Forest Fires & Feelings

The Indecision

“What do you think about the fact that the world’s on fire?”

This was how I started a conversation with my co-worker yesterday at the office. As a hybrid worker I tend to get all of my deep-burning questions out on office days, work-related questions that are urgent or are better discussed in person but also some climate, politics, and social injustice talk to lighten the mood at the water fountain. I’d been dwelling on the Palisades, a name that didn’t even exist in my vocabulary a week ago, and had also been thinking about the climate book club I’m launching on the weekend. The first section of “What if We get it Right?” includes a chapter called Reality Check where the author Ayana Elizabeth Johnson summarizes all of the most recent climate science, or what she refers to as a “brief wallop of bad news.” So, yeah, I was having a healthy dose of the climate-feels and eco-anxiety when I asked the question.

I could see this writing piece in my mind’s eye. I saw how the stories, my story, connected to what is happening in California, a place so far and unknown to me. I hummed and hawed, made an outline, parked it, decided it only made sense in my convoluted way of processing the world. I told myself it was too imperfect of a story to write, too long, and I didn’t have the time to edit it into a click-bait-digestible piece that someone would want to read anyway.

All writers have this tug between wanting to perfect their work and actually doing the work, a type of paralysis-by-analysis in a sense. It is very different from writer’s block; the ideas keep flooding in but perfectionism leads to inaction. But I pulled the trigger and the floodgates opened. Because maybe one person will learn something about forest fires, maybe one person will contemplate their own empathy, and maybe a final (third) person can relate to the mix of emotions I am experiencing. At the very least, writing this serves to get the story out of my body as a way to process complex feelings about the world seemingly being on fire (a tad dramatic, but I need to entice the reader).

So here we go: you, me and the two other people who may read to the end.

The Connection

In the summers of 2007, 2008, and 2009 I would pack everything I needed for a four-month work stint into an army-sized duffle bag and fly to Northern Ontario. That’s where I would spend my time swatting away black flies, avoiding black bears, and checking the quality of freshly planted beautiful baby trees. Lots and lots (millions in fact) of seedlings and lots and lots of alone time. Me, the bugs, the bears, and CBC radio playing on my truck while driving between blocks. CBC was the only thing that came through the radio in the middle of nowhere and, if I timed it right, I could listen to the Q with Jian Ghomeshi. This was before Jian was, well, problematic to say the least.

Working in the Boreal Forest was so different than the Acadian Forest I was used to back home in New Brunswick. I remember this one block was basically sand dunes, or what the tree planters would call a “cream” block. I was taking a break and I laid down on the ground, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth as I ran the sand through my fingers. I squinted my eyes so I could see only the clear blue sky and, with a handful of sand, imagined I was on a beach somewhere far away from where I was. I hadn’t seen such sandy soils before and was surprised that forests could even grow there. The heat on the forest floor was intense on a hot summer day, and while I laid there for my break I started to integrate what I had been learning in the classroom.

I could see how that kind of heat was enough to open the serotinous cones of a jack pine. I got how this pioneer species would dominate a landscape after a fire and took a moment to appreciate its strategy and resilience. I was in fire territory, and just down the road were the remnants of previous fires. These remnants looked like vast openings that had been aerially seeded with jack pine. If you didn’t know better, you would think it was the largest clearcut harvest in the world. But there was nothing left on the ground to indicate harvesting had occurred: no stumps, branches, off-spec wood, or processing residue, just the occasional charred piece of woody debris and a new stand of tiny seedlings in their initiation stage. With good soil exposure after the fire, aerial seeding was an appropriate prescription to attempt regeneration. This particular block needed fill planting as the seeds didn’t take everywhere, and the planters would be going there next.

I loved my summers in the Boreal Forest, but also always longed to get back home to New Brunswick. When I returned to school in the Fall it felt so welcoming: back to my boyfriend (now husband), my dog, my home, my schedule, and the beautiful Fall colours of the Acadian Forest. I also loved reuniting with my classmates and trading stories of what we did all summer and how much money we coined. The best stories told (and most money earned) always belonged to my buddies who went to Alberta to fight wildfires. My friends were either part of Heli-Attack or Rapattack. Heli-Attack crews would fly into remote areas that were inaccessible by other means. Rapattack crews literally rappel – people and equipment – into the area of concern.

