Fire. Red, hot whirls of gases set ablaze in the presence of oxygen. It is beautiful. It is dramatic. And it is dangerous. Right?
When I think about fire in my own life, phrases like “don’t play with matches” and “only you can prevent forest fires” spring to mind. I imagine firefighters battling blazes, blackened trees, and billows of smoke filling the sky— in short, destruction.
This view of the fire is not uncommon. Over the years, fire has developed a bad rap. Fires have wreaked havoc on millions of acres of forests in the west. Thousands of people are displaced and even die each year as a result of fire. It has been suppressed and fought against for a good part of the last century.
We fight fire. But should we?
After spending the afternoon talking and exploring the hillsides of Southwest Oregon with Chris Adlam, OSU extension forester, I am inclined to say “no.” Or at least, “not always” and “it’s complicated.”
The Hike
- Trailhead: Bear Gulch Trailhead, Sterling Mine Ditch Trail
- Distance: Approximately 4.7 miles loop with longer options.
- Elevation Gain: Approximately 690 ft
- Details: No restroom at the trailhead and limited parking.
Welcome to California
I met up with Chris on a warm spring afternoon at the Bear Gulch trailhead. Moisture hung in the air teasing us with the prospect of rain, but except for a sprinkle or two, we stayed dry. Dry is a common condition in the part of Oregon, which, as Chris expressed, is “much more common in California.” He described the place we were hiking as “oak woodland,” an ecosystem characterized by its hot, dry summers and little rain.
“As far as the ecology is concerned,” said Chris, “we are in California.”
It’s Complicated
Of course, there is one more thing that defines an oak ecosystem—fire! “This is a landscape that was made this way by fire,” explained Chris. But, as we started up the trail, it became evident that this defining characteristic had not been present on the landscape for a long time.
“It looks messy,” said Chris pointing to patches of dead manzanita with new growth on top. There were also a lot of trees, including conifers crowded together along the path. “It looks terrible to my eyes,” Chris exclaimed.
Chris told me how he had found an old snag not to far from where we were hiking that showed “17 fire scars.” He explained that these scars mark the frequency of fire in the area. “It would have burned every 3-5 years,” said Chris. But that was the past. Looking around at the crowded hillside, Chris frowned. “This place hasn’t seen fire in decades.”
An Education
We moved up the trail slowly, taking in the scenery and flowers. Both of us botany nerds, we paused frequently during the hike to marvel at the rich plant diversity we encountered. After attempting to take photos of Henderson’s Shooting Star, I asked Chris to tell me a bit about his background.
“Well, my family growing up spent a lot of time outdoors,” Chris began. He recalled going birding and visiting the mountains. But “I never thought that much about it,” said Chris. Later, he became interested in sustainability and ecological restoration. “You can help fix them,” Chris said, referring to ecologically damaged areas, “And I thought that was very powerful.”
Mindshift
Chris grew up in France and moved to Canada when he was 19 years old. His earliest understandings of Native people had come from John Wayne movies. It was not until he moved to Canada, where “the tribes were very visible,” that he has his first encounters with Native people. He saw Native people fishing in rivers and interacting with the landscape. He was intrigued by their connection to the land.
Chris, like many from a western culture, had the perception that people are separate from nature. That you “go to nature,” rather than being a part of it. Stemming from this is the idea, he was of the mindset that “people necessarily hurt nature”—a contentious relationship.
However, Chris learned during his time in Canada and later in the United States, this does not have to be the case.
“There are many cultures that live sustainability not by separating themselves from nature but taking responsibility for their role as caretakers of their ecosystem.” It was this shift in thinking that really got Chris interested in fire ecology.
Cultural Problem
As we gradually reached the ridgetop, Chris spoke more about fire and how his interactions with Native people taught him to appreciate fire.
“I have been fortunate to learn from many tribes—the Karuk, Yurok Tribe, and Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde…” began Chris.
“What have you learned?” I asked.
“I think about it a lot,” was his response. “Most important to me,” he concluded after much consideration, “is understanding how Native people treat fire differently.”
“We tried to fight fire; we tried to prevent it,” said Chris, but “you can’t control fire!”Chris went on to explain that the “fire crisis,” as he put it, “is a cultural issue.” “It is not a lack of science or knowledge. Not a policy support problem. It is a culture problem.”
“For Native people, fire is a sentient living thing.” While in the United States, it is legally considered a nuisance if it is not controlled.
