trees and help promote healthy new growth. But many areas of the Lolo National Forest, including the grove he’s standing in, are too overgrown for a prescribed burn. Around the turn of the 20th century, some of the largest fires in American history burned through the national forests. The Great Burn in 1910 destroyed over 3 million acres of forest in Montana, Idaho and Washington and killed 86 people. As a result, the federal government perceived wildfires as a threat to valuable resources and lives and adopted a policy of complete fire suppression. By 1934, federal policy called for all fires extinguished “by 10:00 a.m. the next morning.” For better or worse, the policy was successful. In the 1930s, wildfires burned roughly 30 million acres; by the late 1960s that number decreased to less than 5 million. Around that same, researchers began to figure out that fire played a crucial role in the life cycles of several tree species. The flames burn away undergrowth, returning nutrients to the soil and allowing tree seeds an opportunity to sprout. The Forest Service has gotten more comfortable with fires in recent years and readily acknowledges that tree mortality is just as critical as tree viability to forest health. Wildfires in high elevations and far from human development are allowed to burn but monitored for potential threats. In low elevations, fire has been successfully reintroduced to a few ponderosa stands around Missoula to promote a more natural fire schedule. Waverek drives farther down the Forest Service road, closer to the Crazy Canyon trailhead. The trees are broadly spaced and stand like Corinthian columns. The undergrowth is low to the ground. Waverek approaches a particularly large tree and points to a charred triangular scar on the uphill side of the trunk. He’s pleased. “This was a good burn,” he says. “You can see how the wood underneath is now exposed.”
A sign alerts hikers and bikers of a thinning project in Crazy Canyon.
When the flames penetrate the bark of a mature ponderosa, the tree rushes pitch to the area to seal it off. Repeated over time, this process increases the tree’s density, allowing it to remain standing long after it’s dead to provide habitat for birds and small mammals. While fire is a vital part of returning forests to their natural state, the potential consequences make it a less-than-popular tactic. “In Montana, no one wants to be responsible for the risks,” says Carl Seielstad, a University of Montana professor of fire science management. “In the case of the Forest Service or any other agency, if it’s perceived that you’re responsible for letting it burn then you’re on the hook for what happens downstream. That’s the funda-
mental reason why so little fire is allowed to burn outside the wilderness areas.” The Forest Service acknowledges that this presents a problem. They want to reintroduce fire, but it needs to be on their terms. The agency says if fires came through without interference, they would burn at a high intensity and wipe out most, if not all, of the large trees in the forest. For example, after the Lolo Creek Complex fire sparked on Aug. 18, it took less than two days for it to spread over 5,000 acres. More than 750 people, 39 engines, five helicopters and about $850,000 were eventually used to fight the blaze. When crews successfully contained it about three weeks later, 10,900 acres of mixed conifer forest had burned. Just under 2,000 of those belonged to the For-
Diana Six uses a hatchet to look for mountain pine beetles in a dying ponderosa pine.
est Service. The largest landholder affected by the fire was Plum Creek Timber Company, which owns 7,000 acres. Every year, Plum Creek pays about 25 cents an acre to the Montana Department of Natural Resources and Conservation as a kind of insurance against any potential fires on the company’s 900,000 acres. The company actively thinned and logged the Lolo Creek area over the last several decades and had more planned for the near future. Plum Creek says it will still cut whatever timber is salvageable for paper pulp, fiberboard and lumber. The wood that’s too burnt may fuel sawmill boilers. Critics believe the Forest Service is still too lenient with timber companies and point to the Lolo Creek Complex as evidence. While Plum Creek says more thinning and logging is the answer, opponents disagree. “It’s ridiculous on its face to think the cause of our problems—the industrial techniques that damaged the forests—will get us out of the mess we’re in … ,” says Matthew Koehler, executive director of the nonprofit WildWest Institute. “Logging makes a forest hotter, windier and dryer. Anyone who went through the summer in Missoula and thinks we need to thin the forest more is misguided.”
A lasting legacy While experts agree our public forests need attention, opinions vary on the best solutions. It’s part of the reason Waverek and others avoid terms like “healthy” and “sick” when describing their work. “The thing is that [forest health] becomes code for different things,” says Boise State University researcher John Freemuth. “Does it mean active management? Does it mean cutting more trees in the name of forest health? Does that mean restoring what forests looked like before white Europeans? Or do we mean forests that don’t burn as often that produce more goods and services?”
John Waverek, a district fire manager officer with the Lolo National Forest, points to a burn scar on a ponderosa pine near the summit of University Mountain.
missoulanews.com • September 19–September 26, 2013 [15]