting,” wrote one. Only about a third of the department was on duty at the time and the chief, Cade Hall, had for weeks declined to preposition additional flood specialists near low-lying areas.

Hall disputed ProPublica’s reporting about the emergency response but declined to comment with specifics.

Less than an hour later, another flood arrived, carrying debris that backed up behind bridges. The water kept coming, fanning onto roads until the normal course of the river disappeared. What the wall of brown water carried told residents it was time to panic.

Jason Fulcher, an owner of the Riverview RV Park, saw a tree-size log in the waterway. Two miles downstream, a maintenance worker at a mobile home park saw a car float past and lodge against a bridge.

Farther downstream, the track’s executives did not need physical signs of danger; they knew what was coming because they’d been alerted.

But the Trotters were caught unprepared. Around 3 p.m., they retreated to their trailer to escape the rain. Then the flood tore through a wall and took their children.

The wildfire crisis engulfing the West presents a secondary threat that has received less attention: Entire neighborhoods could wash away in debris flows and floods that often follow.

Scientists say there’s a direct correlation between fire intensity and flood risk. Research shows that if more than 20% of the ground burns at moderate to high severity, especially on steep slopes, there’s an increased danger of debris flows and post-fire flooding during storms. The fires that burned above the Rio Ruidoso watershed far exceeded that threshold.

Before the 2025 tourist season, local and state officials had an opportunity to safeguard Ruidoso and adapt to the realities of a warming climate that is exacerbating wildfires and flooding. The state and village each commissioned experts to model flooding scenarios. The engineers’ reports predicted serious flooding. “They told us exactly where it was going to come and what it was going to do,” said Hall, the fire chief. Federal emergency officials suggested that significant parts of the town should relocate away from the river.

Instead, leaders from the mayor to the governor recommitted to tourism and the racetrack.

Since the July 8, 2025, flood, officials have insisted they performed admirably against a historic disaster. Michael Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager, who helped direct the response, said, “We’re lucky we didn’t have a Texas.”

But according to five first responders, the tragedy could have been avoided. All of the first responders spoke on the condition of anonymity for fear of reprisal. Their accounts are supported by public records, including emails, internal reports and hydrologic assessments. Before July 8, Crawford, Hall and others made decisions that left residents and tourists vulnerable, even though they knew a damaging flood was likely, first responders and officials say. 

Some of those choices, such as the village’s promotion of tourism to visitors largely unaware of the threat, appeared to be financially motivated, according to current and former officials who worked on flood response. “Money was the driver,” said Thora Walsh Padilla, the former president of the Mescalero Apache Tribe, which is based south and west of town. “You’re taking a chance with people who aren’t even from this area and don’t know how to get around enough.” She added, “You’re putting them in jeopardy.”

Other missteps were caused by inaction: the failure to relocate vulnerable residents and to replace infrastructure damaged during previous flooding, even as the governor drove the state’s $16 million investment in the track. And just before the flood arrived, at least one of the RV park’s owners received emergency alerts but did not evacuate campers.

Village officials including Crawford did not respond to more than 70 questions from ProPublica, including about whether they had emphasized tourism at the track over public safety. But in an interview last year, Crawford said: “Who’s to blame? I didn’t start the fire.”

Reached by phone, Kerry Gladden, the village’s public information officer, referred questions to an attorney, who did not answer them. Village officials have said that their emergency department sent text-message warnings before the flood through a system that the public had to sign up for.

A spokesperson for Lujan Grisham said the state’s investments in the track were necessary to protect life and safety. The track’s general manager, Rick Baugh, did not respond to multiple inquiries about ProPublica’s reporting, and one of the racing operation’s owners didn’t answer questions sent by email.

The lapses and missed opportunities in Ruidoso offer challenging lessons about the harsh reality facing communities throughout the American West. This summer, post-fire flooding and debris flows killed one person and prompted more than a dozen rescues in Colorado. In August, flash floods in the Grand Canyon killed three; some of those floodwaters had coursed over burned areas. And in Utah, Gov. Spencer Cox declared a state of emergency following post-fire flooding in three counties.

The West is not yet prepared for the spreading threat. While federal scientists have created a national model to assess the likelihood of post-fire debris flows, communities don’t have an easily accessible tool to gauge their risk of post-fire flooding.  

Ruidoso still looks like a tourist hub, but it survives on disaster aid from the state and federal governments. Since 2024, the state and federal governments have spent over half a billion dollars on disasters in Ruidoso — nine times the village’s annual budget.

