My own understanding of wildfires has evolved greatly over the years. My introduction was in 1984 in the Coast Range of Oregon - an area not noted for many fires. The Bureau of Land Management (or mismanagement, as the case may be) had set ablaze some “brush” after first devastating the area with a clearcut. As a young and enthusiastic wildlife biologist there to study Spotted Owls, I was deeply appalled at the flagrant abuse of the land. Several years later when I set out on a 2-month, solo wilderness trek in the Ocala National Forest in Florida I was deeply incensed at a wildfire left to smolder in a supposedly protected area. Back then I simplistically viewed all fires as destroyers, unaware of their role in various ecosystems.
Fast forward to the spate of wildfires in southeast Arizona this year. Concern over our Spring blazes poured in from our friends and family around the country and beyond. Were Claudia and I alright? Were there any fires near us? Had our land burned? What had started the fires? We were touched by the interest in our well-being and in that of the land as well.
Unlike my early stance towards fire, I now found myself greatly relieved in a sense that much of the Sky Islands had finally had a “makeover” courtesy of Nature. Thanks to years of unenlightened land management that discouraged wildfires, vilified them, and which strove to quickly squelch them, many plant communities within the Sky Islands had transformed into veritable tinderboxes! Anyone with an experienced eye could see that we were due to “pay the piper”.
Over the past 2 decades I have extensively hiked and wandered through both burned and unburned landscapes in our region. I gradually came to the conclusion that we were indeed due for a massive series of burns. As I journeyed through dense Semi-desert Grasslands and nearly impenetrable Interior Chaparral - 2 plant communities that are particularly prone to fire and which rely upon them for renewal - I pondered not if, but when they would be engulfed by flames. Even less fire-prone habitats seemed so stoked with dry fuel of every size and shape that I marveled at how they had survived intact for so long given the ubiquitousness of lightning during the Monsoon. Madrean Evergreen Woodland infused with tall grass seemed ripe for flames. Even the stately conifer-laden forests topping many of our taller ranges felt similarly decadent and ready for renewal. Fortunately or unfortunately, this year proved me to be unequivocally correct.
During the multitude of small-to-immense fires in the Sky Islands I found myself torn with many conflicting emotions. My scientific background and experience reassured me that fire is indeed a natural component of many, if not most, of our plant communities. While I was distressed that all of the fires were human-caused, some likely intentionally, overall I was confident that good things would literally and figuratively emerge from the ashes.
Reaffirming this were many previous travels by foot through burned areas that were recovering wonderfully. The 25,000 acre 1994 Rattlesnake Burn (as with hurricanes, fires are often named) high in the coniferous forests of the Chiricahuas was now lush with young Pine trees, Aspens, Elderberries, and a blizzard of seasonal wildflowers. That same burn, as well as others in the Chiricahuas had actually “re-wilded” large tracts of federal wilderness. Instead of relatively open hiking trails, many areas now had a plethora of trees blocking passage in all directions. I recall traversing just such a landscape in October of 2004. Each mile transformed into what seemed like 3 miles in this grand obstacle course - admission granted only to the most hardy. After many miles of such travel, I was overcome by the feeling of having truly experienced wildness.
So too with even older burned areas that had grown back to dense chaparral, nearly erasing all traces of trails that were deceivingly clear on my topographic maps. Though greatly challenged by these landscapes, I felt that the fires had added to their value as wilderness, not subtracted from it. How few truly wild areas are left and how grateful I was to those now distant fires for helping to protect those that remain. Further, I had delved deeply into the science of Fire Ecology, learning about how periodic fires renew the landscape. Fire burns dry plant material to ashes, thus liberating nutrients for plant regrowth. This influx of nutrients often results in a short-term boost in plant growth following rains. Light and moisture are now also able to reach seeds which then can germinate to begin afresh the cycle of renewal. Some seeds, in fact, normally require fire to assist in the germination process, such as Ponderosa Pine seeds whose cones need heat to open.
Evidence of the antiquity of fire in our plant communities and, indeed, throughout most of the terrestrial habitats on Earth is readily apparent to the discerning eye. Witness how grasses, those most fire-adapted plants, burn to the ground only to be renewed by their subterranean crowns. If grass had a voice, it would clamor for fire. Fire clears away woody vegetation that would otherwise outcompete the grasses in the long haul. Thus, the nearly wholesale conversion of our grasslands into woody desert scrub via overgrazing and the subsequent lack of fire. The thick bark of many conifers (e.g. Douglas Fir and Ponderosa Pine) also are testimony of how many plants evolve over time to adapt to and even benefit from fire. When left to their own devices, wildfires often sculpt a diverse mosaic of habitats over a broad region. The much mentioned, yet under-analyzed maxim of “graze, don’t blaze” is a misguided and uninformed attempt to justify overgrazing at the expense of a healthy fire regime in habitats that depend upon burning periodically.