FireKeepers
For centuries Indigenous people worked alongside fire to actively manage the land. Fires were set regularly before European settlement to maintain an open landscape ideal for hunting and foraging.
Walking along the ridgetop now, though, overgrown with vegetation and littered with deadwood, it was hard to imagine the open prairie ecosystems of yore. The views would have been incredible!
Botanizing
Despite the overgrowth, there were still some lovely remnants of the past landscape to admire, though I think Chris had a hard time getting past the devastation.
In particular, Chris and I admired the native wildflowers along the trail. Chris had a knack for identifying plant species
Many of the plants we observed were used by Indigenous people as food, fuel, or fiber. I asked Chris to point some out. He pointed to a fuzzy white flower with rounded petals that pointed at the tip—the Cat’s Ears Lily. “These have an edible root,” said Chris. Traditionally, they would have been used by a lot of tribes as a food source, he explained.
We also saw several examples of yellow Lomatia or biscuitroot. I had heard of the use of Lomatium to produce a flour that was shaped into transportable cakes. In addition to having edible roots, Lomatium has edible leaves and flowers, Chris told me.
“And then, of course, are the oaks!” exclaimed Chris. The acorns of the oaks were staple foods for many tribes who, at the time, lived in an oak-dominated environment. Once the dominant tree across the landscape, many tribes depended on and managed for, oaks and their associated species.
And what was used to manage the land for these plants? You guessed it. Fire.
Fire Dependent
Manzanita is another species used by Indigenous people found on our hike. “They made the berries into a drink,” said Chris.
At this point, we walked past a tall manzanita tree. Though beautiful to the eye, “ecologically they are an aberration,” said Chris.
Like other important indigenous plants, manzanita is a fire-dependent species. They need hot fire for seeds to germinate and plants to grow. Looking around the area, there was no young manzanita to be found. Instead, the shrubs were old and dying.
Ceremonies with Fire
Fire was also used in many tribal ceremonies. Unfortunately, a lot of ceremonies were made illegal, Chris told me, “even until the nineties!” So, ceremonies were practiced in small groups or families. I asked Chris if he was able to observe any of these practices. He said that there are some you can go to but didn’t speak to his own participation.
Instead, Chris told me about one of the ceremonies observed by Indigenous people in Northern California until the early 1900s. The ceremony took place at the landscape level. One mountainside was set ablaze, and then another, and another. Eventually, the signal reaches the medicine man who is waiting in the valley bottom to “call the salmon” home.
At the same time, the landscape responds. As the shrubs and grasses burn on the mountainside, the water level is raised in the river. The smoke from the burn fills the valley, blocking the sun’s rays and cooling the water. All of these help the salmon return. “It is more than a lot of symbolism,” Chris proclaimed.
Prescribed Burn
With all this in mind, Chris made the argument that we need to burn. And a lot more than we are doing right now. By doing this, we will not only revive the landscape but learn to appreciate fire and dismantle our need to control it.
“The most important thing to me is to do more prescribed burns. If we can figure out how to do that, then we will be good,” Chris stated.
A prescribed burn is a controlled process where landscapes are set on fire systematically. Prescribed burns are started from the top down. The landscape is lit with torches in lines and allowed to burn downslope until the fire burns out, then another line is placed below it and allowed to burn.
The whole process is easy according to Chris. “Regular people do prescribed burns,” explained Chris. “That is how we have done it over this last century.”
And prescribed burning has been used virtually everywhere across the globe. “You can go anywhere, people use fire.”
It wasn’t until recently that prescribed burning has, as Chris put it, “been given to the professional elite.” This change in responsibility is a mistake, according to Chris who has made it a goal to get people who live in fire-adapted landscapes involved in the process. “Everyone who lives in a place like this should get a chance to go to a prescribed burn,” he stated. It is part of our history and needs to be part of our future.
In Favor
We passed by another area filled with dead and down wood. I started wondering why we were not burning more landscapes and I asked Chris about it.
“For a long time, we thought we could stop fire,” suggested Chris, but recently, “I think it is changing.” People are beginning to understand that prescribed burns are okay. In fact, according to Chris, eight out of ten people nationwide are in favor of the practice. People are getting it. They are understanding we need it. “It is not controversial,” said Chris, as some might make you think.
Overall, “we need to get people together to talk about it,” Chris suggested. “We need to agree. We can’t fight about this.” Being flexible and looking at the management options available, including prescribed burns, is key.