Even as funding pours in, first responders say the village remains inadequately prepared to protect residents and tourists.

Ruidoso is not a glitzy escape of vast alpine vistas. Homes are close together, built into riverbanks and overhung with trees. Cabins abut RV parks. Located in Lincoln County, it has long been an escape for working families from Texas and soldiers stationed at Fort Bliss, 130 miles to the south. “Our kids deserved this small trip,” Stephanie Trotter wrote on social media after the July 8 flood.

The place they booked sat across from a 19th-century mill that’s recognized as the village’s birthplace. One of the RV park’s owners, Fulcher, said that if you looked hard enough, you might find bullet holes in the trees from old Western battles.

The village’s colonial founders were unwise to set their community on the river. The Mescalero Apache traditionally lived on hills above the creeks and wetlands to avoid rising water and mosquitoes, Walsh Padilla said. Over and over, the river flooded, including in 2008 and 2022. Randall Camp, the former Lincoln County manager and public works director for Ruidoso, said, “The river can’t be trusted.”

Many new residents did not understand the danger. Fulcher and his wife, Lindsey, moved to Ruidoso from the Houston area in 2022, seeking a quiet life near family. Jason was leaving a high-income, high-stress career in gas sales. The 1.5 acre property they purchased sat just below confluences of the Rio Ruidoso and two tributaries. Lindsey’s sister and brother-in-law had their own RV park upriver.

The Fulchers arrived as the threat reached a new extreme. A decade ago, researchers from Northern Arizona University studied tree rings on the Mescalero Apache reservation, finding that fires had occurred regularly — every six to 18 years, in many cases — until the turn of the 20th century. Then they declined in frequency as the government started suppressing fires. With fewer fires, the forests grew thick. The shade drew tourists. But, Walsh Padilla said: “This isn’t natural. It’s not natural anymore.”

The Forest Service’s policy of quickly extinguishing fires was symbolically tied to Lincoln County, where in 1950, firefighters found a singed bear cub in the mountains northeast of Ruidoso. The injured cub was named Smokey and flown to the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., where it became the living icon for the agency’s ongoing messaging campaign.

As the climate warmed, the government’s policy of putting out fires fundamentally altered the landscape. Between 1950 and 2010, wildfires in the Rio Ruidoso watershed burned just under 11,000 acres, according to a ProPublica analysis of data from the National Interagency Fire Center. Since then, nearly 54,000 acres have burned — an area nearly five times larger than in the previous 60 years. And scientists say those fires are hotter than ever, as heavy fuels like Douglas firs and ponderosa pines lose moisture in the warming climate.

In June 2024, two major fires ignited, and monsoon rains soon followed. A 16-foot flood tore through town on July 20, 2024.

The Fulchers’ house, which was located in their park, sustained minor damage, but their relatives’ property, a couple hundred yards upstream, was destroyed. The Federal Emergency Management Agency deemed Chelsey Jarvis and Darrel McKay’s house uninhabitable and prohibited them from building even temporary housing on the land. The couple closed the park for the season. “I wasn’t going to put people in harm’s way because I wanted their money,” Jarvis said during an October 2024 village meeting, as she begged the council to buy their property. “It’s just going to be Groundhog Day. Next year it’s going to wash away.”

Jarvis proposed they turn the park into a retention pond to slow floodwaters and protect downstream businesses. Officials were considering such drastic measures. The Natural Resources Conservation Service, a subagency of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, had raised the idea of a large-scale buyout. It had recently committed $106 million to move more than 600 homes following 2022 flooding in Kentucky.

The project in Ruidoso would be even more costly. Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager, and Camp, who was then the county manager, estimated they needed $650 million to move about 1,000 properties. But the NRCS would only pay if a local partner provided a 25% match, meaning the county, village or state would have to raise vast sums. While Jarvis and McKay immediately said they wanted a buyout, Jason Fulcher was torn. He loved his property. But he and his wife worried that the village’s infrastructure didn’t adequately protect their home. In December 2024, they submitted a form saying they wanted to be relocated. 

During New Mexico’s 2025 legislative session, no lawmaker proposed funding a buyout for Ruidoso. By spring, with the opportunity fading for a mass relocation of homes and businesses, optimism crept back into public discourse.

According to Jarvis and McKay, Crawford encouraged them to reopen their park, saying the village needed affordable rentals. (Neither Crawford nor the village answered a question about the interaction.) As tourist season approached, the families adopted different strategies. Jarvis said she was never comfortable with reopening, but McKay felt the family had little choice given how much they’d invested. They resolved to keep their property open but only to book half the camp sites. 

