Every few minutes the helicopters whirred overhead, back and forth, bringing loads of water to quench the wildfire that burned in Colorado鈥檚 Clear Creek Canyon. I was cat-sitting for my friend whose apartment sat right at the mouth of the canyon, separated from the Goltra Fire only by a highway and a river. By all reports, the wildfire was smoldering, not raging, along the south-facing hillsides that flanked the canyon鈥檚 mouth, but I knew wildfires could flare up in an instant. Topher, the cat, seemed unphased despite my constant nervous glances out the window. I knew the crags Skinny Legs, Bumbling Stock, and Stumbling Block were in the burn zone, and as the buzz of the helicopters went on incessantly, I couldn鈥檛 help but wonder: Once we stop the flames, then what? What happens to crags after a wildfire?

Ultimately, the Clear Creek crags would only flirt with the wildfire. No lives lost, no evacuations or threats to human structures, and these crags only remained closed for a few months. As I dug into the scattered history of wildfires impacting crags鈥攕omething that is becoming ever more common in the U.S. and around the world鈥擨 found that the Goltra Fire hardly registered as significant. But as I talked to land managers and developers, one thing remained true regardless of a fire鈥檚 size鈥攖he climbing community and public land managers often don鈥檛 really know what to do in their aftermath. But ask the right people, and dig through decades of Mountain Project forums, and the scattered community knowledge starts to piece together.

***

In the last 25 years, fires have left their mark on both iconic crags and beloved neighborhood zones. Some fire-affected crags quickly became climbable after cleaning spalling rock with a pry bar, including at the Ghost Town Crag and Sinks Canyon, both near Lander, Wyoming, and the local sandstone crags near Santa Barbara, California. Other crags have suffered from extensive closures after their natural landscapes were laid to waste, including Ten Sleep, Granite Mountain, Washington Pass, the South Platte, Queen Creek Canyon, Lover鈥檚 Leap, Poudre Canyon, and Echo Cliffs. Other crags鈥攍ike Elephant Knob in the Sierras, and parts of Cochiti Mesa, New Mexico鈥攁re permanently unclimbable, even decades after the fires ravaged the area. But this isn鈥檛 just happening in the West. Rumbling Bald burned in 2016 and the north gorge of the Red River Gorge closed in 2020 due to fires. And, of course, one particular fire shook the international climbing world when in 2022. That fire wasn鈥檛 just flirting when it brushed up against the crag that housed La Dura Dura (5.15c), one of climbing鈥檚 hardest testpieces.

After the 2024 Goltra Fire in Clear Creek, I talked to a land manager at Jefferson County Open Space (JCOS) about how they evaluate and rehabilitate crags after a fire. Like most land management agencies, JCOS does not take on liability related to climbing鈥攊t鈥檚 up to the individual to survey our hardware, and any risk is our own. But as climbing areas get busier and busier, land managers have begun partnering with climbers to share expertise and coordinate resources. JCOS in particular has proven to be one of the most progressive organizations in this space, yet even they do not have a formal framework for addressing wildfire impacts on crags. However, Eric Krause, visitor education and relations interim manager at JCOS, says that no matter how wide the burn area, or how hot the fire, there are three areas of concern for crags: natural hazards, rock integrity, and hardware integrity.

Natural Hazards

The most common impact of wildfires is the natural hazards they leave behind. One stand-out example is the Caldor Fire that ravaged Lover鈥檚 Leap in 2021. The fire burned for 69 days before it was fully contained, covering 221,835 acres and destroying 1,003 structures. The rock in Lover鈥檚 Leap was largely unaffected due to the absence of large trees beneath the walls. However, the rock quality isn鈥檛 the only thing that impacts any given climbing day. First you have to get there鈥攁nd in Lover鈥檚 Leap, the approaches were now a mess.

Petch Pietrolungo, owner of Lover鈥檚 Leap Guides and local living in Strawberry, California, since 1993, was one of the main community members leading the post-fire recovery. Bushes had been razed from the earth, and fallen trees blocked paths in all directions. The Forest Service had begun to clean up official trails鈥攂ut climbing approaches weren鈥檛 considered part of that domain and they were stretched for funding anyway. Pietrolungo and other locals took it upon themselves to rebuild the approaches, removing debris and lining them with rocks to discourage social trails.

But the fire鈥檚 effects still linger. Pietrolungo says that, now, the major hazard at Lover鈥檚 Leap is falling old growth trees. During strong winds, these massive tree trunks are snapping 20 feet up. Pietrolungo estimates these trees could be a hazard for the next five to 10 years.

Wildfires can also cause significant rock fall, erosion, and even landslides. While land management agencies have the expertise and experience to address natural hazards鈥攁nd indeed are required to on official trails鈥攄ue to staffing and funding limitations, natural hazard mitigation can result in extended closure periods.

And then there is the intangible. Wildfires can result in what New Mexico climber Josh Smith calls a barren 鈥渕oonscape.鈥� Not only is the plant life gone, but so too are the animals who depended on it. More than safety concerns of falling rock or crisped corpses of trees, the barrenness can lend itself to a certain existential horror.

Rock Integrity

In 2022, the world-famous climbing in Oliana, Spain, suffered one of the worst fires our community has ever seen: the wall of sculpted, featured warm-ups were reduced to flaky choss, and classic testpieces like Crimptonite (8b+), T1 Full Equip (8b+), and Mishi (8b) were all so damaged developers didn鈥檛 know if they could ever return to their original brilliance. Oliana鈥檚 destruction was due to thermal spalling鈥攖he limestone had gotten so hot that weak features of rock (which are generally the protrusions that make for the best handholds and feet) had flaked off.

