Wildfire

A Reader

Alianor True

• Publisher: Island Press
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN:
  9781559639071
  9781559639064
• eBook ISBN:
  9781559633598
• Topic: Biological Sciences
• Subtopic: Zoology
• Index: Biological Sciences

During the summer of 2000, Americans from coast to coast witnessed the worst fire season in recorded history. Daily news reports brought dramatic images of vast swaths of land going up in smoke, from the mountains of Montana and Wyoming, to the scrublands of Texas, to Los Alamos, New Mexico, where a controlled burn gone awry threatened forests, homes, and even our nation's nuclear secrets. As they have for centuries, wildfires captured our attention and our imagination, reminding us of the power of the natural forces that shape our world.

In Wildfire: A Reader nature writer and wildland firefighter Alianor True gathers together for the first time some of the finest stories and essays ever written about wildfire in America. From Mark Twain to Norman Maclean to Edward Abbey, writers featured here depict and record wildfires with remarkable depth and clarity. An ecological perspective is well represented through the works of John Muir, Aldo Leopold, and John McPhee. Ed Engle, Louise Wagenknecht, and Gretchen Yost, firefighters from the front lines, give us exciting first-person perspectives, reliving their on-the-ground encounters with forest fires.

The works gathered in Wildfire not only explore the sensory and aesthetic aspects of fire, but also highlight how much attitudes have changed over the past 200 years. From Native Americans who used fire as a tool, to early Americans who viewed it as a frightening and destructive force, to Aldo Leopold and other conservationists whose ideas caused us to rethink the value and role of fire, this rich collection is organized around those shifts in thinking.

Capturing the fury and the heat of a raging inferno, or the quiet emergence of wildflowers sprouting from ashes, the writings included in Wildfire represent a vital and compelling addition to the nature writing and natural history bookshelf.

Part I

Big Country, Big Fires

We are the fire that burns the country.

—Bantu Proverb

VISIT VIRTUALLY any wild place in America, and you will uncover evidence of both ancient and modern wildfire. Hike through an open ponderosa stand in Arizona, and notice the fresh grass creeping up on blackened stumps, and mule deer browsing in the absence of brush. Scramble up a smooth scarred slope in Southern California’s brush country, and notice where chapparal burned clean last year now sprouts stubbly new growth. Pass through the high plateau of Yellowstone, where hundreds of thousands of acres were cleared by the Great Fire of 1988, and rest in the rich forest of aspen and lodgepole pine trees. Two thousand miles across the country, in the Great Smoky Mountains, observe the broad stands of beech trees of similar height and girth along the Appalachian Trail, all sprouted from seeds nurtured in the fertile ash of a forest fire.

In each case, some as recent as a year ago and others as old as two centuries ago, fires have played a defining role in creating the environments we now inhabit. In the hands of people and in wild nature, fire is the force that cleans and regenerates, enhances and destroys. With great power and an almost intuitive sense, fire stimulates evolutionary adaptation among plants and animals, produces its own stormy weather in convective cloud cells, and distributes airborne ash that fertilizes terrain near and far. Across North America, the subtle shapes of wilderness and wild country lost reveal an intimate and historical relationship to fire. The patterns of forest and meadow, the distribution of vegetation, the migrations and daily movements of wildlife—all are related to the presence of fire on the land at some point in the past.

During presettlement days, the frequent wildfires streaming across the prairies had more to offer than many early American settlers realized. Fire is essential for preventing the encroachment of the trees that invade edges of open areas such as grasslands and meadows. After flames consume both woody material and grass, it is the quick sprouting and growing of grasses that leads to dominance. For the native plants that evolved under the pressures of periodic fire, seeds lying dormant often require the coaxing of fire to germinate. Regular firing of the land also allows nurturing sunlight and moisture to penetrate deep to the roots of prairie species while nutrients released from burnt material fertilize young plants as they grow.