Fulcher, on the other hand, wanted a full park from June to September, when the most tourists arrived and so did the monsoons. He said he’d withdrawn all his retirement savings to cover the down payment and improvements on the $645,000 property, and he was so attached to the place that he’d rebuffed multiple potential buyers. The park needed to be fully operational, he said, “because at 50% operational, we’re losing money every month.”

On March 31, 2025, the village released a new map of the floodplain online, which allowed viewers to zoom in on their properties. The map was based on flood models created by a company called Cobb, Fendley & Associates, which had months earlier outlined a dire scenario to village officials.

The company had been hired to model what might happen in a 100-year storm — a term that reflects the anticipated depth and intensity of rainfall. In January 2025, a Cobb Fendley engineer sent an email to the village saying that the company thought a 100-year storm would bring six times the volume of the July 2024 flood that destroyed Jarvis and McKay’s home. In a separate report, Cobb Fendley identified more than 200 at-risk addresses. The list included their property, as well as the Fulchers’ RV park.

But the village didn’t make clear the threat to existing properties. When officials discussed the map, they often focused on its impact on development and building permits. “There was never a time where we specifically said, ‘Someone can die,’” Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager, said in an interview. “Never have I ever stated those words. Everything I’ve ever shared with somebody has been: ‘This is the floodplain. This is what was adopted. These are the new high-water marks. If we ever get a flood that is a 100-year flood, the waters will get this high.’”

Both RV parks were in the floodplain. But both Fulcher and McKay said they’d internalized the government’s optimism. “The leadership dang sure makes you feel like it’s gonna be OK,” said McKay. “All they kept saying was build back better. We’re stronger.”

On May 25, 2025, Lujan Grisham celebrated the reopening of the track, aided by the funds she secured. “Ruidoso Downs has reopened for its first races since those disasters in record time,” read a post on the governor’s official Instagram page. “Ruidoso Strong!”

New Mexico’s constitution prohibits the use of public funds on private businesses in most cases, but there are exceptions for certain public and economic development projects. Records show that starting in September 2024, New Mexico’s then-transportation secretary, Ricky Serna, directed a team of engineers to prioritize work at the track, even as his subordinates raised concerns that FEMA might not reimburse the costs because the project hadn’t yet met the agency’s standards.

Crews excavated an 8-acre basin in the infield to serve as a holding pond, while contractors rebuilt the culverts under the track and reinforced the road leading into it. These efforts were designed to slow floodwater, but the project also allowed the track to reopen.

The track was best known for hosting the world’s richest quarter horse race, the All American Futurity, which awarded $3 million annually, with half going to the contest’s winner.

Horses at the track were cared for by grooms, many of whom were immigrants. The grooms worked for horse trainers rather than the track itself. But the track provided space for them to sleep in barns and storage rooms, in what one executive called industry-standard conditions. Baugh, the general manager, did not answer questions about living conditions at the track. Izzy Trejo, executive director of the New Mexico Racing Commission, said in an email that the commission had no authority over the matter. “The living conditions for the grooms is the responsibility of each individual trainer,” said Trejo. 

But there was little scrutiny of such issues at “our beloved racetrack,” as Crawford has called it. In addition to the mayor, the village’s public information officer previously handled publicity for the track and the mayor of Ruidoso Downs previously oversaw its security. 

The racetrack’s various businesses and their owners, Jana and Johnny Trotter — they are not related to Sebastian and Stephanie — contributed more than $35,000 to Lujan Grisham’s gubernatorial campaigns. Michael Coleman, a spokesperson for the governor, said in an email, “The infrastructure improvement projects at Ruidoso Downs and the surrounding area were undertaken because of the life-safety risk the site posed to the surrounding community.” Coleman said the project was “not solely for economic development reasons.”

But the track framed the project differently. “The clock’s ticking,” said Tim Keithley, the track’s former marketing director, in a February report by KRQE, a New Mexico outlet. “We need to race so that the community can have tourism and bring those Texans over to spend some money with us.” 

As work at the track progressed, one urgent mitigation project upriver lagged. Officials were concerned about old and damaged bridges and culverts on the Rio Ruidoso. During floods they could act like dams, forcing rising water onto roads and increasing the threat downstream. “If you have a bunch of debris that comes in and clogs bridges, at some point that’s going to release,” said Eric Queller, Ruidoso’s emergency manager.