A study published in 2023 by Pablo Yeste-Liz谩n and fellow researchers compared the fire impacts in Oliana to another 2019 fire in Spain that damaged a granite crag near Madrid called Cadalso de los Vidrios. The extreme level of spalling that happened in Oliana, and indeed how high up on the routes this mechanical change to the rock was found, was very unique. According to the study, 鈥淭he climbing walls [in Oliana] are located on the top of a steep slope with upward winds. This generated a 鈥渃himney鈥� effect during the fire, which projected a hot stream toward the upper parts of the wall, so the effects of thermal spalling appear higher in the wall, up to 30 to 40 meters high.鈥�

Despite how dire it seemed at first, climbers can be extremely resourceful. After I heard of Michaela Kiersch鈥檚 impressive onsight of Crimptonite in 2024, I had to check back in with Chris Frick, one of the climbers leading the recovery effort at Oliana. Was Crimptonite climbable again?

Frick reported that the original line isn鈥檛 possible anymore, at least not at 8b+/14a. Jorg Verhoeven bolted a variation by using the bouldery start of T1 Full Equip (miraculously unaffected) and traversing into Crimptonite. Kiersch onsighted this variation. The original start has had its hardware replaced, but due to missing holds it is considered 鈥渁n ugly project at a very high level.鈥� No one has cleaned or re-bolted the warm-ups, and they remain unclimbable.

The extensive level of rock damage is also related to the very nature of the rock. Yeste-Liz谩n鈥檚 study notes that 鈥渓imestone may be more impacted by fire due to the conversion of aragonite to calcite, the thermal degradation of organics, and the expulsion of water.鈥� In other words, limestone quickly heats up, loses water, and flakes off.

But other rock types can be affected by high temperatures caused by wildfires as well. According to the same study, while granite can be more resistant to fire, it too can lose strength, change in color, and peel or crack. And during the Las Conchas Fire that swept through Cochiti Mesa, New Mexico, in 2011, various desert face climbs, composed of a soft stone called Bandelier Tuff, were made utterly unclimbable. Local climber Mike Tritt went on a scouting mission after the fire, and reported on Mountain Project: 鈥淭he fire was hot enough to separate the layers of patina from the rock. Without the patina I doubt there is anything solid enough to climb.鈥�

Hardware Integrity

How wildfires can and do impact hardware integrity is the trickiest and most specialized consideration after a wildfire鈥攁nd the knowledge out there is sparse at best.

For Bobby Hutton at , a gear retailer known for its extensive break-testing videos, his main concern with bolts, of any kind, that have been through a wildfire is not how high heats might impact the bolt鈥檚 strength, but rather how such heats could obliterate corrosion resistance properties鈥攎aking fire impacts a long term problem for hardware, rather than an immediate risk. Hutton has experienced the dire impacts of wildfires himself: 鈥淭he Caldor fire in 2021 burned my home and many of the crags I love. Of the 15 or so crags [where] I鈥檝e done development or rebolting, 12 have been affected by wildfire.鈥�

After his home burned, he recovered several brand new hangers that had been exposed to heats estimated at above 1763 degrees Fahrenheit. When he tested these rusted hangers, they performed well under pull tests, breaking at forces well above what they were originally rated to fail at. But he still had concerns about the long term corrosion resistance of the bolts. What good was the strength of the hanger now, if it would rapidly corrode in a few years?

In the real-life example of Oliana, when Yeste-Liz谩n and fellow researchers anchor-tested bolts on various parts of the affected wall, the results showed the bolts鈥� strength to be in good condition, despite oxidation. Of greater concern was how rock spalling and weakness interacted with hardware integrity. In several instances, rock immediately around or behind the bolt had chipped and spalled off, leaving some of the bolt itself exposed, and the hanger no longer flush with the rock.

Watch route developers in Oliana assess the flaky, burnt stone with wall hammers. Video courtesy of Chris Frick.

Frick certainly noticed these concerns, and his rebolting effort was comprehensive. Though he prioritized oxidized hangers and any bolts with spalling nearby, he also took no chances: 鈥淚f you start to rebolt, you do the whole line.鈥�

The question of whether glue-in bolts can melt at high temperatures is also not fully settled. Hutton reports that some types of adhesive used by climbers are rated to deal with fire. Others don鈥檛 have that rating. Until fully tested, and when the type of glue used is unknown when inspecting a wildfire-affected glue-in, it is better to be safe rather than sorry. As Hutton says, 鈥淚n bolt replacement there has been a long term theory that you could use a torch to soften the adhesive and remove the bolt. We have tested it and it is possible with certain types of glue, but far from practical鈥攚e saw lots of damage to the rocks before the heat penetrated deep enough to weaken the glue. So wildfire damage to glue-ins is possible but I would expect to see rock damage first.鈥�

With the 2011 Las Conchas fire at Cochiti Mesa and surrounding areas, another consideration was the fire damage to traditional anchors, like trees and existing webbing. After the Lover鈥檚 Leap fire, Pietrolungo found a handful of gear that had been dropped from climbs into the now nonexistent bushes, all burnt to a crisp, and evidence that fixed or stuck gear would also dramatically change in character after a fire.

In the relatively minor case of the Clear Creek crags in the burn zone of the Goltra Fire, the JCOS team asked an anonymous local route developer to do an unofficial evaluation of the hardware at the affected crags. While the generous volunteer did not see any damage obvious to the naked eye鈥攍ikely meaning that the fire did not get hot enough to oxidize any of the hangers or cause spalling of rock鈥攚ith no standardized process, the evaluation was inherently limited and informal. Perhaps it鈥檚 time for more than that.

***

Wildfires are an increasing risk to gateway communities and the crags we love. One 2016 study found that fire burn area in the US has doubled in the last half century, in large part due to climate change and legacies of fire suppression. While fire mitigation strategies have been extensively discussed elsewhere, fire recovery processes in the specific context of climbing and safety have not. Because climbing causes so many tricky liability questions for land managers and climbing communities, there is also frequently a division or confusion about who is responsible for evaluating crags after a wildfire. While most climbers I talked to about this topic had positive relationships with rangers and land managers, they weren鈥檛 interested in giving already underfunded land agencies any further burdens in exchange for a more regulated fire recovery process. But then these other elements of crag safety are left to the climbing community to address on a volunteer basis. As with Oliana, the recovery of specific climbs might be left to the whims of volunteers. And what if no volunteer rises from the ashes?

