Another day at PL5 for the National Interagency Coordination Center, which makes 23 days consecutive in 2015 at either PL4 or PL5. This may feel like a long time to those of us dealing with fires in our region (and in my case, several days in a row of being smoked in), it's actually still below the 10-year average and the long-term average (see figure above from NIFC). While most media and other resources tend to focus on either number of fires or total area burned, I tend to find that Preparedness Levels are a better measure of how "bad" fire season is. Why?
Number of fires is rarely a good indicator of fire season strength because it is so dependent upon highly variable human and lightning ignitions. Additionally, fire suppression is able to extinguish 99% of all ignitions. Fire size, or area burned, is also problematic because many of the largest fires occur in very remote areas and are often grassland or shrubland fires that can scorch 50,000 or even 100,000 acres in a single windy day. While these fires definitely have negative impacts, killing cattle and rendering rangelands un-grazeable for several years, they don't usually cost as much per acre to suppress because they impact fewer homes and less infrastructure.
Forest fires and fires primarily burning in the Wildland Urban-Interface require the most resources to fight, making them the most expensive per acre in terms of suppression costs. These fires become first priority for suppression resources because lives and homes are at risk. When enough of these types of fires are burning with extreme fire behavior at the same time, a larger proportion of national firefighting resources are committed to trying to stop them. Nationally, PL4 and PL5 are primarily reached when multiple Geographic Areas (GACCs) have multiple large fires that threaten homes and critical infrastructure. Today, for example, there are 4 GACCs at PL5 for the individual GACCs (Northwest, Northern Rockies, Northern California, and Great Basin), and the first three have all been at PL5 much of the month. So the national PL level is 5 as well.
2002 holds the current record (since 1990) in terms of number of days at PL4 or 5, due to an early fire season with large incidents in both the Southwest and the Rocky Mountains (including the Hayman Fire in Colorado). For NIFC to break that record this year, fire season in the west would have to stay severe well into September, with little to no rain and above normal temperatures. It is possible, but let's hope that's not the case.
This morning I am sitting in my living room, looking out my window to what can only be described as a toxic haze. The Air Quality Index that measures PM2.5 (particles that are big enough to negatively impact your lungs) is at 179 in Moscow, Idaho, right now. That is in the unhealthy range, and will be putting a damper on my plans to work outside in the yard today. More important to me, however, it means my 4-month old twin sons won't be going outside at all. Infants are particularly sensitive to smoke because their lungs are still developing, so today our windows will stay closed, and our daily walk is cancelled.
One of the challenges to wildfire acceptance is smoke. We have a natural aversion to smoke; understandably, our lungs suggest to our brains that we probably shouldn't breathe the toxic mix that includes carbon monoxide, ozone, and particulates. Public support for allowing some wildfires to burn naturally goes right out the window when it results in their own communities being socked in. If we had our way, we would never have to experience smoky air, except when roasting marshmallows around a campfire.
Unfortunately, smoke is a reality of living in western states. Much of the western US is covered by flammable vegetation in the form of forests and shrublands; this same vegetation is what many of us love about living in the West. We also experience dry summers, as climatologically, most of our precipitation comes during the winter months. This combination of vegetation and dry weather makes the West susceptible to wildfire every year, but some years are much worse than others due to even hotter and drier conditions, including long-term drought. The final ingredient for fire, of course, is ignition, and we have plenty of ignitions in the West due to dry lightning thunderstorms that pass through regularly in the summer.
Wildfire has occurred in the Western US for much longer than humans have been recording it; it has shaped this landscape over the millenia. Despite our very best efforts over the last century to try and stop it from spreading, wildfires continue to do exactly what they have always done: burn any fuel in their path. This includes the vegetation that has always burned, but now it also includes our homes and the infrastructure that supports modern civilization. All of this burning produces an enormous quantity of smoke and poor air quality, which is one of the primary reasons we fight fires (along with protecting homes and resources, of course).
Not ever seeing smoke is simply not an option. We cannot stop wildfires in the West; the last century of trying to do so has taught us it is impossible, and very, very expensive to keep trying. The question for all of us who live in the West is not whether we want smoke at all, but, rather, how do we want it? During wildfire season, we have no control over when smoke occurs and how much of it it produced. If many large wildfires are burning throughout a region simultaneously, and a high pressure ridge sets up (as often happens during summer in the temperate latitudes), we could have heavy smoke and poor air quality for days or even weeks on end. We wait impatiently for a storm to come in and blow all the smoke out. We have no control over anything, and the people most sensitive smoke, including the elderly, children, asthmatics, and others, are sitting ducks, desperate for relief.
But what if there was an alternative? What if we could dictate when and how much smoke we would receive? Instead of getting it all at once during a particularly bad fire year (which is going to become more frequent according to the latest research and model projections), we could be getting our smoke in smaller doses, spread out across the year, and at lower PM2.5 and PM10 levels. We could plan for when the smoke will occur by not scheduling outdoor activities. The most sensitive lung owners could plan to get out of town when the smoke is forecast. Wouldn't that be great?