In the year leading up to the 2025 tourist season, bridge repairs and replacements once again fell by the wayside as village and state officials argued over who was responsible for them. The work at the track, meanwhile, was completed by Memorial Day.

On Sunday, July 6, when firefighters made at least four flooding rescues, the Ruidoso News posted a video about the track repair on its Facebook page. In the video, which was produced by the newspaper’s general manager, Eugene Heathman, Crawford said the infrastructure was holding.

The next day, an executive at the paper’s parent company, El Rito Media, told Heathman his journalism, which had included footage of severe flood damage, was bad for business. The executive has since left the company and told ProPublica he was acting on the orders of El Rito’s publisher, Richard Connor. In a statement, Connor denied attempting to influence coverage. “We have dug, investigated, and sought out all angles in our flood and racetrack coverage,” he said.

Heathman soon resigned. The video of Crawford at the track has disappeared from the internet, and Heathman’s footage showing flood damage has been removed from the Ruidoso News’ Facebook account.

Just before 2 p.m. on July 8, a fierce rain began to fall near the headwaters of one of the Rio Ruidoso’s upper forks. Within 10 minutes, nearly three-quarters of an inch of rain pelted the charred ground. At 2:12 p.m., the National Weather Service sent out a flash flood warning, which it upgraded to an emergency 35 minutes later, after debris slid down steep slopes and into the river. 

At Village Hall, Crawford adjourned the council meeting just before 3:10 p.m., saying: “We’ve had a wall of water come over. It’s predicted this is the big one.” Shortly after, he called the track’s general manager, Rick Baugh.   

Josh Gibson, a track executive, was with Baugh when the call arrived. He said Crawford “told him he had 45 minutes or so before the water got there.” (Baugh did not respond to repeated inquiries, and Crawford and Gladden, the public information officer, did not answer a question about the call.) 

The advance notice allowed Baugh and his colleagues to alert dozens of grooms living in the barns to evacuate before the flood reached them.

Three miles upstream, at the Riverview RV Park, Jason Fulcher, the Trotters and other campers stood by the river. They talked about the weather. They talked about which trailers they preferred. They talked about whether there were any reports of ghosts in the area. The Trotters’ children played in the shade.

Multiple people who were in the park received text alerts warning of flooding. But all of them, including one of the park’s owners, said the alerts seemed routine. “We received watch and warning alerts daily, sometimes multiple times in the same day,” Fulcher said in an email. He also told ProPublica in an interview that he’d followed the village’s advice: “Just be vigilant. Watch the skies, stay out of low-lying areas, watch the river.” But he didn’t stay out of low-lying areas, because his property sat in one. 

The Trotters said that although their phones were on, they didn’t receive any alerts from the National Weather Service. They did not know about the village’s alerts. “There was nothing,” Sebastian said.

Residents had “alert fatigue.” So officials wanted first responders to drive into threatened areas on dangerous flood days to ensure that people evacuated. In parts of the community, including much of Ruidoso Downs, first responders showed up with loudspeakers, telling people to seek high ground just before the flood arrived.

But at the Riverview RV Park, no one came, even though the park sat just about a third of a mile from the fire department’s headquarters.

After receiving the alerts, Fulcher began his monsoon season routine: He went to the riverbank to ask guests to move back. Fulcher said the Trotters were among those he asked to step slightly away from the river; the Trotters dispute this. 

When it started to rain, the children retreated to their trailer, which had an extending compartment known as a slide-out. The river rose, carrying branches and rocks. The Trotters joined the kids, preparing to drive to higher ground. Then they heard a noise that Sebastian likened to television static through noise canceling headphones.

According to the Trotters, the trailer door was open and blocked by debris. Sebastian stuck his leg out and was temporarily caught, but he managed to get back inside. He was reaching for a mattress when the flood ripped off the slide-out. Stephanie, holding both children, was sucked into the water. “Once I was in the water, I only had Charlotte in my arms,” she said. Sebastian dove in after his son.

Fulcher had steered out of the park in a truck. At the road he was met by brown, sediment-laden floodwaters carrying vehicles and a dumpster. The flood was remarkable for both its scale — a river gauge showed twice the volume of the July 2024 flood — and its bulk. One survivor said it felt like liquid cement. Fulcher left his truck and sprinted to a high point from which he could see his house. His two children were trapped inside. He stepped onto a building, planning to swim to them, but the structure collapsed. Fulcher climbed a wall and tried to swim but was pushed back. In the house, his children clung to a ceiling fan as rising water pushed their mattress toward the ceiling.

