This story was co-published with ProPublica, a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power.
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 months as visitors flock to the region.
Since the previous year’s disasters, residents had remained on edge. A new monsoon season had arrived, bringing sporadic flooding that jeopardized the town’s primary economic engine: horse racing. At stake were large crowds celebrating the Fourth of July, watching quarter horse races, and enjoying the cool mountain weather that had lured Texans to the area 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,” earning less than $26,000 annually as the town’s mayor.
If the town’s economy was precarious, its geography was even more so. The South Fork and Salt fires had charred the landscape, leaving behind hydrophobic soils that could not easily absorb water. Geologists and hydrologists often compare the phenomenon to spilling hot wax on a carpet, letting it cool, and then repeatedly pouring water over it. Placing that sealed, impermeable layer on steep hills above a river lined with log homes, tourist shops selling wooden bears, and an iconic racetrack created an immediate hazard.
Local officials were acutely aware of the threat, but they clung to Ruidoso’s foundational premise: that nature could be subdued for the enjoyment of tourists and the profit of the community. Nowhere was this more apparent than at the racetrack, where the Rio Ruidoso, channeled through concrete culverts, crossed the infield. After the 2024 flooding severely damaged the track, the culverts were rebuilt utilizing a $16 million public investment authorized by New Mexico’s Democratic governor, Michelle Lujan Grisham.
The track had only recently reopened, and flooding was once again threatening to derail the racing season. On June 26, internal records show, Ruidoso’s emergency management department was operating at a heightened threat awareness level. Flooding had destroyed a bridge upstream of the town, and the local forecast called for more rain.
Yet, publicly, the village maintained it was fully prepared and that the community was safe. The following 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 outdated videos. “Protect our community from fear-based falsehoods,” the village implored in a public service announcement.
On July 4, one state over in central Texas, violent flooding killed more than 130 people. However, multiple tourists arriving in Ruidoso said they had no idea the town was in serious danger. At the local racetrack, horses ran, and Crawford hosted members at the exclusive 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. Sebastian was an Army helicopter pilot stationed at Fort Bliss; his wife, Stephanie, was a nursing student. They thought the mountain village looked family-friendly and saw no warnings online. Bringing their two children and three dogs, they parked their trailer on Sunday, July 6, in a scenic spot at the water’s edge in the Riverview RV Park. In online photographs, the river appeared gentle. “You could go put your toes in,” Sebastian recalled.
That day, the Rio Ruidoso—whose Spanish name translates to “noisy river”—briefly flooded, prompting firefighters to rescue at least four people. The Trotters saw the water rise, but the campground host assured them it was a regular occurrence. Shortly after, the river receded.
Inside the park, the Trotters’ children, 7-year-old Sebastian Rowan and 4-year-old Charlotte, biked under the tall pines. The young boy was an enthusiastic soccer player enchanted by camping in the woods; his sister was bright and cheery, occasionally 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 visited a lake before noticing storm clouds forming in the distance. They decided to head into town, ordering pizza before allowing the children to pick out souvenirs. Young Sebastian selected a rainbow gemstone, while Charlotte picked out a bracelet and a ring. They then returned to the RV park to relax by the riverbank.
At 1 p.m. that afternoon, Mayor Crawford presided over a council meeting at Village Hall. He began by recognizing the Texas flood victims and noting 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 mandate, he argued, meant carefully balancing public safety with the promotion of tourism.
At almost the exact same moment, storm clouds gathered heavily in the mountains. Even short periods of moderate rainfall on severe burn scars can unleash catastrophic post-fire floods. By 1:30 p.m., radar indicated storms might douse both burn scars simultaneously. Shortly before 2 p.m., firefighters texted radar images to one another. “It could be interesting,” one wrote. Only about a third of the department was on duty at the time, and Fire Chief Cade Hall had for weeks declined to position additional flood specialists near low-lying areas. Hall later disputed ProPublica’s reporting regarding the emergency response but declined to comment with specifics.
Less than an hour later, another flood arrived, carrying heavy debris that backed up behind bridges. The water kept coming, fanning out onto roads until the normal course of the river vanished. 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 surging down the waterway. Two miles downstream, a maintenance worker at a mobile home park watched a car float past and lodge against a bridge.
Farther downstream, racetrack executives needed no physical signs of danger; they had already been alerted. But the Trotters were caught entirely unprepared. Around 3 p.m., they retreated to their travel trailer to escape the heavy rain. Then the flood tore through a wall and took their children.
The wildfire crisis engulfing the American West presents a secondary threat that has historically received less attention: entire neighborhoods washing away in debris flows and floods following major burns. Scientists emphasize a direct correlation between fire intensity and flood risk. Research shows that when more than 20 percent of the ground burns at moderate to high severity—particularly on steep slopes—the danger of debris flows and post-fire flooding during storms increases dramatically. The fires burning 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 exacerbates both wildfires and floods. The state and the village each commissioned experts to model flooding scenarios, and the resulting engineering reports predicted severe devastation. “They told us exactly where it was going to come and what it was going to do,” Fire Chief Hall said. Federal emergency officials even suggested that significant parts of the town should relocate away from the river.
Instead, leaders ranging from the mayor to the governor recommitted to tourism and the local racetrack.
Since the July 8, 2025, flood, officials have insisted they performed admirably under historic disaster conditions. Michael Martinez, the village’s former deputy manager who helped direct the emergency response, maintained, “We’re lucky we didn’t have a Texas.”
However, according to five first responders who spoke on the condition of anonymity out of fear of professional reprisal, the tragedy could have been avoided. Their accounts are supported by public records, including emails, internal reports, and hydrologic assessments. Before July 8, Crawford, Hall, and other officials made decisions that left residents and tourists vulnerable, even though they knew a damaging flood was likely.
