Good Fire

Image sourced from Upsplash

Peering through the thick blanket of smoke at the luminescent flames licking the air just at ankle height, I felt my breath catch in my throat. Not due to the fumes of burning forest debris, but with a stark moment of remembrance. Last fire season, somewhere between May and November, I dreamt of wildfire approaching my house. Perhaps due to the incessant anxiety of tuning into the fire reports each morning or the smog of smoke that blanketed Northern California (and much of the U.S.), my subconscious mind weaved a dramatic and hauntingly realistic scene while I tried to give my mind a rest. 

In this dreamstate, I was stationed at our front windows in apprehension, watching pockets of flames march like tiny, dancing soldiers toward me. The sky was black, cloaked either with smoke or the blanket of night, but the shadows cast against the silhouette background of towering oaks, pines, firs, and cedars were anything but nondescript. When I noticed that these tiny soldiers rarely stood taller than the height of my knees and their speed never accelerated faster than a cadenced trudge, I felt a surge of relief wash through my nervous system as I realized, “We’re going to be okay, this house is not going to burn.” In that moment of the dream, I remember feeling a strange emotion emerge, even in the state of being literally face-to-face with wildfire - amusement mixed with triumph. Thanks to our careful planning, immensely physical hard work, and time investment, our home would be protected and our cherished property saved from destruction.

This image in my mind sprang up in stark awareness that the scene I was seeing in real time, in real life, matched that exactly of what my dream had alluded to. Though the 2022 wildfire season is crawling towards us like the flames across the forested earth in my dream and is yet to have certainty on all that it will bring, this dream continues to feel prophetic. Yesterday as I leaned on my rake in exhaustion, I had that peculiar feeling activate in my system again, like a muscle memory. “This is what ‘good fire’ means,” I thought to myself, considering the term used by indigenous tribes of our area to reflect on controlled burns to rejuvenate the land. Tears welled quickly in my eyes, relieving them for a moment of the burning sensation brought on by hours of smoke. My body quivered with the rush of emotion, and I couldn’t help but to release it through my throat and nose. It’s surreal, in the literal sense, to have a visual arrive in the actual world that was once manifested only in my dreamstate, and not the other way around. Though my body was exhausted, my mood had plummeted, and I fought off resentful thoughts of how much I really did not want to be doing this chore any longer, this epiphany gave me new life. I realized that this sacrifice is what earns that triumphant feeling, whenever the fire does come. Because already, it is on its way.

Photo of our controlled burn on our property in Northern California

In this practice of lighting fire to the thick overlay of pine needles, dead oak leaves, and discarded pinecones, my partner and I brought fire through our own forest, on our own terms. Not once did we feel this practice was unbefitting, incongruent, or really anything other than honorable. In fact, neighbors driving by slowed to thank us, wave in appreciation, and give a hearty, “Looking good!” This is what it means to be in a communal relationship with the land. In this practice, we are building forest resilience and reducing hazardous fuel in good will for our own property, as well as for our neighbors. To become active participants in the protection of our natural world is to show true respect, integrity, and reverence to the land that has given all of itself to us. With each stroke of the rake filled with natural debris, I felt myself to be doing a great service to this small plot of land that has chosen me to be her caretaker. I felt a satisfaction in knowing that I’m not only doing what I can to protect our home and our precious belongings, but also all the forest creatures that have become my companions and friends throughout my time here. All the squirrels that chirp and bounce from branch to branch, the deer that gaze at me as they chew on new growth, the birds that sing to me from above, the wild turkeys that delight me when they cross through our landscaping or choose their roosts in the trees above our home, as well as the curious bears, the crafty foxes, the spirited rabbits, and the elusive wild cats are invariably, irrevocably, worth protecting. It’s a small price to pay, the hours worth of manual work and the stench of smoke stuck in my pores, when it comes to seeing the bigger picture. 

Let’s see the forest for the trees and do what we can to be individually and collectively responsible for protecting our community. We owe it to each other, we owe it to our community, and most of all, we owe it to the land that has given us this simple, beautiful, delightful way of life removed from the chaos of the rest of the world. 

Written by: Jaelyn Kohl

*Author’s Note: If you are unfamiliar with the practice of controlled/prescribed burning, before you begin please consult your local fire department and the Indigenous Peoples Burning Network to educate yourself on the process. 

For additional reading on Indigenous forest burning practices:

An Indigenous practice may be key to preventing wildfires (nationalgeographic.com)