It left me wondering: with scraps of knowledge buried in the brains of our generous developers, gear testers, and the local crag rat, what would it take to formalize a framework, conduct more comprehensive testing, collect scattered knowledge, and better equip our communities?

The post What Happens to Crags After a Wildfire? appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

On Tuesday, January 7, 2025, the azure sky and gleaming sun that are hallmarks of Los Angeles, California, were rapidly replaced by thick grey smoke swelling upwards from fast-moving fire within Pacific Palisades. Hours later, another blaze, called the Eaton Fire, began to consume huge swaths of Pasadena and Altadena.

Since then, the skies of Southern California have been crisscrossed by a dizzying number of firefighting aircraft: helicopters, propeller-driven water bombers, and even massive tanker jets. You may have seen and on social media, dropping orange slurry near homes or spraying buckets of ocean water on rising flames.

Aerial firefighters鈥攖he pilots, flight coordinators, and crew鈥攈ave played a vital role in the battle against the worst fire season in Southern California history. As of publishing, 鈥攚ith a handful of smaller fires, like the Kenneth Fire and Hurst Fire breaking out as well. In total, these blazes have consumed 40,000 acres of land and 12,300 structures. The death toll of the fires, overall, has risen to 24.

国产吃瓜黑料 spoke to aerial firefighters to understand how they have contributed to the lifesaving efforts across Southern California, and to understand why the blazes present such a challenge for crews both on the ground and in the skies.

“The Palisades and Eaton fires are in the top three worst fires I鈥檝e worked in my 30-year career,鈥� says fire captain and helicopter coordinator John Williamson with Cal Fire, the fire department of the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection.

The Importance of Aerial Firefighters

Aerial firefighters have the same job as ground-based firefighters, but aerial firefighters corral the flames from the sky. They work in tandem with ground crews to support their efforts by dropping thousands of gallons of fire retardant and water to critical fire areas with each fly by.

It’s a dangerous job. , there have been 14 fatal aerial firefighting aircraft crashes resulting in the deaths of 25 aerial firefighting crew members in the U.S. In contrast, not a single U.S. commercial passenger airline pilot has been killed in a flight crash since 2020.

There are more than 50 aerial firefighting aircraft assigned to the Los Angeles fires that come from several agencies. Some aircraft are from , the largest civil aerial firefighting fleet in the world with 60 rotary and fixed-wing aircraft. Others are from private companies like Montana-based . And others still have flown in from other fire departments across North America, including a crew from听Quebec, Canada.

Aerial firefighting fleets vary in size. Cal Fire retains the likes of multiple 1,200-gallon-capable , 4,000-gallon-capable , , , and . Neptune Aviation owns nine , each of which can hold 3,000 gallons of fire retardant and four of which are currently assisting with the Los Angeles fires.

No matter the aircraft, Williamson, who’s currently in Los Angeles working the Palisades and Eaton fires, notes that aerial firefighters鈥� jobs are entirely to support the first responders on the ground.

In previous years, wintertime has been a quiet season for aerial firefighters, with most on vacation and many of the fleets put away for maintenance. But this is changing, due in part to a shift in climate and drier conditions yearround. Now, agencies like Cal Fire must be ready to battle wildfire at any moment.

鈥淭here is no longer a 鈥榝ire season,鈥欌�� says a spokesperson from Cal Fire. 鈥淚t is now a 鈥榝ire year.鈥欌��

The Santa Ana Winds

The nearly 100-mile-per-hour winds made the first evening of firefighting a biblical 鈥渕an vs. wild鈥� battle. The fires initially had to be fought almost entirely by groundcrews as the hurricane-force gusts made aerial firefighting unsafe and ineffective. These winds, known as the , are seasonal, strong winds that blow south into the Los Angeles area from the Mojave Desert. The Santa Ana Winds are known for fanning wildfire flames and causing a , which can make flying dangerous or impossible.

鈥淭hese fires are significant because of the wind event that preceded them,” says Williamson. “The high winds spread the fires quickly and made it difficult for any aerial firefighting to occur in the initial hours鈥 hate to describe it this way, but everything leading up to these fires created the perfect storm.鈥�

As the wind speeds decreased slightly on January 8, aerial firefighters took to the sky and began dropping thousands of gallons of fire retardant and water across the Palisades and Eaton fires.

But the wind has continued to create headaches. Williamson says that crews must assess wind gusts each day to make sure that it’s safe to fly鈥攁nd to ensure that their drops of slurry or water are accurate.

鈥淎dditionally, the infrastructure here in Los Angeles presents a challenge with so many above-ground electrical wires and tall structures,” Williamson says. “Not every aerial firefighter assigned to these fires is from Los Angeles, so some are learning the terrain as they go.鈥�

Aerial Firefighting Logistics

At the beginning of each day, aerial firefighters receive a morning briefing at their assigned air base before linking up with officials who coordinate helicopter flights or air attack routes. These specialists are like aerial firefighting air traffic control: they tell aerial firefighters where to fly and at what elevation in the firefighting airspace to best support ground crews.

The size and intensity of the Los Angeles fires means that the 鈥渟tack,鈥� or elevation layers of an airspace, in which the aerial firefighters fly is crowded and limited.

鈥淭he wind and the amount of aerial firefighters we have working on these fires has made the stacks complicated,鈥� Williamson says. 鈥淲e currently have a thousand feet听of elevation between each aircraft in a stack to give our crews some buffer, and we鈥檝e been having to closely monitor where and how each aircraft in a stack goes about their jobs due to the high winds and terrain of these fires.鈥�

For reference, are allowed to have 1,000 feet of stack between them when flying below 29,000 feet, and must have 2,000 feet of stack between them when above 29,000 feet.

Neptune Aviation鈥檚 Chief Pilot Eric Komberec says the Palisades and Eaton fires have been some of the most challenging to fight from the air.

