Living with fire

The roiling cloud of fiery smoke soared ever higher with billow upon billow and became ominous very quickly. The sky turned an impending reddish orange, as the upper winds quickly carried the smoke over our little town of Kingston. There was a palatable feeling of building disaster. Even though our rational minds quietly informed the panicking side, that the blowup was actually over eight miles away, we sped into high gear to get our prized belongings ready to move.

The blowup was a stressed Quaking Aspen canyon, on the northwest side of McKnight Peak. It was aligned on that day with the strong winds, blowing embers and fire and as the preheated slopes turned to rushing flames, the beast roared to the crest of the canyon and then topping out, slowed way down. It was a moment of disbelief, when a few hours later, there was hardly any smoke to be seen.

The fire was not done with us yet. Eventually it reached Hillsboro Peak, threatening the fire tower and cabin but stalled out on its southernly path there on those slopes a mere 4.7 miles away from our community. The firefighters had backburned on Hillsboro Peak and that action combined with winds to blow the flames back on themselves, checked the beast.

The fire was a beast. It acted in many ways contrary to the way fires are supposed to act. The relative humidity levels were so low that the fires burned steadily through the nights instead of taking a break and laying low. The crews were working day and night to keep our communities safe. They had cut a firebreak on the north side of our town which stretched for a mile. White fire hose and impact head sprinklers were tested every day, pulling water out of the big orange pumpkins, their inflatable water tanks.

The change from our fairly quiet little town of 43 people to a beehive of yellow shirts and hardhats was quick. I found it interesting that most of us adapted rather quickly to the new norm. It seemed like there had always been a hundred young men and women going about protecting our community. That infusion of young energy also released a determined bustle in town to clean our own properties. It is rather amazing what can be accomplished when we work together versus relying on individual efforts.

Then the rains began to fall. The “official” start date for our summer monsoons is June 15^th. But the start usually comes just before July 4^th. This year our first Kingston monsoonal elixir fell on June 17^th with 0.20 inches. The relief felt by the land was palatable. The next day brought a bit more, 0.06 inches, but the relative humidity was rising. The storms were also streaming over us and onto the fire burn.

The 19^th of June was a day of celebration. A series of storm waves dropped around 1.25 inches of rain on Kingston and the fire to the north. The drop in the tension, the whole community had been holding as the fire came ever closer, was remarkable. Suddenly, the beast to the north felt declawed, diminished by the rains. There were still many hot spots, but the onslaught was now broken into small battles, not the huge threating front of flame.

Considering the rains, there are some numbers I wish to share. Over the years during my career as a Landscape Architect, I have had people talk to me about watering their big trees. When you are really talking about watering your landscape, the entire landscape should be included, not just the trees and shrubs. The land is an organism that works together, not isolated parts.

We have just over an acre of land that we share with nature. When those storms dropped 1.21 inches of rain on that acre, I asked a few people for a guess as to how many gallons of water fell on our land. Any idea?

Try 33,206 gallons of fresh, nitrogenated rain. Just on our acre of land. That would take a garden hose 61.5 hours to discharge. Nature is much more efficient than we are on distribution.

Just for fun I calculated how much water would have fallen if the entire 325,000 acres of burn had received the same amount of rain, 1.21 inches. The formula for this, if one is interested is: 1” of rain on 1000 square feet equals 630 gallons of water. If you’re wanting to know how much rain can be harvested off your roof, this is the way to do that.

So, the numbers for the whole fire would be: 325,000 acres x 33,206 gallons = 10.8 billion gallons of water.

Just a little perspective on what happens in nature. So, after the good, soaking rain, we’ve had another 5.3 inches of rain in 3 weeks. A very nice beginning to our monsoons and the timing was timely. The danger has diminished but there are still a few hot spots on the remaining perimeter to be checked. The rains seemed to have washed all of the yellow shirts and hard hats away as well. Our community is pretty much back to normal. We were fortunate here as our Percha Watershed was just barely touched by the fire.