Doing Nothing is Deadly
Chris and I reached a viewpoint or at least a partial one. For the first time in a while, we could see out onto the adjacent hillsides. “This place should be oaks and a few madrones,” said Chris. “We should see all the way out.” Instead, spindly orange conifers, sick from bark beetle infestation, dotted the crowded hillside.
“ These trees are a bunch of garbage and are doing to die !” Chris exclaimed looking around us. He pointed to a sickly sapling that was losing foliage and a tall Douglas-fir riddled with cones. “That one is dying,” he stated matter-of-factly. Both losses in upper crown foliage and producing a lot of cones are signs of stress, Chris explained.
“If a wildfire came through it would do great things ecologically,” Chris continued. The area would be cleared of much of the sickly Douglas-firs, which would allow the oak tree to flourish. The fire would help any remaining trees better able to fend off insect attracts. The manzanita and ceanothus would be able to go to seed. Grasslands would be reestablished.
As I walked the ridgeline, I tried to imagine it—this place 100 years ago. I tried to see through Chris’ eyes what was lost and what one day may be found.
Fire Scars
Eventually, we passed an old snag, cracked and open so you could see inside. Chris later called it a “cat-face.”
“This one had fire,” said Chris as he crouched down to get a closer look. Tracing his fingers across the black markings that punctuated its open face. “There are at least six here,” said Chris, referring to the multiple fire scars found on this one tree.
Each time a tree is burned it leaves a blackened mark. Given time, the tree will try to grow over the blackened area. However, like in the snag we found, it does not necessarily heal completely over, so that sometimes fire scars remain exposed for years to come.
The fire scars on this tree were close together, Chris estimated that the tree had been scared 3-4 times over a 20-year period. “Not to mention those that didn’t make a mark!” Chris clarified.
Legacy of Fire
As we continue along, Chris pointed out more examples of the legacy of fire on the landscape:
We saw another “cat-faced” tree—an oak—but this time its face was completely healed over so you could not see inside.
There was a notable area that was mostly clear of trees and underbrush, except for a few oaks with spreading branches. Though it was difficult to say for certain what had cleared the area, Chris had a sneaking suspicion it was fire. “I would guess 1987,” said Chris, as a fire had been in the area that year.
“The oaks are doing great,” Chris pointed out as a testimony to the efficacy of fire. An understory of roamers fescue, a native bunch grass, punctuated scene.
We also saw countless madrone on the trail, some that were huge having survived the fires of the past. Others with multiple stems, creating a tentacle-like effect that was mesmerizing. Chris explained that almost all broadleaf trees, including madrone, will send out multiple shoots following a burn. Though some trees, like oaks, will thin themselves out, madrones keep their multiple stems. These octopus-like trees were a result of fire!
Legacy in the Landscape
Chris also noted how different areas within an ecosystem will have different legacies of fire. “South facing slopes tend to burn hotter and will have more oaks and fewer conifers, while cooler north-facing slopes will not burn as hot and have more conifers, Chris explained. In general, all areas “burn more severely on the upper part of slopes,” said Chris.
As we walked down into a stream drainage, Chris continued to ruminate on the topic. He speculated that the drainage would offer a different outcome when it comes to fire, perhaps acting as a fire stop and protecting the area from a severe burn. However, he prefaced that the steepness of the slope could also help spread the fire more quickly if it got started lower in the drainage.
Essentially, by looking at the contours of the land and the ecosystems that exist there, you can start to piece together a fire story.
Oh, the Plant Biodiversity!
Okay, so we talked a lot about fire on your hike! But another topic that came up time and time again was plants! “I aspire to know every plant where I live,” he admitted at one point.
Considering I also have a strong affinity for plants, Chris and I spent a good amount of time distracted by the botany all around us.
We saw everything from milk vetch with its fuzzy seedpods to balsamroot with its bright yellow flowers. We saw paintbrush, wild carrot, sweet cicely, fern leaf biscuit root, nine leaf biscuit root, Henderson’s fawn lily, and larkspur, to name a few. Fragile fern was another hit along the trail. The biodiversity was amazing!
And the enthusiasm of Chris equally so. At one point, Chris charged off the trail to check out what he thought might be a cypress tree, only to find out it was a juniper. We were seeing species that you find in western Oregon, co-mingling with species from eastern Oregon.
It seemed like around every bend, was always another fantastic botanical find!
Of course, Chris could not help himself. “People don’t always think about it,” he said as we passed by another patch of manzanita, “It is fire that creates all this diversity.”