鈥淭he urban interface and airspace concerns with so many other commercial airports in the [Los Angeles] area combined with the low moisture index and intense winds has made this a complicated fire for our aerial firefighters to tackle,鈥� Komberec says. 鈥淭here also aren鈥檛 any firebreaks due to the urban environment, so we have few ways to corral these fires. We have to attack them totally differently than we would a true wildland fire.鈥�

Komberec notes that crews are accountable for their drops of fire retardant鈥攚hich are determined by the pilot only through mental math and 鈥渆yeballing it.鈥�

The crosswinds, he says, have made it difficult to maneuver planes and ensure an accurate drop of retardant. 鈥淲e are held accountable for every drop of retardant we make,” Komberec says. “It鈥檚 not only extremely expensive, but can be dangerous when dropped on or near congested areas. Given the urban interface of this fire, we have to be extremely concerned with making sure we鈥檙e at the appropriate height and angle for a drop.鈥�

The Mental Toll

A week of round-the-clock work has taken its toll on the aerial firefighting crews in Los Angeles.

Williamson says pilots have very little downtime听in between shifts, with almost every waking moment devoted to gearing up for the next one. 鈥淎fter a shift you鈥檒l eat and rest and let your mind unravel a bit from what you just went through,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut even when you鈥檙e not on a shift, you鈥檙e strategizing with other crew members, trying to make your plan for the next shift to hopefully be even more effective than during the last one.鈥�

Crews must also manage the psychological impact of viewing the destroyed neighborhoods and city centers from the air.

鈥淲e see the devastation from a different perspective,鈥� Williamson says. 鈥淭he images of destruction are seared into your brain. It鈥檚 hard to see how far the burn scar extends knowing the loss of property and life that came with it. You can鈥檛 dwell on these things while working, though. You have to keep grinding until the job is done.鈥�

The post What It鈥檚 Like to Be an Aerial Tanker Pilot During the L.A. Fires appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

The big oak tree that stood over the bedroom of Andrew Goldner鈥檚 Altadena, California, home always worried him. So when powerful Santa Ana winds battered his house on the night of Monday, January 5, Goldner, a rock climbing coach and video director, dragged his futon into the living room and slept there with his two dogs, just to be safe.

鈥淚鈥檝e always been scared of that thing,鈥� Goldner told 国产吃瓜黑料.

The next day, as winds gusted to as high as 80 miles per hour, a danger of a different nature became apparent. That evening, Goldner鈥檚 brother, Jacob, stopped by his house and told him that a wildfire had sparked in nearby Eaton Canyon. Within the hour, Goldner received a call from a friend who lives on Altadena鈥檚 eastern side. Flames were leaping into nearby homes, and the friend was making a hurried evacuation. Goldner and his brother jumped into their car and fled just as the blaze spread through their own neighborhood.

鈥淚t was a horrifying escape,鈥� he said. 鈥淲e actually turned the first corner, and an entire palm tree came down in front of us and blocked the road. But we made it out, and we drove away.鈥�

Goldner, 37, is one of hundreds of thousands of Southern California residents who narrowly escaped the . Whipped by powerful off-shore winds, and fed by bone-dry brush and vegetation, fires enveloped multiple communities in the greater Los Angeles area beginning on Tuesday, January 7. By Monday, January 13, the flames had destroyed or damaged much of Altadena and Pacific Palisades, and parts of Malibu and Pasadena. Twenty four people as of the publishing date of this story.

Los Angeles is a haven for outdoor athletes, with its hundreds of running trails, climbing gyms, surf breaks, and cycling clubs. Across the city, five blazes鈥攖he Palisades, Eaton, Kenneth, Hurst, and Sunset fires鈥攖orched favorite trail systems and climbing crags, bike routes, and surf shops. They also devastated the lives of outdoor athletes like Goldner, who teaches climbing at the Stronghold Climbing Gym in Los Angeles’ Lincoln Heights neighborhood. His home is among the estimated 12,000 structures to be destroyed or damaged.

鈥淢y house is gone,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he whole block is. The entire thing is just devastated. There鈥檚 not one standing house. All the speculation goes away, and then you鈥檙e like, it鈥檚 real now. I called my partner, and she just broke down.鈥�

But as the flames spread across neighborhoods and across the city鈥檚 canyons and open spaces, communities of outdoor enthusiasts came together to raise funds and offer support to one another. And to try and imagine how life will continue when the time to rebuild comes.

Escaping the Eaton Fire

When hiking guide Amanda Getty, 43, learned that Eaton Canyon had caught fire, she put her daughter and dog into the car and drove towards the canyon to see the blaze. Getty often leads hiking groups up the four-mile route, which leads to a picturesque waterfall. 鈥淚 feel shameful about it because, in hindsight, it wasn鈥檛 the wisest thing to do, but I had to see it,鈥� Getty told 国产吃瓜黑料. 鈥淓aton Canyon is an integral reason why we live here.鈥�

What Getty saw made the situation feel 鈥渧ery real.鈥� The gusting winds were stronger than any she鈥檇 ever felt. She wondered if she should immediately evacuate with her daughter or wait for officials to weigh in. Her husband, Charles, was away on a trip to Colorado, and after she returned home, she called him.

鈥淎 huge part of a tree broke off and landed on the roof,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 should have left then.鈥�

Getty put her daughter to bed and scrolled coverage on social media before eventually falling asleep. Then, at 3:30 A.M. her phone buzzed to life with a text from a neighbor: TIME TO GO. Minutes later, police cars circled the neighborhood blaring their sirens. She woke her daughter and grabbed her dog and sprinted for the car. 鈥淭he wind was trying to knock us over as we ran,鈥� she said.

Getty and her husband came back to the neighborhood the next day and found many homes burning. Their home was amazingly still intact. The two spent the day clearing brush from the yard and hosing down their roof to prevent the flames from spreading. 鈥淚鈥檝e met more people in my front yard than I ever have these past two days,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 think that鈥檚 what you have to do right now: just be the most basic form of human when you see people. Are you OK? Can I help you?鈥�

Madi Pearce, a climber and trail runner who lives in Altadena, was also surprised to find her house still intact after the blaze ripped through her neighborhood. Pearce, 23, had evacuated at 11 P.M. on Tuesday night with a bag of clothes and pet bird, Oliver.

