The rain stopped, but the nightmare did not. In the mountains near Lillooet, hope shrank with every shovelful of mud, every hour of terrible quiet. Three men found. One still missing. A woman’s body recovered days earlier. Families waiting for a phone call they both dread and need. Nature shifted once, and everythin…
In the wake of the Lillooet mudslide, the landscape is not the only thing left unrecognizable. For the families who lost loved ones, time has split into a brutal before and after. The recovered bodies offer a painful kind of certainty, while the man still missing binds his family to an agonizing limbo. Rescue teams, forced to halt their search as slopes groaned and ground shifted, must now live with the knowledge that safety demanded retreat.
Across British Columbia, the tragedy has become a symbol of a deeper unease. Communities that have endured fires, floods, and heat now watch the hillsides with wary eyes, wondering what will give way next. Yet amid the devastation, there is a fierce, quiet solidarity: neighbours opening homes, volunteers staffing shelters, experts working to understand how to prevent the next disaster. Grief fills the valleys, but so does a stubborn resolve to remember, to adapt, and to protect what can still be saved.