Further, research over the past few decades has confirmed that human-caused fires via Native Americans prior to European contact were frequent and, likely, often intentionally set in order to transform one plant community into a more useful one. For example, a dense, coniferous forest, topping a Sky Islands range held few usable resources, while the same area post burn would harbor medicinal herbs, would-be basketry materials, wild edible plants, shelter materials, and be more attractive to Deer and Bear - 2 common quarry among most cultural groups. The Southwest now experiences about 2,600 wildfires per year, though modern fire suppression generally limits these to 3 to 18 acres.
Perhaps balancing our personal attitudes towards wildfires, Claudia and I felt the inevitable fear of having fire raze our 2 incredible tracts of land in the Sky Islands, including the many land conservation, as well as educational and recreational projects that we had worked so hard to establish and maintain. As we feverishly and diligently redistributed the would-be fuel at our 42-acre Nature Sanctuary, Raven’s Nest, near Patagonia Lake, (where we also reside) we envisioned ourselves as the fire. We too consumed dead plant material, opening up the understory of our Mesquite Woodlands. Instead of burning the wood and other fuel, we piled it where fire would likely only create isolated burns. Other fuel went into stabilizing arroyo banks against the fury of monsoonal floods. Each time we cleared around a tree, we felt as if we had “saved” it from a would-be fire. Progress was made by inches and at the end of each day we were exhausted and left to ponder when we would ever receive rain again.
Simultaneously, we followed the reports of the Horseshoe 2 fire in the Chiricahuas, where we have over 50 acres in the foothills below Portal Peak - Raven’s Mountain. I knew that we had a good chance of having a wildfire there, as the grassland habitat was very dense and included tall grass, as well as thick areas of shrubs and trees. Having purchased the land in 1993 I had “set my teeth” against the chance of a wildfire. The area was so lush and diverse that I feared witnessing all of this gone in the proverbial blink of an eye.
Finally, we had a brief chance to venture to the Raven’s Mountain and soon discovered that indeed we were part of the Horseshoe 2 fire! Instead of the usual lineup of diverse plants, we saw skeletons of what used to be. The grass, serving as the main fuel, was entirely gone. All of the cacti (about 9 species in all) were a complete loss, save perhaps a handful in a few unburned islands of vegetation. This was likely the fate of our other succulents as well, including: Palmer Agave, Sotol, and Beargrass. Our 30 or so 1-seed Juniper trees appeared intact, but a closer inspection proved them to be mere “shadows”, scorched and killed with a life-like appearance. The list went on. We were speechless and deeply moved.
We spent the day on Raven’s Mountain closely delving into as many nuances as we could and documenting all. In addition to the copious photographs that we took, we also recorded detailed notes on the plant and animal life that we encountered. Far from the moonscape that it appeared to be, Raven’s Mountain still pulsed with life - even after a scant 2 weeks post blaze.
We were very fortunate to be right at the edge of the fire, where it burned most of our foothill, yet spared the more luxuriant vegetation of the arroyo. Thus, birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, and countless invertebrates had a conduit through witch they could recolonize the land. Gambel’s Quail, Ash-throated Flycatchers, Verdins, and Black-throated Sparrows were some of the more visible denizens using this interface of burned and unburned habitats. Meanwhile we were stunned and ecstatic to encounter a lone Grey Fox high amidst the boulders of Raven’s Mountain. It appeared to be lively and strong. Did it weather the fire in a den, walk off and return after the fire, or move into a now vacant territory? So Many questions...
A herd of 4 Collared Peccaries seemed a bit more ragged, but still able to fend for themselves. They seemed to speak for us, as we too felt wrung out, but compelled to continue our fire-prompted odyssey. But perhaps the prize-winner of surprises came when we saw plants of several species poking up through the ashes - 2 weeks after the fire and with no rain in the interim! We were pleasantly stunned. Here was confirmation that life is resilient and that it will return. After all, our stay upon our fragile planet is but the blink of an eye to the Earth and fire only a brief sunburn which time inevitably heals.
Still, questions linger... What are the long and short-term effects of this year’s fires given years of misguided fire management? Will non-native grasses continue to introduce destructive fires into Sonoran Desert Succulent communities to their detriment? How will the affected plant communities recover, considering that our warming climate and droughts may well push the higher elevation habitats right off the top of the mountains! Envision no more cool coniferous forests in which to recreate and revive your soul. We may be seeing the vanguard of an ecological process fueled by our excesses, which have resulted in climate change and a disturbed fire regime. Only time will tell what will emerge from the ashes. Perhaps at he very least Smokey the Bear may trade in his shovel for a match!
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