When she came back to her neighborhood on Wednesday morning, Pearce saw that her neighbor鈥檚 home was still engulfed in flames. A home two doors down was burning as well. 鈥淓verything was on fire,鈥� she said. 鈥淣eighbors were grabbing trash cans and filling them with water, spraying hoses, and just doing everything they could because there were no firemen on our street.鈥�

Pearce, 23, heard explosions from the burning structures. She saw fire crews a short distance away trying to extinguish flames at the nearby country club, and other crews several blocks away working on a home fire.

A fire truck sped down her street, and Pearce attempted to flag it down to try and extinguish her neighbor鈥檚 home. But the crews sped off. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if they had some kind of strategy or they were just stretched too thin,鈥� she said. 鈥淢aybe our houses were just too far gone. It was all heartbreaking.鈥�

But somehow, Pearce鈥檚 home withstood the blowing embers and flames. Most of the blocks in her neighborhood, she said, are leveled. 鈥淐himneys standing in ash,鈥� she said.

Outdoor Communities Lend a Hand

Even as flames blazed through neighborhoods, communities across Los Angeles rallied to raise funds for rebuilding efforts. The donations platform GoFundMe l for wildfire victims, and by January 13 the group had collected $2.3 million. The and also ramped up donation efforts, as did the 鈥攁 group that provides funding for both fire victims and rescue crews.

Communities of outdoor athletes also became rallying points for these efforts. When Peace Sports and Total Trash Cycling Clubs learned of the fires, organizers canceled a 60-mile group ride through Altadena and Pasadena that had been planned for the weekend. The groups rescheduled the event for February, and made it a fundraiser for fire victims. Escalemos, a SoCal climbing club, launched a for local climbers impacted by the fires.

Bike Oven, a cycling shop in Highland Park, also canceled its organized rides and instead pivoted to outreach and . Management posted on social media that the shop would become a drop-off location and distribution center for supplies for those impacted by the fires.

Shop employees told 国产吃瓜黑料 that the location quickly became inundated with donations. When 国产吃瓜黑料 visited the shop, bottled water, tampons, toilet paper, and socks filled the store and spilled out onto a nearby sidewalk. 鈥淲e鈥檙e just trying to hurry things to people in need,鈥� Will Stevens, a Bike Oven employee, said.

Some outdoor businesses have helped the community simply by opening their doors. At Stronghold Climbing Gym in Echo Park, owners Kate Mullen and Peter Steadman have remained open so that people can use electricity, showers, and bathrooms.

鈥淩ight now, our staff needs the time off, but people still need a place to plug their stuff in, and be around their community,鈥� Mullen said. 鈥淎 guy came in earlier and asked for a towel. He went in, showered, and then left with wet hair.鈥�

Cities Reshaped by Fire

It will take months, maybe even years, to truly understand how the wildfires of 2025 will reshape the communities across Southern California. The Eaton Fire blazed much of downtown Altadena and its surrounding neighborhoods; the Pacific Palisades fire leveled multimillion-dollar homes, some of which had stood for generations.

In Malibu鈥攚here fires devastated the community as recently as 2018鈥攆ires burned structures on both sides of the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH).听Surfer and writer Jamie Brisick believes parts of Malibu may remain changed forever.

鈥淢alibu is such a joyous place, but now, driving north on PCH, to see the devastation of all those beachfront homes will totally change the experience,鈥� he said. 鈥淭here鈥檚 almost this sort of glamour of driving north on PCH鈥攜ou pass Nobu, and there might be paparazzi out front, and you pass the Soho House, and there鈥檚 glamour there, and then there鈥檚 Billionaire Beach, with hundred-million dollar homes, and now to see what it is, all firebombed the way it is, will bring you to Malibu in a different mood. It will be a completely different energy now.鈥�

Getty, who calls Eaton Canyon her 鈥渟econd home,鈥� told 国产吃瓜黑料 that she鈥檚 spent much of the week thinking about the trails and canyons where she leads groups. 鈥淕rieving the loss of trails is so insignificant to the loss of someone’s home,鈥� she said.

Still, Getty wonders how long it will take them to return. 鈥淚 know that nature is resilient, so much more resilient than I am,鈥� she said. 鈥淎nd these places are going to come back faster than I am, and much faster than people鈥檚 homes.鈥�

Flames destroyed the Eaton Canyon Nature Center, which was built in 1993 after another fire, called the Kinneloa Fire, ravaged the area. On Wednesday, the Nature Center鈥檚 superintendent emailed park volunteers 鈥淣ow is the time to grieve, but this has happened before. We will rebuild.鈥�

Returning to Altadena

On Wednesday, January 8, Andrew Goldner checked his phone and saw a text message from a neighbor. The text included a video of the neighborhood鈥檚 destruction, including images of Goldner鈥檚 burned house.

But Goldner noticed that his garage was still standing. Inside of the garage was the 1966 Triumph Tiger Cub motorcycle that his grandfather听had left him as a memento. 鈥淗e didn鈥檛 really impart a lot of things to other people, but he gave that one to me,鈥� Goldner said.

Goldner texted a few friends about the discovery, and within minutes they鈥檇 all replied, including one with bolt cutters and a van. They loaded the van and drove into Altadena to try and save the vintage motorcycle.

They found downed power lines, plus police cars and fire crews. They weaved the van through blockades and plumes of smoke. They passed entire city blocks that were burned to the ground. 鈥淭hen, the next block would be the flip side, where all of the houses were there except for one,鈥� Goldner said. 鈥淓mbers were falling and landing on random houses of their choosing.鈥�

Eventually they found . They broke open the garage and rescued the old motorcycle. Other than a new layer of soot and dust, it was exactly as he鈥檇 left it.

As Goldner walked back from the garage, the big oak tree that had caused him so much concern was still there, barely touched by the flames. The house, however, was gone.

Seattle native Gavin Feek lives in Los Angeles. He contributes to and Stab Magazine, and has been published in 国产吃瓜黑料, , and The Stranger. Feek loves to rock climb, surf, trail run, and ride his gravel bike. Prior to becoming a writer he ran the Glacier Point Cross-Country ski hut in Yosemite National Park.