The campground host, Jere Stark, had made his way to a pavilion, where he used a post to shield his body from the water. Stark, who is 71, was trying to help another camper, Benjamin Timothy Feagin, from the bed of a truck. The flood pulled them in.

Near their camp site, the younger Sebastian held onto a tree. His father repeatedly tried to reach him but struggled to move in the water. He was hit by a boulder and a floating truck, he said. The boy could not hold on any longer and lost his grip.

By about 3:30 p.m., there were at least eight firefighters at Riverview, including two swiftwater technicians in a vehicle capable of navigating floodwaters. Across the waterway, they saw a man 20 feet up a tree. The elder Sebastian Trotter was in the water below him, grabbing a tree trunk, wounded and barely able to speak.

The two swiftwater technicians waded to the Fulchers’ house and retrieved the Fulcher children, who were huddled together on the mattress.

There were still more children to rescue, but not all the first responders knew that.

The Trotters had been separated. Firefighters found the older Sebastian alone. A few hundred yards downstream, first responders helped rescue Stephanie Trotter and Stark. Stephanie said she’d been with her daughter, but the girl was now gone.

Later, when the water receded, Fulcher and McKay pried open the Trotters’ crumpled trailer. Inside, they found the Trotters’ surviving dog.

The first body was found under a bridge around 5:20 p.m. It was Feagin, who had been in the pavilion with Stark. 

Firefighters split up to scour the riverside for the children. One group walked downstream. It passed Paradise Canyon, where Stephanie Trotter had been rescued, searching the corners of the floodplain where waters had receded.

Another group moved upriver. The light faded, trees casting long shadows. “Couldn’t see much,” said a firefighter. “Everything’s different and washed out, and all you could see was really the little spotlight on your flashlight.” He came to a softball field full of scattered furniture. He passed a bridge and paused. “I looked back. Something told me, ‘Look back.’”

He saw the shape of a child’s body. It was Sebastian Rowan Trotter. Charlotte’s body had been found not far away.

In their private correspondence on July 8 and 9, state officials said they were worried about the racetrack. While firefighters were searching for the Trotters’ children, a senior disaster recovery official named Jeremy Klass sent a message asking if horses needed evacuation. They didn’t.

The next morning, an official notified Klass and other colleagues about the racetrack. “Village is concerned,” he wrote.

“This should be a priority,” responded Heath Dobrovolny, the state floodplain coordinator.

Dobrovolny said he didn’t recall the text exchange, but he was likely focused on preventing casualties downstream from the track. He also disputed that, as state floodplain coordinator, he had favored the track over the village. Regina Chacon, the New Mexico Department of Homeland Security and Emergency Management’s deputy cabinet secretary, said in an email that the agency was concerned that debris buildup “would apply pressure on the dam between the infield” and a downstream community.

At a news conference on the morning of July 9, Crawford repeatedly noted how high the water had crested: “This is historic.” Since then, officials have said they did everything in their power to protect the village.

“We pretty much did everything we possibly could and everything worked out, I guess, as best it could for the situation that we had,” Hall, Ruidoso’s fire chief, said. “I don’t know that I would have done anything differently.”

“Will I tell you it’s successful when we lost three lives? No,” said Ali Rye, the state homeland security director. But, she said, “We put out every bit of messaging we possibly could. I don’t know, from the state’s perspective, what more we could have done.”

And a month after the flood, in a video interview published by a horse racing website, Lujan Grisham said, “No governor, no state, no president, no one at the federal level can sort of predict what happens with the weather and emergencies.”

In truth, the disaster had been all but predicted in the reports created for the state and village. “Unfortunately, it’s stuff that was modeled,” said Joseph Loverich, a civil engineer with the firm JE Fuller, which in 2024 created multiple flood models for the state. And Cobb Fendley’s model had told the village that even worse flooding could be coming. The July 8 flood carried a third of the volume the company anticipated for a 100-year flood. (Cobb Fendley did not respond to detailed questions about how it arrived at its conclusions.) 

On Oct. 8, three months after the flood, Lincoln County held another meeting about a potential buyout for property owners at risk. Martinez, Ruidoso’s deputy village manager, said: “That wasn’t even a big one. I mean, that was half of what we expected, of the max.” July 8 had been a 50-year flood, he said. “It could be twice as much. That’s the honest-to-God truth.”

“So you guys knew?” interjected Fulcher.

“We had campers,” said Jarvis.

Lincoln County’s new manager, Jason Burns, cut her off: “Hold on. Listen to us. That’s not what he’s saying.”