The Northern portions of the fire burned into the watersheds of the Mimbres River, Palomas Creek, Seco Creek and Animas Creek. Those are the areas that are worrying now about flooding with the heavy monsoon rains.

This fire has rekindled the memories of the 2013 Silver Fire. That fire actually did burn to the edge of Kingston and had us evacuated for 11 days. Unfortunately, we were in Arizona at the time on SET status from a fire threatening our home there. We returned to Kingston one hour after a flash flood washed out Middle Percha Creek. A 3” rain had fallen high in the burn area in a short time period and with no vegetation on the mountain sides, they came roaring down.

Our watershed that year was heavily burned, and we had the floods to remind us, along with the burned mountain sides squarely in our viewshed. When we drove through Hillsboro, nine miles from home, the black waters flowing heavily in Percha Creek foretold the story to come. As we approached Kingston from the east, right after that first flashflood, we came across 12” diameter, burned logs on the highway by both bridges. We knew then that we had just missed the big event. The Italian Street bridge which crosses the Middle Percha Creek is 10 feet above the creek bed. We drove up to find 18” of material on top of the bridge deck and a barbwire fence strung across. We shoveled through the silt and an 8” layer of hail to finally reach the other side.

I measured the flood debris levels left in the trees and shrubs and at the bridge determined that the water was five feet above the bridge or fifteen feet deep. The water had spread out here as well with the edges being 270 feet apart. As we eventually hiked up the creek towards the Aldo Leopold Wilderness boundary, the quiet, shady little creek we knew was gone. Huge jumbled and tumbled piles of burnt logs were wedged against other trees. The soils were ripped away. What had once been a soft, 10 foot wide treelined creek had become a 150 foot wide swath of boulders and pummeled trees. One fascinating revelation was that this flood had cut through the boulder and gravel layers of previous floods. A harsh reminder that our canyons are formed mainly from catastrophic events not just constant erosion.

The sound of crashing boulders as the flood waters moved them with ease, gave warning of the next flash flood some 20 minutes beforehand. They were like one ton marbles being clinked together in natures game. There was plenty of time to go stand on the battered but stalwart bridge and watch the black snake weave along the drainage, turn the bend and come straight for where we stood. The first time we witnessed this, the floodwater looked to be high enough to challenge our lookout and we prudently decided to watch from the road, a bit higher. The black water roared by, just touching the bridge deck. Nine feet of water with a life of its own as it raced pass, filling the canyon with a thunderous sound, so loud that we couldn’t hear each other speak. Moving lips stunned to silence with the power of nature on display.

So now, as I look out from our home in Kingston, over the slopes of what we call Old Kentuck and Iron Mountain, I see the burn scars and snags still standing from nine years ago.  I see the 50 foot swath of defensible space beyond our fence line where just a few weeks before, lay white hose and sprinkler heads poised to tackle rushing flames by soaking the ground and plants. The fresh chainsaw cuts from limbing branches are akin to headlights, glaring in the dark.

There will always be reminders of past events if one looks with the intent to see. Just as the 2013 flood revealed floods from earlier times, these coming years will also have much to share with those who want to see and learn. Will we have more forest fires to contend with? Of course. Our climate is changing, and our environments are changing as well. Many parts of the natural system have been under drought stress and then a roaring fire burns most of the remaining unburned lands in the Aldo Leopold Wilderness.

I believe most of our residents are thankful for the incredibly hard work the fire crews performed all around our town. We have now lived through two very large fires. The rush of emotions unleashed by both are unforgettable memories. We are better prepared for coming events but also, we must stay vigilant and in touch with the land. We can choose to be good stewards, respecting the soils, waters, plants and animals or we can ignore the realities we have imposed on our world and one day wake up to an ultimate disaster and wonder “what happened”?

Yes, much of the Aldo Leopold Wilderness has burned since 2013 but, there is a lot of mosaic. Many places didn’t burn with great intensity and will rebound quicker. Others were heavily burned and will struggle to revive. These wild lands are still wild. The land around our community is still lush with a diversity of life. Let this Black Fire be a wakeup call to appreciate and deeply respect the land we call home.