The post Climbers, Hikers, and Runners Share Survival Stories from the Los Angeles Wildfires appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Editor鈥檚 Note: We first published this story in January 2019 in the wake of the Camp Fire, the deadliest in California history. With the Palisades, Sunset, and Eaton Fires now raging across the Los Angeles area鈥攁nd discussion about the role that U.S. forest policy might have played in creating the conditions for them following in their wake鈥攚e feel it鈥檚 as relevant as ever.

Fire ecologist Chad Hanson is standing knee-deep in downed trees and charred stumps when he spots what he鈥檚 been searching for: a pine sapling. He鈥檚 spent this sunny September day touring the burn scar left from the 2011 Las Conchas Fire, when a conflagration roared through northern New Mexico, torching 43,000 acres in a single night.

After that apocalypse, who would expect a pine forest to come back? Hanson does, and all day, he鈥檚 braved the thorny limbs of locusts and meandered among aspens just tinged with yellow to find it.

Hanson, who holds a Ph.D. in ecology from the University of California and co-authored the book , has built his career around fighting the notion that intense wildfires are wholly devastating. He argues they play a vital ecological role that starts with beetles and woodpeckers and spreads throughout the food web, and that when forest managers try to substitute fires with logging, they do real and lasting harm to the environment.

In the wake of 2018鈥檚 devastating wildfires, the upper echelons of the Trump administration have called for increased timber harvesting as a remedy. In public statements, the president blamed California鈥檚 deadly fire season, in which nearly 100 people lost their lives, on rivers being 鈥渄iverted鈥� to the Pacific Ocean and poor forest management.

In rebuttal, the California Department of Forest and Fire Protection鈥檚 Scott McClean told the Los Angeles Times there鈥檚 no shortage of water, adding, 鈥淭he problem is changing climate leading to more severe and destructive fires.鈥�

Like the president, former Interior Secretary Ryan Zinke blamed environmental activists for wildfires鈥� increased intensity.

鈥淓very year we watch our forests burn, and every year there is a call for action,鈥� last August. 鈥淵et, when action comes, and we try to thin forests of dead and dying timber, or we try to sustainably harvest timber from dense and fire-prone areas, we are attacked with frivolous litigation from radical environmentalists who would rather see forests and communities burn than see a logger in the woods.鈥�

But Hanson and other fire ecologists caution that the administration has it backwards: More logging can actually make wildfires burn hotter and faster. Instead, they say, it鈥檚 well-placed, smart management that will reduce the impacts to communities from wildfires鈥攁nd unchecked logging is neither.

To understand scientists鈥� objections, there are a few important facts you need to know about last fall鈥檚 blazes in California.

鈥淢ost of what burned wasn鈥檛 forest,鈥� says Matthew Hurteau, a professor at the University of New Mexico who studies forests, fires and climate adaptation. Instead, the fires burned mostly grass and shrubby chaparral. That鈥檚 been the case in several of the state鈥檚 most damaging fires: the Woolsey and Camp in 2018, Thomas and Tubbs in 2017, and even back to the Cedar Fire in 2003.

Creating varying tree densities and providing anchor points for wildland firefighters could reduce wildfire risks, as could prescribed burns, Hurteau says. But, he adds, 鈥渓ogging operations can actually increase the rate of speed at which fire moves across an area, depending on how the logging operation is conducted.鈥�

Opening the canopy dries out the forest floor and increases wind speeds, both of which accelerate fire. Logging can also leave behind more combustible species like cheatgrass, an opportunistic invasive that thrives in disturbed areas and is near-impossible to eradicate. There鈥檚 also the simple fact that much of the densest forest is on terrain so steep that loggers鈥� machines couldn鈥檛 even access it.

鈥淭he idea that we鈥檙e going to mechanically thin our way out of the high-severity fire risk that we face on the west slope of the High Sierra is uninformed,鈥� Hurteau says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know any federal land managers鈥攍ike the actual people working on national forests鈥攚ho argue that timber extraction is really the way to modify the way fire interacts with the forest.鈥�

Developing and implementing wildfire mitigation strategies is a challenge in and of itself. Each treatment program is designed for a purpose and with certain conditions in mind, says Chad Hoffman, associate professor of fire science at . Forest managers have to think about everything from funding to topography to social tolerance in surrounding areas.

鈥淎ll treatments have some conditions in which they鈥檙e just not going to work the way we think,鈥� he says. 鈥淲hen I explain this to students, I say it鈥檚 like the seatbelts in my car are not the same ones we use in NASCAR.鈥�

Thinning and burning projects have a top limit on their effectiveness. If the forest is particularly dry or the wind particularly high, a wildfire could still run right over that preventive work. And while logging sometimes gets conflated with fuels treatment projects, Hoffman adds, they have very different goals. If logging efforts are leaving piles of 鈥渟lash鈥濃�攄owned trees, limbs and other brush鈥攐r cutting all the big, market-ready trees and sparing only the little ones that are less likely to survive a conflagration, they鈥檙e not actually reducing the severity of wildfire.

鈥淪ometimes those objectives do align with mitigation, but sometimes they don鈥檛,鈥� he says. 鈥淭his really comes down to being purposeful and understanding the local scenario, and being clear with what those objectives are and what we believe we鈥檙e accomplishing.鈥�

There鈥檚 also a question of basic math: The Forest Service alone manages 193 million acres; In any given year, thinning and burning projects reach less than 2 percent of that. And that doesn鈥檛 include additional lands overseen by the National Park Service or Bureau of Land Management.

Some research has suggested that, given the scale of the area with the potential to burn in a wildfire and our inability to actively manage every square mile, there are ways of assessing highest priority areas.

鈥淚f we could treat 20 percent and it鈥檚 the right 20 percent, that鈥檚 almost as good as treating much more of the landscape,鈥� Hoffman says.

Hanson suggests concentrating thinning projects and prescribed burns around communities.鈥淎ny effort to focus more attention, more resources, more activity, more funding on forests distant from homes is going to divert finite resources away from true home protection,鈥� he says.