Native Americans used their own flames along with naturally burning wildfires to expand and enrich the borders of the original North American grasslands. Stretching from the coastal plains of the Eastern seaboard to the foothills of the Appalachians, and west and north to the wide open Great Plains, fire made seasonal appearances, leaving the ground ashen and bare, releasing nutrients and setting the stage for the healthy greens of spring. Native American uses of fire varied from a means of communication—columns of smoke rising from one hilltop to another, to large area burns used to eradicate hordes of insect pests. Fire played a role in hunting by clearing underbrush and attracting game; and in agriculture by facilitating the harvest of roots and nuts, berries and beans. Both natural and anthropogenic flames altered the natural distribution of vegetation, from spacious grasslands to parklike forests clear of underbrush and full of game. These traditional ways of handling fire and introducing it into the landscape often shaped the country that settlers encountered as they moved west across America.

Early American writers realized the importance of fire; it served as a regular backdrop for many well-known stories. Writers such as Henry David Thoreau, John Muir, Washington Irving, and Mark Twain all described and commented upon fires in their books. In these early writings, humankind did not dominate wildfires as they blazed through the surrounding forests and prairies. Instead, fire was a force to be reckoned with, respected, and feared; a force that could mercilessly destroy valuable resources and property. Stephen Pyne places the fires of 1910, which darkened the skies from the Northwest clear to Chicago and New England and spurred the creation of our modern firefighting culture, into the context of recent large-scale wildfires and fire management policies. Wildfire stories from this early period are also captured in Native American literature through origin tales and myths of how fire was brought to people.

These readings span the beginning of more than 200 years of nature writing and wildfire, before the trappings of modern civilization spawned fire suppression and a daily life disconnected from the common pressures of nature. Fire was not under the human thumb, nor was it controlled in any organized manner. More than a century would pass before fire behavior could be quantified and the movement of fire, as a living creature over the landscape, could be predicted. These early writings chronicle the relationship between wildfire and the American landscape in what now seems a quaint and distant time, before there were hotshot crews and smokejumpers and air tankers dropping slurry from the sky. In these pages, the reader will find no mention of the regenerative forces of fire, of its fertilizing powers and integral role in nurturing the natural environment in a healthy equilibrium.

In this first section, readers will sample writings from the buffalo-dotted Great Plains to the hills surrounding Lake Tahoe to the woods of Maine. Wildfire, as reality and as myth, is seen as a curious paradox—both familiar and unknown, entertaining and terrifying. Later readings will chronicle the integration of fire into the fields of forestry and environmental science, the development of military firefighting structures, and the growing sense of the role of fire in environmental history. For now, though, let us travel back to a different time, when campfires were often the only means of providing light and warmth, and nature was a much larger, and older, presence in the human experience.

The First Fire

CHEROKEE TALE

IN THE BEGINNING THERE was no fire, and the world was cold, until the Thunders (Ani’-Hyun’tikwala’ski), who lived up in Galun’lati, sent their lightning and put fire into the bottom of a hollow sycamore tree which grew on an island. The animals knew it was there, because they could see the smoke coming out at the top, but they could not get to it on account of the water, so they held a council to decide what to do. This was a long time ago.

Every animal that could fly or swim was anxious to go after the fire. The Raven offered, and because he was so large and strong they thought he could surely do the work, so he was sent first. He flew high and far across the water and alighted on the sycamore tree, but while he was wondering what to do next, the heat had scorched all his feathers black, and he was frightened and came back without the fire. The little-screech owl (Wa’huhu’) volunteered to go, and reached the place safely, but while he was looking down into the hollow tree a blast of hot air came up and nearly burnt out his eyes. He managed to fly home as best he could, but it was a long time before he could see well, and his eyes are red to this day. Then the Hooting Owl (U’guku’) and the Horned Owl (Tskili) went, but by the time they got to the hollow tree the fire was burning so fiercely that the smoke nearly blinded them, and the ashes carried up by the wind made white rings about their eyes. They had to come home again without the fire, but with all their rubbing they were never able to get rid of the white rings.