Within weeks, Martinez adjusted his language. In an interview on Oct. 21, he said: “Did I do enough? I ask myself that question every day, and I come to the same realization every day: I don’t know what more I could have done. I honestly don’t.”

Months later, he left Ruidoso for a job in El Paso. He was soon replaced by Dobrovolny, the former state floodplain coordinator who had helped direct work at the track. In July, Dobrovolny emailed village employees, emphasizing a policy prohibiting them from talking to journalists. A video of the contentious October meeting originally posted by the county has been removed from the internet. In an email, Burns said the video’s disappearance was “not intentional.”

The Trotters held a celebration of life for their children on Aug. 15. Sebastian was still recovering from a broken bone in a foot, nerve damage in his legs, and wounds on his legs and arms. Tattoos on his forearms had been partially removed due to the injuries.

A few weeks later, the All American Futurity was held in Albuquerque for a second consecutive season. In Ruidoso, Crawford arranged a viewing party at the Jockey Club. When a bank of televisions showed horses bursting through the starting gate, feet stomped on the club’s carpet. The track outside was empty and quiet. Still, multiple people in the club said they anticipated racing would return. A woman from Texas named Dusty Milanes said the dangers in Ruidoso were being overblown. “There’s parts of the community that are totally normal,” said Milanes, who wore pink cowboy boots. Asked where that was, she said, “High ground.”

The Jockey Club was surviving on restaurant sales and catering contracts, and Crawford had to lay off most of his employees. In private, state officials discussed distancing themselves from their $16 million rehabilitation effort at the track. “We have to keep in mind and project to the public NMDOT had minimal involvement in this,” a district engineer for the Department of Transportation wrote in an email in August 2025.

By spring, green shoots sprouted on the hills above the Rio Ruidoso. New growth on burn scars can slow the worst effects of flooding, but scientists say it’s important to not become complacent. “This is not a one-and-done kind of thing,” said Belize Lane, an associate professor of civil and environmental engineering at Utah State University. “There is still an opportunity for many, many more events that may not look like that, but may still be hugely destructive.”

But in Ruidoso, people started to say that the worst had passed. “Everybody always goes back to sleep,” said Camp, the former county manager.

In July, the Ruidoso News published a story about the village government’s performance during the flooding, which largely relied on the mayor’s analysis. “The legacy is one of resilience, not giving up, fortitude, rugged individualism, the ability for you to be all you can be and not give up,” said Crawford.

The track was closed, and weeds soon grew 6 feet high in the holding pond. The All American Futurity was moved to Texas. Still, the Jockey Club continued to collect dues from members and Crawford promised that hooves would again thunder in Ruidoso. “The track deal isn’t over yet,” he said during a council meeting.

The Fulchers mostly avoided their old RV park. The state had finally secured $249 million for a buyout program, with more than three-quarters of the funds coming from the federal government. But the Fulchers, who now run a mountain-man themed store, selling antlers and rifles, hadn’t yet received an appraisal for their property.

They had settled a wrongful death lawsuit brought by the Trotters and Feagin’s family, with an insurance company paying an undisclosed amount. “Accountability is at the forefront of my mind,” Sebastian said during a March television interview. He said he would not “just let us be forgotten — let our kids be forgotten.” An attorney for the Trotters also sent the village a letter notifying officials that they intended to sue.

Crawford said that he anticipated the Trotters would sue but declined to discuss potential litigation.

The park now sat empty and taped off. The roof of the Fulchers’ house sagged, and a child’s handprints were still visible on the ceiling.

Out front, on a towering tree, there was a white cross and, beneath it, a plaque.

In loving memory of Benjamin “Tim” Feagin,
Sebastian Rowan Trotter,
Charlotte Emery Trotter,
And their two dogs Zeus & Ellie.

The Fulchers put the memorial up on the anniversary of the flood. A firefighter who had helped find one of the Trotters’ children attended. “We carry a lot of guilt for things that we weren’t able to do,” he said. “We feel like we could have done more.”

The village continued to advertise tourism in West Texas. During the summer, a digital billboard near the Trotters’ house flashed a Ruidoso promotion. Sebastian saw it when he filled up on gas.

Just upstream of the closed race track, a mobile home park was mostly full. Children played in the street, and occupied trailers sat above the river. The park’s managers said they were following local rules. “I don’t think it’ll ever flood again like that,” said one. The Rio Ruidoso babbled. It looked welcoming. On a summer day, you could go put your toes in.