Protecting communities also means building homes and businesses with fire-resistance in mind, using materials like metal rooftops and cement composite siding. Often, homes are lost to embers ahead of 鈥渢he flaming front鈥� by up to 10 miles, Hurteau says. Once one house starts鈥攚ith a spark that catches on dry leaves in a rain gutter or drifts into an attic through a vent鈥攖he fire spreads house to house.

There鈥檚 also a need for improved warning systems to give people earlier notice to evacuate and more assistance with getting out of their homes. By most accounts, many residents of Paradise, California, were signaled to leave only by neighbors honking car horns and yelling.

One of the most pernicious factors in last year鈥檚 wildfire season is the one that the federal government has tried the hardest to ignore. In the midst of climate change, some of the worst-hit parts of California had seen barely any rain for months prior to the biggest blazes.

鈥淲hen fire weather is high and extreme, the weather is going to be, overwhelmingly, the factor that drives how fast the fire spreads, not the type of vegetation or how dense it is,鈥� says Hanson. In fact, an analysis of 1,500 wildfires over three decades that he coauthored found the forests with the least environmental protections and the most logging burned most intensely, all other factors being equal.

As tough as it may be for hikers and homeowners to accept, some forests might simply have to burn. Doing so would naturally reset the density of foliage and improve ecosystems鈥� overall health

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think there鈥檚 any way that we cut our way out of wildfires,鈥� Hurteau says. 鈥淭hese are flammable landscapes. A lot of the species evolved with fire as a disturbance process, and we鈥檝e been intervening in that with fire suppression for a long time. It鈥檚 critical that we actually begin to restore fire to these ecosystems in an ecologically appropriate manner.鈥�

The Forest Service seems to be taking this science into account. During a conference on wildfire in May, Victoria Christiansen, the Forest Service鈥檚 interim chief and a career forester and firefighter, pointed to fuel buildup, drought, and climate change as drivers behind worsening fires. But the most significant component, she said, is the 120 million people who currently live in the wildland-urban interface鈥攖he area most at risk of wildfire. Protecting those residences and businesses has driven up fire suppression costs to the point that they currently consume more than half the agency鈥檚 budget..

The US fire season is now year-round, and fires are burning at greater frequency, size and severity than they did half a century ago, Christiansen added. Twenty years ago, it was rare to see a wildfire grow to more than 100,000 acres. In 2017, more than 12 fires burned that much acreage.

The agency plans to respond by helping to create fire-adapted communities, Christiansen said. Prescribed fires, and even allowing unplanned wildfire to burn, will simply be part of the future.

For logging companies to be effective partners in the fight against wildfire, some may have to rethink how they do business鈥攁nd pull themselves out of a slump. The last three decades have seen a sharp decline in the number of board-feet coming out of national forests鈥�.

In response, the Forest Service is extending 鈥渟tewardship contracts鈥� from 10 to 20 years in an effort to increase the market for wood products in areas where mills are scarce. Categorical exclusions available for wildfire mitigation projects, allowing them to speed past environmental reviews, have also increased.

Finding new uses for slash piles and other leftovers will be key to creating a more sustainable industry. Products made from the 鈥渨oody biomass鈥� removed in thinning projects could include vineyard posts, animal bedding, firewood, or laminated wood used in flooring and occasionally in construction as a replacement for concrete, says Kim Carr with the National Forest Foundation, the nonprofit partner of the U.S. Forest Service.

鈥淚f we can create a market for that, then we wouldn鈥檛 have to resort to piling it and burning it, and it could start to pay its way out of the woods,鈥� Carr says.

Large thinning projects could create enough of a supply to build small-diameter sawmills, according to Russ Vaagen, of . The Washington-based company produces cross-laminated timber and glue-laminated beams from smaller trees. 鈥淚t has the opportunity to not only offset some of the cost, but make the whole process of forest restoration profitable鈥� he says. 鈥淢ost importantly, it can be done without harming the aesthetic of the overall forest if done appropriately.鈥�

Some outdoor advocates, however, still argue that the current push for wildfire mitigation is first and foremost a smokescreen for logging interests. And the battle shows no signs of letting up: In late December, the president issued an executive order seeking to open 3.5 million acres of national forest to timber harvest.

鈥淭he need for some active management in some places as a way of addressing fire risk is a real thing,鈥� says Louis Geltman, policy director with the , a coalition of outdoor sports groups. 鈥淏ut there鈥檚 also a dynamic of proponents of the timber industry and members of Congress on the right who really want to just use fire as a reason to get the cut out.鈥�

The post Why We Can鈥檛 Log Our Way Out of Wildfires appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

This past Saturday, January 4, Daniel Swain, a climate scientist for the University of California Los Angeles, on his blog, WeatherWest.com. In the post, Swain warned of听 an “extreme offshore wind and fire-weather event” in Southern California in the coming days.

Two days later, Swain where he again sounded alarm bells for Los Angeles. “The quite serious extreme wind and fire-weather threat in Southern California鈥攊t is going to affect millions of people and potentially cause some real damage and really ramp up the threat of destructive wildfire,” Swain said. A published Swain’s comments.

On Tuesday, January 7, wildfires erupted across Southern California, with the largest blaze igniting in the Pacific Palisades region of Santa Monica. Whipped by extremely high winds, the inferno enveloped thousands of homes and businesses and killed at least five people. Hundreds of thousands of residents evacuated as the blazes roared through neighborhoods across Southern California, including Altadena, Pasadena, and Pacific Palisades. As of the publishing of this story, the fires were zero percent contained.

We caught up with Swain to talk about the conditions that led him to post his warnings.

What dynamics led you to predict an extreme fire event in Southern California this week?
SWAIN: This was an extraordinarily well-predicted extreme weather and fire risk event, and I wasn’t the only person who saw it coming. The national weather service gave strong messaging鈥擱ed Flag, high-wind watch. These are tiers of warnings that are rarely issued. We saw the extreme winds coming to Los Angeles perhaps a week or so out. But more importantly, we knew that the dry conditions across Southern California were exceptional. That has been cumulative, over months. So, if a big bad wind event came along before the first rains came, we knew that the fire danger would be bad.