Now no more of the birds would venture, and so the little Uksu’hi snake, the black racer, said he would go through the water and bring back some fire. He swam across to the island and crawled through the grass to the tree, and went in by a small hole at the bottom. The heat and smoke were too much for him, too, and after dodging about blindly over the hot ashes until he was almost on fire himself he managed by good luck to get out again at the same hole, but his body had been scorched black, and he has ever since had the habit of darting and doubling on his track as if trying to escape from close quarters. He came back, and the great blacksnake, Gule’gi, “The Climber,” offered to go for fire. He swam over to the island and climbed up the tree on the outside, as the blacksnake always does, but when he put his head down into the hole the smoke choked him so that he fell into the burning stump, and before he could climb out again he was as black as the Uksu’hi.

Now they held another council, for still there was no fire, and the world was cold, but birds, snakes, and four-footed animals, all had some excuse for not going, because they were all afraid to venture near the burning sycamore, until at last Kanane’ski Amai’yehi (the Water Spider) said she would go. This is not the water spider that looks like a mosquito, but the other one, with black downy hair and red stripes on her body. She can run on top of the water or dive to the bottom, so there would be no trouble to get over to the island, but the question was, How could she bring back fire? “I’ll manage that,” said the Water Spider; so she spun a thread from her body and wove it into a tusti bowl, which she fastened on her back. Then she crossed over to the island and through the grass to where the fire was still burning. She put one little coal of fire into her bowl, and came back with it, and ever since we have had fire, and the Water Spider still keeps her tusti bowl.

How Tol’-le-loo Got the Fire for the Mountain People

A TALE OF THE NORTHERN MIWOK

THE MOUNTAIN PEOPLE lived in the Sierra near the Mokelumne River, which they called Ut’-ta Wah-kah’-loo, meaning big river. They had no fire and the world was dark. The Valley People lived on the San Joaquin Plain, which they called Ol-law’-win. Their roundhouse was not far from the spot now occupied by the city of Stockton. They had a small fire in the middle of the roundhouse and Wit’-tab-bah the Robin was its keeper.

Wek’-wek the Falcon and We’-pi-ah’-gah the Golden Eagle were Chiefs of the Valley People. Among the members of their tribe were Mol’-luk the Condor; Hoo’-a-zoo the Turkey Buzzard; Hoo-loo’-e the Dove; Te-wi’-yu the Red-shafted Flicker, who must have been very close to the fire as anyone can see from the red under his wings and tail; and Wit’-tab-bah the red-breasted Robin, who was keeper of the fire. There were also Hah-ki’-ah the Elk, Hal’-loo-zoo the Antelope, Sahk’-mum-chah the Cinnamon Bear, and others.

The Mountain People were in darkness and wanted fire but did not know where it was or how to get it. O-la’-choo the Coyote-man tried hard to find it but did not succeed. After a while Tol’-le-loo the White-footed Mouse discovered the fire and the Mountain People sent him to steal it.

Tol’-le-loo took his flute (loo’-lah) of elderberry wood and went down into the valley and found the big roundhouse of Wek’-wek and We’-pi-ah’-gah and began to play. The people liked the music and asked him to come inside. So he went in and played for them. Soon all the people felt sleepy. Wit’-tab-bah the Robin was sure that Tol’-le-loo had come to steal the fire, so he spread himself over it and covered it all up in order to hide it, and it turned his breast red. But Tol’-le-loo kept on playing his flute and in a little while all the people were sound asleep; even Wit’-tab-bah could not keep awake.

Then Tol’-le-loo ran up to Wit’-tab-bah and cut a little hole in his wing and crawled through and stole the fire and put it inside his flute. When he had done this he ran out with it and climbed up to the top of the high mountain called Oo’-yum-bel’-le (Mount Diablo) and made a great fire which lighted up all the country till even the blue mountains far away in the east [the Sierra Nevada Range] could be seen. Before this all the world was dark.

When Wek’-wek awoke he saw the fire on Oo’-yum-bel’-le and knew that Tol’-le-loo had stolen it. So he ran out and followed him and after a while caught him.

Tol’-le-loo said, “Look and see if I have the fire.”

Wek’-wek looked but could not find it, for it was inside the flute. Then Wek’-wek pitched Tol’-le-loo into the water and let him go.