Not Clear Cut
As we came back up from the drainage, our views out became less obstructed than earlier in the hike. We could see hillsides of grasslands with ceanothus patches rising all around us. However, that is not all we could see. Off in the distance was a large patch of open ground—a clear cut.
Chris stopped in his tracks. You could tell he was not happy about what he was seeing. Though he admitted that timber harvesting was not his area of expertise, he saw some huge issues with how it was being done in Oregon. “Oregon has the least restrictive laws,” he started in on the issue. “You can clear cut 120 acres and if you throw a stick back in, you are all good.”
You could sense Chris’ frustration, which he tempered quickly. “There is a place for it,” he admitted, referring to Oregon’s coast range. It can provide “important habitat for bird species,” he went on, but this was not the place for it. “Dry forest is not good for this.”
Then there is the concern for fire. “Plantations burn more severely than older forest,” Chris said. Once the trees start to regenerate, all the benefit of fire protection that might come immediately following a clear cut is gone. “5 years you don’t have to worry, but once it is tall again, it will carry fire.”
Out in the Open
As we moved further along the trail and our views continued to improve until ultimately, we found ourselves in an open prairie ecosystem—face to face with the past. “I think this is a lot more what the landscape would have looked like,” said Chris.
Stately Black Oaks were spaced out at irregular intervals on the windswept hillside. It was beautiful. And it was the result of centuries-long practices of using fire.
Chris talked about how Indigenous tribes not only burned to maintain the open meadows ideal for hunting deer but how it was also used for pest management. For example, burnings occurred at night so moths that infest acorns would be attracted to the light and burn up.
Invasive Grasses
Amongst the fields of native grasses, there were also many invasive grasses, like medusahead, vying for space on our green hillside. Chris explained that a lot of the invasive grasses are annuals that go to seed each year, repopulate, and spread. The native grasses, on the other hand, are perennials that don’t seed every year, and thus are better adapted to frequent fire.
Without frequent fire, the invasive grasses were encroaching on the lands of the native grasses—an all too familiar tale. But, as ever, Chris had the remedy—fire. He explained that the annuals could be killed off with a well-timed prescribed burn, leaving the perennial natives to thrive.
Working toward Change
Despite the presence of invasives, Chris was in his “happy place” as we walked along the rolling hillside.
Chris and I talked about his work as we went. “So far I am working with landowners,” he said, helping them go through the steps of doing a prescribed burn. He also hopes to work with tribes in the area to bring fire back to the landscape.
Eventually, we reached the opening to a tunnel and a sign that read “Turning Water into Gold.” It was the opening to the Sterling Mine Ditch Tunnel—a hand-dug, 26.5-mile tunnel used to divert water for gold mining. After poking around for a few minutes, we continued our conversation.
Changing Minds
“I want to bring people to more burn areas too,” remarked Chris, we began descending the trail through some oak woodlands and back to the road. He explained how people that experience fire are often traumatized. They cannot imagine the burned area ever being beautiful again. Chris wants to break that cycle of trauma by bringing people to a burn site so they can see “that not all is lost.”
Following a fire, life remains. There are still many live trees. Water flows through the streams. An entire seed bank of herbaceous plants, including brightly colored wildflowers, awaken and bloom. Animals, like woodpeckers, reptiles, deer, elk, and bears thrive in a burnt landscape.
Chris talked about using nature journaling as a tool for self-reflection on the burnt landscape. “It is a project I am working on,” he said. Nature journaling involved getting people to record what they notice in pictures, words, and numbers, generating questions, and reflecting on their own experiences.
By experiencing firsthand, the resiliency of the landscape to fire, Chris hopes to get people in touch with their own resilience. Experiencing “hard things” does not necessarily equate to a diminished existence, Chris explained. “You can come up all the better.”
Slow Burn
Chris and I continued to chat as we descended downhill through the woodlands to the gravel road and then back to our cars. Upon reaching the road, we said our goodbyes.
I really enjoyed my time talking and walking with Chris. His passion for his work with fire and its ecological and cultural significance was evident throughout our time together.
Since then, the idea that fire is a force to be valued and respected has been slowly burning in my consciousness. To think of fire as something vital is a paradigm shift, but one that makes a lot of sense both ecologically and socially. It is easy to become alarmed by the fires that burn through the west each summer, but if we can start to see fire differently, we can learn to respond to fire more appropriately and learn to adapt.
Chris Adlam is the Regional Wildland Fire Specialist for Jacksonville County Oregon State University Extension. Chris completed his Ph.D. in Ecology with a focus on revitalizing the use of fire in managing the land with northern California tribes.