What I learned about fire ecology was in one core course I took in my undergraduate forestry degree, through stories from my friends, and through stories from my co-workers while working in the Boreal and observations made in the field. I am not a fire expert, and no longer even work within the forestry industry. But I have been taking notice of, and contemplating, forest fires in the past few years. I hadn’t thought much of them since my time in Northern Ontario, over a decade ago. What I offer here is a bit of basic fire science and my personal reflection and questioning on what makes us take notice of particular natural catastrophes.

The Science

The fire triangle is used to illustrate the three components required for a fire: oxygen, fuel, and heat. In the case of a forest fire, fuel is the dead woody material on the ground such as leaves and branches, but also the living parts of a tree. Ladder fuels are an important concept to remember: these are any fuels that allow the fire to climb from the ground to the canopy. They could include trees that are dead and partially hung up on a living tree, tall shrubs, and even bark and lichen growing on the bole of the tree. Once the fire has reached the canopy, there is increased risk of spread, particularly in continuous canopies where the fire can jump from crown to crown.

The type of tree species present also matters. Softwood (coniferous) species like spruce, fir, and pine have resinous needles. Resin is highly flammable and anyone who has placed a conifer bow on a campfire can picture the sound of the sizzling branch and the speed and intensity with which it is consumed. Fire-adapted species have methods to survive and even thrive within a fire landscape, such as mature white and red pines having thick bark that can insulate them and increase their chance of survival. Hardwood (deciduous) trees are generally considered to be more fire resistant due in part to higher moisture content in their leaves.

Most Canadians have likely heard about the importance of paying attention to fire weather index ratings. This index combines the metrics associated with fire weather (temperature, relative humidity, wind speed, and precipitation) into a single number with corresponding colours (green to red). ?On high to extreme risk days, there can be campfire bans and even entire shutdowns in forest operations. Something as seemingly insignificant as a spark from a heavy machine or a cigarette being tossed out a window is sufficient to ignite a fire. The most common natural cause of forest fires are lightning strikes.

Fire behaviour can be studied and modeled to predict important factors such as the intensity, severity, and frequency of fires in a particular landscape. For practical reasons, understanding patterns and trends can inform government funding programs. They can better invest in equipment, personnel, training, and education of the public if they understand the beast they are trying to tame. Educating the public can help in the area of prevention; the hope is that with increased knowledge people will adhere to fire bans and also manage their properties in a way that takes into account fire science, such as what species are present in the yard and the proximity of trees to structures. These prevention strategies focus on the fuel and heat component of the fire triangle and, to quote Smokey the Bear, remember that “only YOU can prevent wildfires.”

Wildfire predictions not only help with investment rationale and programming. Fire science and management informs crews that are actively fighting the fires on the ground and in the air (as a side note, in Canada we call the aircraft water bombers rather than super scoopers). There is a wealth of knowledge and best practices in this area, and even relationships between jurisdictions to help out during emergency situations.

If any of the factors that influence fire behaviour (temperature, relative humidity, wind speed, and precipitation) start to change in unprecedented ways, fire behaviour becomes less routine and familiar to even those working on the frontlines who intimately know and understand fire dynamics. This can result in more intense, severe, and frequent fires. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) shared last week that 2024 was the warmest year on record. In light of the fires burning in California outside of the typical fire season and this recent temperature data point, I am compelled to pause, reflect, and process.

The Feelings

This is where the science stops and the feelings begin. The California fires give me pause because it doesn’t feel right for this to be happening in the middle of winter, even though California does have a longer fire season and vastly different climate than where I am writing this from. From what I can tell the season used to end around November at the latest but is now considered year-round in some parts of the State. It gives me pause because of the intensity of impact: the fatalities, loss of homes and structures, power outages, mass evacuations, and carbon release associated with all of the burning. It gives me pause because of the bit that I know about fire ecology, and the bits that I am now learning being enrolled in a climate action certificate program, and the fact that the dots are connecting in a way I don’t like. It gives me pause because the imagery flooding social media and the news can only be described as Hell on Earth.

I started to take notice of the human-forest interface (and the resulting devastation when wildfire strikes) in 2016 during the Fort McMurray fires. The fires I was familiar with up until that point were in remote Northern places, generally away from people and infrastructure. Fort Mac is a place where many of my peer students had worked during the summers and where one still lived. But it’s actually Australia’s Black Summer three years later, wildfires blazing on a far away land to which I had no connection, that made me start actively reading about the latest climate science. I had this sense of “this is not normal”, even for something as normal and naturally occurring as wildfire. Fire hasn’t been the main motivator in my climate action, but the current events happening in California have made me revisit this thread.

