Last week the skies in my hometown turned red, then black. My family evacuated our home in Canby, Oregon, loading what they could into our small camper and leaving to stay with friends on the west side of the Willamette River. From 300 miles away in Moscow, there was next to nothing I could do for them while they wondered whether they would have a home to go back to the next day.
They’re back home now, safe and sound, and the recent rain has cleared the smoke out of the air. Things can go back to normal, for now. But what about next time? I spent all summer working to assess the damage wrought on our forests by poor forest management practices, and it just all became very personal, very quickly.
Fire is a natural part of our ecosystem here in the North American West. Our forests, lakes, streams and wildlife are adapted to it. Or they were, until we established a policy of complete fire suppression for nearly a century, while simultaneously turning up the climate thermostat.
Now, the historic fire cycle has evolved. Instead of hundred-year megafires, we’re lucky if we get a few years off. Invasive grasses that thrive in fire-razed landscapes proliferate, then dry up just in time to facilitate the next big burn. The climate gets warmer and drier, and the fires keep coming.
We crave an easy solution, a magic shield that will keep our homes and families safe from wildfire. But removing already established invasive plants is incredibly difficult, if not impossible. Fixing climate change would require our state leaders to acknowledge that such a phenomenon exists in the first place. Instead, we turn to the myth of forest management for comfort.
There is not convincing evidence that logging prevents wildfires, but that doesn’t stop the Forest Service from using our fear of wildfire to justify selling our National Forest land for logging. Preventative thinning projects remove tree species they deem too vulnerable to fire. Already-burnt stands of trees are “salvage” harvested, because we can’t let all of that timber go to waste. Some “at risk” acres are clear-cut entirely, in the name of protecting the forest from wildfire.
True — absent trees can’t burn. However, in the process of logging, more roads are constructed to access these work sites, which stir up dust and spread non-native species. And, by removing huge swaths of our forests at a time, we are chopping away at one of Earth’s biggest absorbers of carbon dioxide and our lifeline in the single biggest crisis of our lifetimes.
Fire-scorched trees are essential habitat components for Idaho’s wildlife. A rich, dense understory composition is part of a healthy old growth stand. Trees thin themselves naturally, through competition for light, and the trees that die recycle their nutrients back into the soil for the next generation of trees. None of our fire-prevention strategies should interfere with these processes that nature keeps in balance on our behalf. Forest management should focus on preserving these critical processes, rather than finding sneaky back doors into timber sales in the name of fire management.
The solution, if we get to it in time, will come from addressing climate change. Every day we distract ourselves with red-herring solutions, our time to slow planetary warming melts away. We, in the western United States, are experiencing a sample of what’s to come if we fail to act — now is our time to rise up as climate advocates and ensure that this does not become our new normal.
Beth Hoots can be reached at [email protected].