We already have that option. It's called Prescribed Fire. Federal and state land management agencies use prescribed fire to remove vegetation at times when fires won't rage out of control. They primarily set prescribed fires in spring and fall, when transitional weather patterns bring winds every few days that help clear smoke out quickly. They also notify the public in advance, so that those who are most affected by smoke can take precautions.
The public tends to dislike prescribed fire because they see it as intentional smoke. And remember, our bodies are averse to smoke. But we need to overcome this aversion and use our brains to recognize that the smoke that comes with prescribed fires is far preferable to the smoke that comes with wildfires. There's less of it, it's more controlled, and you can plan around it. The more prescribed fire smoke we are willing to put up with the less wildfire smoke we will have to deal with down the road.
Think of it this way: if I told you I would give you ten dollars per day for the next ten years (a total of $36,520 over the 10-year period), OR at some point in the next 10 years, on one day (which you won't know in advance), I will give you $36,520 dollars all at once, which option would you choose? Small increments you can plan on, or a lump sum you can't? That's the choice between prescribed fire and wildfire.
If you live in the West, you're going to get smoke. The question we need to grapple with is: how do you want it?
The cemetery in St. Maries, Idaho, is full of the ghosts of 1910. That summer, lightning and the railroads ignited hundreds of small wildfires across the tinder-dry forests of the northwest. Without the benefit of the modern firefighting machine, the fires continued to burn, slowly gaining in size. But on August 20 and 21, a strong dry cold front hit the region, bringing winds that were estimated to exceed 60 miles an hour in places. These winds fanned the flames into a conflagration, and the fires blew up. 85 men were killed, and it is estimated that over 3 million acres burned. Many of the heroes and victims are buried in the cemetery at St. Maries where a memorial also stands, a reminder of how powerless we truly are against wildfires.
In the century since the Great Fires of 1910, science, technology, and ecology have taught us a few things about wildfire. We now understand that wildfire is a critical component of most western ecosystems, crucial to renewing grasslands and thinning forests to keep them healthy. We also understand that no matter how many men and women are sent to fight it, our best efforts will never be able to stop wildfire from occurring. A century of fire suppression taught us that we can also make the problem worse by increasing the density of trees and vegetation through fire exclusion, only to ultimately see them burn even hotter when a fire finally does occur.
We have also expanded human settlement throughout the rural west over the last 100 years, building homes and communities in the mountains, where the forests are beautiful and peaceful, a welcome respite from the cities. Until they ignite.
Today, many of our wildland fires are fought not because they threaten lives (though there are quite a few of those), but because they threaten homes. Wildfire is usually slow enough moving and provides enough warning for people to evacuate; only a handful of civilians have been killed by wildfires in the last half-century.
Firefighters have not been so lucky. Each year between one and three dozen wildland firefighters are killed in the line of duty. They have heart attacks, crash in aircraft, are struck by falling trees, and are overrun by advancing flames. Rather than saving lives, most of the time wildland firefighters are killed trying to protect inanimate things that can be rebuilt or regrow: homes, outbuildings, trees, shrubs, and grass. Lost lives cannot be reclaimed. Everything else can. So why are fire fighters still dying trying to save homes?
On the 105th anniversary of the Big Blowup of 1910, a dry cold front that promises strong winds is again advancing on the northwest. Forests and rangelands are tinder dry on the back of a year-long drought and the hottest summer on record so far. Hundreds of fires, small and large, are already burning and promise to test containment lines and the firefighters trying to hold them.
The similarities to 1910 are eerie.
When the winds hit, I hope that fire bosses everywhere remember 1910. I hope they pull their crews off the line, and wait until the blow-up is over to re-engage with the fire. I hope that across the region, every firefighter will survive the day, and that we will have learned something from our past. If we haven’t, the deceased will have died in vain.
But I also hope that the public begins to accept that trees, shrubs, and homes are not worth the lives of our firefighters. That because we choose to live in forests that have always burned and will continue to do so, we must learn to live with wildfire, even if it means rebuilding. I hope that more homeowners will build homes that are fire-resistant, and thin the vegetation to create what we call “defensible space,” instead of asking firefighters to risk their lives for possessions and sticks.
The Dutch have slowly evolved their perspective on flooding over the centuries. Today, instead of trying to keep the water out and avoid flooding at any cost, they are re-engineering their cities to let the water in. They are living with floods and minimizing losses through innovative approaches, like building parks and sport courts in low-lying areas that are intentionally allowed to flood. We need to take the same approach in the U.S., by re-engineering ourselves to live with fire instead of trying to avoid it. It’s the only way to end the cycle of burning and needless firefighter fatalities, particularly in and era of climate change.
A photographer captured a sign that one homeowner in Washington left on his gate: “Firefighters. This is just a house – please stay safe.”
If only every homeowner in the fire-prone west had that mentality. No house is worth a life. It’s time to learn to live with wildfire.