C AT C H I N G FIRE Wildfire season heats up in the American West
By Alastair Bland
The smoke from the 2015 Butte Fire as seen from Gary and Monika Rose’s property. The fire burned 70,000 acres.
A
plume of smoke rose from the woods early in the afternoon of Wednesday, Sept. 9, last year. Gary Rose was on his way home to his rural house in Mountain Ranch, Calaveras County, California, about three hours southwest of Reno. His wife, Monika, called to ask if he could see the fire.
Tens of millions of trees killed by the drought are ready to burn. Decades of fire suppression practices have also contributed to the woodland fuel load, allowing underbrush to build like kindling in a campfire ring. “California has always been a flammable place,” said Jens Stevens, a post-doc plant ecologist at the University of California, Davis’ John Muir Institute of the Environment. “What’s different today is there’s evidence the forests are denser than ever before. This is going to create bigger, hotter fires.” Thinning out that fuel load is a top priority for forest managers hoping to avert disastrous fires—but there may not be time. Already, record-setting heat baked the West in June, and it’s likely the summer will see furnace-like conditions in the months to come. With large fires already burning, fire officials are already facing what could very well blow into the worst fire season in regional history.
“He told me it was over the ridge, on the Amador side, and that it wasn’t coming our way,” she recalled By the next day, however, the plume had grown larger and closer, smearing the sky a rusty, smoky brown. That afternoon, the Roses, along with two of their three adult children, packed their belongings. Their unease grew into a frantic rush as the fire moved closer and closer. In the morning hours before sunrise, they piled into the truck as, behind them, the flames soared 150 to 200 feet above the ground. Rose said propane tanks could be heard exploding as the inferno claimed each new home in its path. QuEsT FoR FIRE “I could hear the fire breathing,” she said. “It was like a dragon coming down the mountain, and if it Fire has always burned through the hills and mountains wanted something it took it.” of the West. Some plants, like manzanitas, depend The Butte Fire eventually burned 70,000 acres, directly on the intense heat of fires to activate seed destroyed hundreds of homes and took two human lives. germination. The lodgepole pine, too, needs fire to open The Roses were allowed to return after nine days. They its pinecones. Some believe the landscape as a whole were lucky. Their home, and their small herd of cattle, benefited from regular fires, which cleared away dense survived the fire. A team of firefighters had, it turned underbrush and allowed animals to use the area. The out, camped on the property, using it as a base to try to heat of the flames generally had little negative effect on defend the surrounding region. Their success was only most adult trees, protected by thick bark and internal middling. Within a half mile of the Rose property, 11 water content. neighbors’ homes were destroyed—about a 50 percent The entrance of European Americans into the landrate of loss. scape abruptly changed the way fire plays into forest Rose said the devastation was almost surreal. ecology. By the 20th century, people became extremely “They were totally gone,” she said. “It effective in putting out fires. Andrew Latimer, an was eerie, like a war zone. The trees associate professor of fire ecology and plant were all blackened and standing like biology at UC Davis, said this change in a charred cathedral, and where the fire patterns can be seen in tree ring data, “I could hear the fire houses had been, there was nothviewable in the cross sections of old ing left at all—nothing, not even breathing. It was like a mountain conifers. pieces of metal.” “You can see the scars of fires, dragon coming down the 2015 was one of the most every six years, 10 years, 20 years,” mountain, and if it wanted destructive fire years ever. A Latimer said. “Then, starting around the record-setting 10 million acres something it took it.” late 19th century, early 20th century, it of the United States—mostly just stops entirely.” in Alaska and other Western For almost 100 years, local and state MoNIkA RosE regions—went up in flames. fire officials and the U.S. Forest Service “We no longer have fire seasons— extinguished fires aggressively and efficiently it’s more of a fire year now,” said across the West, and—for a time—Americans Mike Lopez, a veteran firefighter with the had conquered one of the most formidable forces of California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection nature. who currently serves as president of Cal Fire’s The trouble is, in the absence of fire, the woods grew Sacramento-based firefighters’ labor union. thicker. To Lopez and many others, it’s clear that climate “You had all this fuel building up on the forest floor, change is driving longer droughts and warmer condiwith branches and needles dropping and just staying tions that are pushing the West into a new era of bigger, there and piling up,” Latimer said. “There were also hotter fires. many trees that would have been killed before but were “The forecast is that this is the new normal,” able to grow up, so you had all these medium to large Lopez said. trees and a forest that was much, much denser.” Demographic trends are also troubling. Millions of Eventually, so much biomass had accumulated in the Americans now live in areas prone to catching fire, and West’s forests that even the advanced fire extinguishing outward development from urban areas continues to strategies and technology of the 20th century could not plant new homes deep in the dry woods. Now, after nearly five dry years, the West’s forests continued on page 14 are perhaps as likely to catch fire as they’ve ever been/ 07.14.16 | RN&R | 13
