Bringing Fire Back to the Land

Once all but snuffed out, T’exelcemc Fire Stewardship practices are coming back into practice, bringing new life back to the landscape.

The last time pillars of smoke hung over T’exelc and Williams Lake was the summer of 2017, when sudden lightening strikes sparked numerous wildfires throughout the Central Cariboo, leading to evacuations, property damage, and the loss of at least 60 homes. But when a similar plume rose from the horizon in the fall of 2022, it was met with welcome eyes.

Word had gotten around about the source of the smoke. The Williams Lake Tribune told readers that it wasn’t from a wildfire, but from (as the newspaper called it) a “controlled burn” being performed near Bond Lake by Williams Lake First Nation. Rather than doom and gloom, the smoke signified a historic shift; a shift away from a time when Indigenous fire stewardship could land you in jail, and towards a future when our forests are once again rich with diverse species of medicinal plants, protected from drought and wildfire, and are nurturing spaces for endangered animal habitats that once thrived in the area.

Then and Now

Tree-ring data from the Ne Sextsine (Flat Rock) area has been analyzed to assess the frequency and intensity of cultural burning throughout history. There is clear evidence that regular burning was carried out by the Secwépemc from before contact until the practice was outlawed in 1874. A given area would be burned as a form of routine land management every four to 18 years, with burning happening in the safety of spring or fall, timed carefully around seasonal animal migrations.

The intensity of each burn was assessed by researchers as “low,” “moderate,” or “high.” Most of the burns were low-intensity, with hunting areas being identified as more “moderate” due to a decreased burn-frequency in those zones. Trails that saw regular use, as well as community areas were burned more frequently, and at a lower intensity.

When the Bush Fire Act of 1874 was rolled out in British Columbia, it was prefaced as a safeguard against wildfires started by locomotives and industry. The real, racist rationale behind the law was not so well hidden. The law stated that anybody lighting a fire in the woods (be it on private, reserve, or crown land) or allowing a fire to burn in the woods could be fined up to $100 (about $2600 today) or jailed for up to three months; this at a time when Indigenous fire stewardship was commonplace. The law aimed to assimilate Indigenous peoples into colonial society while pacifying the fears of settler ranchers and property owners. It passed not long after smallpox hit the T’exelcemc, knocking the population back by two-thirds. Between these two factors, fire stewardship came to a halt in Ne Sextsine.

Prior to contact, forests were more vast and open, with fewer, larger trees, and much more space between them. Elders have reported that one could easily ride a horse or pull a wagon between two given points without a trail. With wildfire suppression, forest understories become a thicket of dense brush. The bottom limbs of large trees become stressed from the pressure of the undergrowth, and the abundance of material allows fire to “ladder” to the crowns of trees. Fire-starved forests are more susceptible to insects and diseases, which further intensifies the risk. Laddering can quickly cause a wildfire to escalate uncontrollably. These are the types of fires that led to Williams Lake’s 2017 evacuation, and the utter irradiation of the Village of Lytton in 2021.

For as many as 15 years after a burn, deer will favour burned areas in the summer months due to the wealth of young foliage for food. This is true even of land that has been completely ravaged by high-intensity wildfires. In the winter months however, deer will avoid areas that are too open, as it leaves them vulnerable to predation. Their small hooves sink into deeper snow, making them an easy target in open areas. In a forest that is comprised of widely-spaced, larger trees, the crowns of the trees intercept the snow as it falls, making the land easy to navigate by mule-deer. This makes a forest that has been regularly burned the perfect middle-ground for deer habitat; easy to get around, and rich with green growth for food.

The effects of fire suppression are also felt in the grasslands. Grasslands make up less than 1% of the province geographically. Such areas are hot and dry in the summer months, which limits the natural growth of tree seedlings. Grasses however, flourish in such regions, as they are adept at capturing moisture in areas where it’s scarce. From birds, mammals, reptiles, mosses, lichens and algaes, the ecosystems that develop around these grasslands are rich, but fragile.

Before contact, Indigenous burning played no small role in maintaining Cariboo grasslands as distinct ecological networks. Fires from lightning strikes and cultural burning regimes would traditionally pass through Cariboo grasslands every 10-20 years. Tree seedlings that might have taken root would be largely eradicated, allowing the grassland species to regenerate and reign supreme. When regular fires were halted, there was nothing to stop trees and brush from encroaching on the grasslands, putting the whole ecosystem in jeopardy. Since 1962, some Cariboo grasslands have receded by more than 30% due to this “forest invasion.” Grasslands support around 33% of endangered species in the province; more than any other type of habitat. Badgers are now so rare in the Cariboo that they’re practically the stuff of myth. Burrowing owls, which rely on abandoned badger holes, are now extinct in the region.