Perhaps it is the natural catastrophe that feels most personally threatening or real, since I live in a place not directly impacted by hurricanes, tornadoes, or mudslides, but where we do have small scale fires. That’s what my co-worker suggested when I brought up the topic. I have, for as long as I can remember, told people that I would never live in a place with all those ‘other’ kinds of natural catastrophes. I don’t even like to think about the anxiety-inducing 90’s movie Twister and definitely won’t be watching the sequel (especially because they added an 's' to the end of the title, implying there is even more terror in the 2024 version).

I have tremendous respect for Mother Nature and a deep connection to her, but also fear her wrath when she is upset. The thing about her is that, while climate change does disproportionately impact marginalized groups, she isn’t intentionally punishing them. She doesn’t care about jurisdictional borders, or the criticality of the infrastructure she consumes, or how big and fancy the house is. This is a humbling concept to realize that, in times of crisis, all the social constructs we assign meaning to dissolve. They are nothing in comparison to her power and strength.

Is it proximity or even recency that causes me to take pause and contemplate fire a bit longer, a bit deeper? There was a fire in the Halifax region in 2023 so it ticks both of those boxes. Halifax is also within the Acadian Forest region, a place that I visit regularly, and that is considered home to many of my closest friends. Was it that fire that started the thread (or maybe reinforced it) because it was too close to home? Or was it the koalas and kangaroos? Are they the Down Under version of polar bears in the Arctic who are losing their home, too? They are just as cute and cuddly looking as the polar bears and I, for one, do not want to see any more sad pictures of them. Is it more relatable if the people who are impacted look and talk like me? And does it feel less sad or relatable to see million-dollar homes be destroyed in California, homes that the owners can presumably replace with another million dollars sitting in the bank?

Honestly, it all feels terrible. Some climate impacts are more relatable, urgent, or close to home, yes. But it all just feels wrong. I have never been to California. I don’t feel a particular connection to the place or the people. With the recent threats of tariffs being imposed by the Trump administration I haven’t been feeling all that warm towards our neighbouring country (or at least its government) as of late. But all of the politics and pettiness dissolve when I take a moment to put myself in other people's shoes. That’s what it really takes, isn’t it? The secret to finding some common humanity and care for each other is empathy, after all.

I was reading stories about the fatalities this week. A man who stayed in his home with his son who had cerebral palsy, both disabled and not rescued in time. A woman who wanted to stay with her pets, and another who said it was in God’s hands. I try to picture what I would pack, if I would get out in time, if my husband and I could get our two sons, two dogs, and two cats to safety. Where would we go? I picture the heat, the wind, the sizzling, and lack of air.

Empathy is a tough emotion. It makes me think through this scenario in great detail, envisioning “what if it were me and the ones I love” and the anxiety makes my heart beat faster and constricts my throat. But it also allows me to witness the suffering of others in a deeper way and, for better or worse, is something I am grateful for. Empathy allows us to connect to what we have in common as members of the same species. It doesn’t really matter who you are, where you’ve been, or what you own when your most basic needs are not being met. When you cultivate your sense of empathy, it isn’t a stretch to believe that all humans are deserving of food, air, water, sleep, and protection from harm.

Empathy isn’t needed only during times of extreme social or environmental crises. It simply takes looking around most cities on a cold winter’s night to realize that the most basic of human rights and needs are often left unmet. In addition to considering human beings, I appeal to you to also think about our relationship to nature and how we are a part of these complex processes and cycles, not separate from them. So many of those basic needs like air, food, and water (sometimes referred to as Ecological Goods and Services) are actually furnished, at no cost, by Mother Nature herself.

Finally, I ask that you take care. Know that it is normal to feel uneasy about the 24-hour news cycle and things that are going on around the world. It is rational to feel overwhelmed at the information overload coming at us on a daily basis, or the number of things to do in our fast-paced-instant world. It is common to feel apathetic, checked-out, or like none of this even matters anyway. It is sane to feel unsettled and shocked every time you realize that it’s been five (!) years since we faced the beginning of a global pandemic and that we haven’t even mentally or physically recovered from that one yet. Personally, I have one foot in that languishing space some days, but I am mostly on the other side now. The other side isn’t easy, but it does include moments of hope, envisioning a new and more equitable future, and a lot of really good people who are motivated to change. I look forward to welcoming you if and when you are ready.