Tol’-le-loo got out and went east into the mountains and carried the fire in his flute to the Mountain People; then he took it out of the flute and put it on the ground and covered it with leaves and pine needles and tied it up in a small bundle. O-la’-choo the Coyote smelled it and wanted to steal it. He came up and pushed it with his nose and was going to swallow it when it suddenly shot up into the sky and became the Sun.

O-la’-choo sent Le’-che-che the Hummingbird, and another bird, named Le-che-koo’-tah-mah, who also had a long bill, after it, but they could not catch it and came back without it.

The people took the fire that was left and put it into two trees, oo’-noo the buckeye and mon’-o-go the incense cedar, where it still is and where it can be had by anyone who wants it.

Excerpt from The Journals of the Expedition under the Command of Captains Lewis and Clark

MERIWETHER LEWIS

October 29th, 1805

In the evening, the prairie took fire, either by accident or design, and burned with great fury, the whole plain being enveloped in flames: so rapid was its progress that a man and a woman were burnt to death before they could reach a place of safety, another man with his wife and child were much burnt, and several other persons narrowly escaped destruction. Among the rest a boy of the half white breed escaped unhurt in the midst of the flames; his safety was ascribed to the great medicine spirit, who had preserved him on account of his being white. But a much more natural cause was the presence of mind of his mother, who seeing no hopes of carrying off her son, threw him on the ground, and covering him with the fresh hide of a buffalo, escaped herself from the flames; as soon as the fire had passed, she returned and found him untouched, the skin having prevented the flame from reaching the grass on which he lay.

The Alarm Camp

WASHINGTON IRVING

Fire—The Wild Indians

We now came to a halt, and had to content ourselves with an indifferent encampment. It was in a grove of scrub oaks, on the borders of a deep ravine, at the bottom of which were a few scanty pools of water. We were just at the foot of a gradually sloping hill, covered with half-withered grass, that afforded meagre pasturage. In the spot where we had encamped, the grass was high and parched. The view around us was circumscribed, and much shut in by gently swelling hills.

Just as we were encamping, Tonish arrived, all glorious from his hunting match; his white horse hung all round with buffalo meat. According to his own account, he had laid low two mighty bulls. As usual, we deducted one half from his boastings; but now that he had something real to vaunt about, there was no restraining the valour of his tongue.

After having in some measure appeased his vanity by boasting of his exploit, he informed us, that he had observed the fresh track of horses, which, from various circumstances, he suspected to have been made by some roving band of Pawnees. This caused some little uneasiness. The young men who had left the line of march in pursuit of the two buffaloes had not yet rejoined us. Apprehensions were expressed that they might be waylaid and attacked. Our veteran hunter, “old Ryan,” also, immediately on our halting to encamp, had gone off on foot, in company with a young disciple. “Dat old man will have his brains knocked out by de Pawnees yet,” said Beatte; “he tink he know every ting, but he don’t know Pawnees any how.”

Taking his rifle, the Captain repaired on foot to reconnoitre the country from the naked summit of one of the neighbouring hills. In the mean time, the horses were hobbled and turned loose to graze in the adjacent fields, and wood was cut, and fires made, to prepare the evening’s repast.

Suddenly there was an alarm of fire in the camp! The flame from one of the kindling fires had caught to the tall dry grass: a breeze was blowing; there was danger that the camp would soon be wrapped in a light blaze. “Look to the horses!” cried one; “drag away the baggage!” cried another; “take care of the rifles and powder-horns!” cried a third: all was hurry-scurry and uproar. The horses dashed wildly about; the men snatched away rifles and powder-horns; others dragged off saddles and saddle-bags: meantime, no one thought of quelling the fire, nor, indeed, knew how to quell it. Beatte, however, and his comrades, attacked it in the Indian mode, beating down the edges of the fire with blankets and horse-cloths, and endeavouring to prevent its spreading among the grass; the rangers followed their...

Table of contents

• About Island Press
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• Epigraph
• Introduction: Fire from the Sky
• Part I - Big Country, Big Fires
• Part II - Of Fire and the Landscape
• Part III - Fire as Foe, Fire as Friend
• Sources
• Contributors
• Acknowledgments
• Index
• About the Editor
• Island Press Board of Directors