Some choices, such as the village’s aggressive promotion of tourism to visitors who were largely unaware of the threat, appeared financially motivated, according to current and former officials. “Money was the driver,” said Thora Walsh Padilla, former president of the Mescalero Apache Tribe, 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… You’re putting them in jeopardy.”
Other missteps stemmed from institutional inaction: failing to relocate vulnerable residents and neglecting to replace infrastructure damaged during previous floods, even as the governor pushed a $16 million investment into the racetrack. Furthermore, just before the flood arrived, at least one of the RV park’s owners received emergency alerts but failed to evacuate campers.
Village officials, including Crawford, did not respond to more than 70 questions from ProPublica, including inquiries about whether they prioritized tourism at the track over public safety. In an interview the previous year, Crawford remarked, “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 respond. Village officials have maintained that their emergency department sent text-message warnings prior to the flood through an opt-in public system.
A spokesperson for Governor Lujan Grisham asserted that state investments in the track were necessary to protect life and safety. The track’s general manager, Rick Baugh, did not respond to multiple inquiries, and one of the racing operation’s owners did not answer emailed questions.
The lapses and missed opportunities in Ruidoso offer challenging lessons about the harsh reality facing communities across the American West. Post-fire flooding and debris flows have killed residents and triggered mass rescues in states like Colorado, Utah, and Arizona. Yet, while federal scientists have created national models to assess post-fire debris flow hazards, communities still lack easily accessible tools to gauge specific post-fire flood risks.
Ruidoso continues to look like a bustling tourist hub, but it now survives almost entirely on disaster aid from state and federal governments. Since 2024, state and federal agencies have spent more than half a billion dollars on disasters in Ruidoso—an amount nine times the village’s annual operating budget. Even as funding pours in, first responders argue the village remains inadequately prepared to protect residents and visitors alike.
Historically, the colonial founders of Ruidoso built their community directly on the riverbanks, whereas the indigenous Mescalero Apache traditionally settled on hills above creeks and wetlands to avoid rising waters. Over the decades, the river repeatedly flooded, including notable events in 2008 and 2022. Randall Camp, the former Lincoln County manager and public works director for Ruidoso, noted bluntly, “The river can’t be trusted.”
Many new arrivals failed to understand that underlying danger. Jason Fulcher and his wife, Lindsey, moved to Ruidoso from the Houston area in 2022 seeking a quiet life near family. They purchased a 1.5-acre property situated directly below the confluence of the Rio Ruidoso and two tributaries. They arrived just as the regional threat reached an unprecedented extreme. Decades of federal fire suppression policies had left the surrounding forests unnaturally thick and dense with heavy fuels. As the climate warmed, wildfires grew significantly larger and hotter than in previous generations.
In June 2024, two major fires ignited, followed quickly by monsoon rains and a destructive 16-foot flood on July 20, 2024. The Fulchers’ home sustained minor damage, but their relatives’ nearby property was destroyed. Federal officials deemed that neighboring home uninhabitable and barred temporary rebuilding, prompting discussions of a massive, federally funded property buyout.
While federal agencies like the Natural Resources Conservation Service had funding mechanisms for buyouts, local partners were required to provide a 25 percent financial match. With the local governments unable or unwilling to raise the necessary millions during the 2025 legislative session, the buyout plans stalled. As tourist season approached, officials encouraged the reopening of rental properties to support the local economy.
On March 31, 2025, the village released an updated online floodplain map based on models created by engineering firm Cobb, Fendley & Associates. Months earlier, the firm had warned village officials that a 100-year storm could bring six times the volume of the destructive 2024 flood and identified more than 200 at-risk addresses, including the RV parks. However, village officials framed the map primarily around building permits and development regulations rather than immediate loss of life.
On May 25, 2025, Governor Lujan Grisham celebrated the rapid reopening of the Ruidoso Downs racetrack, praising the completion of an 8-acre holding basin, rebuilt culverts, and reinforced roads funded by the state. While the track’s executives emphasized the economic necessity of bringing tourists back, critics pointed out that critical bridge and culvert repairs upriver had lagged behind.
On July 8, as severe rain fell near the river’s headwaters, the National Weather Service issued a flash flood warning that was soon upgraded to an emergency. Mayor Crawford adjourned the council meeting just before 3:10 p.m., warning of an impending wall of water, and called the racetrack’s general manager to evacuate track workers.
Three miles upstream at the Riverview RV Park, campers received routine weather alerts but experienced alert fatigue from daily warnings. No emergency personnel arrived at the park with loudspeakers to order evacuations, unlike in other parts of the municipality.
When the flash flood struck, it moved with terrifying speed and volume, carrying massive debris and vehicles. Jason Fulcher managed to escape his trailer but became trapped while trying to rescue his children, who ultimately survived by clinging to a ceiling fan as water filled their home.
The Trotter family was caught inside their travel trailer as the flood tore through. Stephanie Trotter and her young daughter were swept into the current, while young Sebastian grabbed onto a tree before losing his grip. First responders rescued Stephanie and recovered the bodies of Benjamin Feagin and the two Trotter children in the hours that followed.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, state and local officials defended their emergency response, insisting they had done everything possible to issue warnings and protect the public. Nevertheless, internal documents and engineering reports confirmed that the devastating scale of the flood had been accurately modeled and anticipated well in advance.
Months after the disaster, the Riverview RV park stands empty and taped off, marked by a small memorial bearing the names of those lost. While state and local leaders continue to promote tourism and eye the eventual revival of horse racing, grieving families and first responders are left grappling with the heavy human cost of prioritizing profit and tourism over public safety in a warming, increasingly dangerous American West.