Fire in the Applegate

            On August 14 God, playing with his lightning-strike matches, ignited numerous fires in the mountains in which I live. Fortunately, a gushing rainfall followed. Some fires burned out. Some were contained by fire-fighters. Others grew and united into three fires, called, collectively, the Miller Complex: the Creedence Fire on Grayback Mountain, just over the ridge from my house; the Burnt Ridge Fire on the other side of Humpy, the mountain I face; and the Abney Fire, the largest, at the south end of the Applegate Lake, eight miles away.

            We have known all along, we who live in the Siskiyou Mountains, that these are fire-dependent forests. We know that fires will burn in them. I have noticed the burned stumps and charred trunks on my own land —"Yes, there was a fire here years ago"—and ignored the obvious conclusion that there would be fire here again.

            Now, here, again, there is fire.

         Where there is fire, there is smoke, so dense we live in a land of the unseen. Day after day smoke obliterates Humpy. There is no sun. 

On other days the outline of the mountain shows faintly through the smoke, a ghostly line against a ghostly sky with a wan, burnt-orange sun. 

The air is as still and unmoving as a shroud. Thin smoke hangs listlessly around trees that stand unmoving in the phantom air. Daylight is dim. Dark falls early.

            It is eerily quiet. I haven't heard my owl calling at night or any deer or bears stepping through the woods. Even the blue jays have stopped squawking. I don't hear fire bomber planes or the chop-chop of helicopters dangling their buckets of water. Smoke prevents fire-fighting from the air.

      One evening, miracule dictu, God's hand scooped up the smoke and unveiled the moon. Immediately God dropped his handful of smoke, and all the atmosphere turned white again.

          Ash on my car windows is a physical reminder of what would be in our lungs if we were out there breathing it. I stay indoors. I keep the windows closed and the fan on. I chafe without exercise, walking only from the couch, where I knit, to the desk, where I write, to the kitchen, where I cook, to the bed, where I sleep.

        But the smoke has its benefits. Without it, we would be in 100-degree temperatures, for instance. Also, if the smoke is restricting my oxygen intake, it's doing the same for the fires, keeping them low-burning. 

If they could breathe, they would leap like demons up the trees to the forest crown.

            Fire-fighting efforts are hampered by lack of resources (numerous fires burn from Washington to northern California) and by the steep, inaccessible terrain of the Siskiyous. But that terrain is also an advantage. "Benefiting from the smoky inversion and fighting the steep rocky slopes, [the fires], as they back into the canyons below, have burned at largely low to moderate severity, creating a natural mosaic of fire," Luke Ruediger writes on his blog, thesiskiyouscrest.blogspot.com.

            The fires creep slowly along, slurping burnable material without looking overhead. "The fires are reducing fuels, recycling nutrition, naturally thinning our forests, and doing good ecological work," Luke says.

          That's fine, but we don't want our homes to be what the fire finds as it snuffs along the ground, looking for food, and there, again, we are fortunate. Luke points out that the fires have burned mostly in roadless wildlands, amid intact native forest and woodland habitats. When the fires have threatened homes, fire crews, the heroes of the Applegate, have worked bravely and intelligently to protect that property. At the same time, Forest Service fire personnel are honoring what Luke calls "ecological and wilderness values."

        The fires are burning on some of my favorite backcountry haunts: Middle Fork, Cook and Green, Horse Camp, the Pacific Crest Trail, Grayback, Mt. Emily, Butte Fork, Whiskey Peak, Phantom Meadow, the Red Buttes Wilderness. Hiking will be different next summer.

            Fire is the price we pay for living here. I love where I live and am not unwilling to pay the price. If our houses stay safe, if injuries are minimal, if the fires burn low, I'll suffer the smoke and wait out the years for revegetation in the forests. There will be an end to the smoke and the fire. The rains will come in October, squelching the fires and preparing the way for new growth.