Summit County Bans All Fireworks Under Stage 2 Restrictions

“Living in Colorado, we all know that there’s wildfire risk here,” Chris Brunette said, standing somewhere between the dry sagebrush and the packed dirt of a mountain driveway. “About 50% of our residences are built in the wildland-urban interface. We want to make sure that people are still having fun, but we’re protecting them as they’re having that fun.”

It’s a polite way of saying that if you light a sparkler in Aspen or Eagle this Fourth of July, you aren’t just making a pretty picture for your Instagram feed. You’re betting your house against a wind gust and a dry year.

The state of Colorado is currently burning. Six major wildfires are active across the West, fueled by one of the worst winter snowpacks on record. The snow didn’t just fail to fall; it failed to stick, leaving the earth parched and waiting for a spark. And because we live in a place where the forest edges right up against our siding, that spark can originate from anywhere. It can come from a forgotten campfire, or it can come from you, holding a box of sparklers you bought at the grocery store, thinking, It’s just a sparkler. It’s only 4 inches wide.

But it’s not. Not anymore.

Under state law, you can possess fireworks that don’t make a sound and don’t leave the ground. Sparklers are technically legal. But more than 50 of Colorado’s 64 counties have decided that technical isn’t good enough. They’ve passed local rules that ban all fireworks, including those humble, hand-held sparks. This includes Summit, Grand, Eagle, Garfield, Pitkin, Routt, Lake, Chaffee, and Park counties, all of which are under Stage 2 fire restrictions.

Stage 2 means no campfires. Stage 2 means no fireworks. And in Summit County, the Sheriff’s Office is watching.

Sgt. Mike Schilling doesn’t mince words. He pointed to the fires that sparked just last weekend, the ones that forced evacuations across the state. He talked about the fire along the Colorado-Utah border that grew so fast it overtook five firefighters, killing three. That’s the context. That’s the weight of the ban. It’s not just about property damage; it’s about the people who run into the smoke to pull you out.

“In Summit County, all fireworks are prohibited under the Stage 2 fire restrictions,” Schilling said.

The county has taken a zero-tolerance approach. If you light a firework in a remote area of the county, and someone calls it in — and they will, because neighbors love to report their neighbors — a deputy has to drive out there. That’s a resource tie-up during the busiest holiday of the year. That’s a deputy who isn’t checking on a medical emergency or directing traffic because he’s writing you a misdemeanor citation.

You can feel the tension in the air, thick and dry. It’s the same tension that’s been building since the snowpack reports came in last spring. We’re used to the drama of the mountains, the way the light hits the peaks at sunset, the way the cold bites through your jacket. But this year, the drama is in the fire danger ratings.

When you walk into a store in Glenwood Springs or drive up to Vail, you might see the same boxes of sparklers on the shelf as you did last year. But the label is different. The warning is louder. The cost of a mistake is higher.

Brunette’s point about the wildland-urban interface is crucial. Half of our homes sit right on the edge of the wild. That’s not an accident. That’s how we built this place. We wanted the view. We wanted the access. We accepted the risk. But accepting the risk is different than ignoring it.

So, as you pack your cooler for the drive up the valley, leave the sparklers in the drawer. Leave the bottle rockets in the garage. The fun is still there, but it’s quieter now. It’s the sound of a breeze moving through the pines, not the crack of a firecracker. It’s the sight of smoke rising, but this time, you’re watching it closely, wondering if it’s just the evening chill or the start of something worse.

The sun dips below the ridge, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and orange. The air cools quickly, biting at your skin. Somewhere out there, a deputy is still on the road, looking for that one spark that turns into a fire.