But going further back in time, the past two years were very wet in Southern California鈥攈istorically wet in some areas. People celebrated that the drought was over, and it was. We aren’t seeing long-term drought right now, but we’re seeing something different, which is called hydroclimate whiplash. That’s where you go from extreme wet to extreme dry. So, we had extremely wet weather and then the driest six-to-nine month stretch ever observed. This sequence matters in Southern California, because what you see burning isn’t mature forest but rather grass and brush, which grows in periods of high moisture.

What role did climate play in these fires?
There are two climate connections. In a warming climate we’re seeing wetter wet periods and drier dry periods, but it’s warmer all of the time. That’s a dangerous sequence. You have these increasingly wide swings between extreme wet and extreme dry, which leads to the abundant growth of grass, brush, and vegetation that burns easily. We also see hotter summers and drier falls and early winter, which extends fire season into the winter. And as you extend the fire season, it starts to overlap with the season of strong offshore winds. Having high winds in January isn’t too unusual. But having an abundance of vegetation as dry as it is right now is not typical. That’s the other dangerous component.

We actually saw this danger coming nine months out. Of course you can’t pinpoint the exact dates. But we saw that the summer was the hottest on record across Southern California, followed by a heat wave in the fall that baked and dried out the vegetation. And it hasn’t rained. Each piece of this contributed in a way that makes ecological and meteorological sense.

What similarities do you see between this and the Marshall Fire in Boulder County, Colorado, back in December, 2021?
I see some parallels. It was a bone-dry fall and start to winter in Colorado when the Marhsall Fire sparked. Of course dry winters are more typical in Front Range Colorado than they are in coastal California. But in 2021 in Colorado we hadn’t seen snow by late December, and then we had an extreme downslope wind storm. The winds were actually more extreme during the Marshall Fire.

A lot has been written about the fire danger as the wildland-urban interface continues to expand.听
The Marshall Fire was definitely a mixed wildland/urban fire where the fire went from open spaces and rural areas into neighborhoods, where it then burned structure to structure, block by block. The Southern California fires are more like urban fires than a true wildland fire. They started close to densely populated areas and the moved quickly into town centers and more neighborhoods. This wasn’t a true wildland-urban interface fire. In some of these city areas it’s just spreading from the house, to the PetCo, to the mall, to the gas station.

When winds are that extreme there doesn’t need to be an abundance of vegetation for it to spread. But like the Marshall Fire, we are seeing it spread up creek corridors and parks like a candle wick. The vegetation found in urban parks, open space, and even medians is still fuel, even if it gets irrigated.

If scientists predicted fires, why have they been so devastating?
It’s hard for even me to fathom, but these fires would have been worse had we not had the predictions. The warnings led to preemptive positioning of aircraft and fire crews. Had the predictions not been as good, you would have seen fewer firefighters and crews in place in those first hours. And it was the work that people did during those first few hours that probably saved hundreds of lives. There could have been an incredible loss of life in this scenario, and we came close to it in Pacific Palisades. California has a veritable army of firefighters in Los Angeles, the LA City and local departments, CAL Fire, Cal Office of Emergency Services. But yes, this is still what we see鈥攗nder conditions this powerful, this kind of destruction can still happen. I don’t see this as a failure of firefighting. I see it as a tragic lesson in the limits of what firefighting can achieve under conditions that are this extreme.

This interview was edited for space and clarity.听

Organizations Accepting Donations to Help Those Affected by the Fires

The post Climatologist Daniel Swain Warned SoCal of “Extreme Fire Danger” Before the Catastrophic Blaze appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Billowing smoke and falling ash blotted out the sun in Wrightwood, California on Tuesday, September 10. It was so dark that crickets began chirping in the early afternoon and drivers had to flick on their headlights. What had started as a small brush fire in the Angeles National Forest three days beforehand, the Bridge Fire exploded鈥攂y Wednesday, September 11, it would consume 47,904 acres.

The blaze crept up the hills of Wrightwood and began burning grassy hillsides within the beloved Mountain High ski area, a local resort famous for its easily accessible after-work night skiing for Los Angelinos. Luckily for Mountain High, the resort鈥檚 tenacious snow cannon operators jumped into action and began spraying trees and buildings with water. According to an update on Wednesday afternoon, the employees and firefighters prevented the loss of any resort buildings.

BRIDGE FIRE UPDATE
Fire raced through the area yesterday but GREAT NEWS! All the main lifts & buildings survived with little to no damage. THANK YOU to the fire fighters & employees for their hard work! Our hearts go out to the Wrightwood community, WE ARE WITH YOU.

鈥� Mountain High (@mthigh)

鈥淲hen the fire got close, they fired up all the guns and were able to get the trees wet and keep the fire off the buildings,鈥� Dennis Nadalin, who runs video production for Mountain High, told me.

Mountain High has invested millions of dollars in snowmaking equipment, Nadalin said, and its new taller towers were instrumental in protecting the resort鈥檚 buildings.

鈥淥ur snowmaking crew is top-notch, probably one of the best in the world,鈥� Nadalin said.听 鈥淭hey have been making snow up here since the sixties.鈥�

Videos posted on X on Tuesday night showed flames billowing near the ski area’s chairlifts and structures.

This is some of the most intense fire video I鈥檝e ever seen. A California ski resort burned to the ground on a livestream. resort in Wrightwood, CA has been consumed by the .

鈥� Gage Goulding – KPRC 2 (@GageGoulding)

Approximately out of the Wrightwood area on Tuesday after the fire destroyed 40 homes, according to ABC. Nadalin said he had to relocate several times due to approaching flames. He was evacuated from his home in Highland after a different fire, called the Line Fire, ignited. He relocated to Wrightwood, but then he had to move back to Highland due to encroaching flames from the Bridge Fire.

The entire city of Wrightwood, California, is under an evacuation order as webcam footage from Mountain High Ski Resort shows the burning through the resort.

Multiple fast-moving wildfires are beginning to impact communities across Southern California.

鈥� Colin McCarthy (@US_Stormwatch)

Nadalin told me he was relieved to learn that Mountain High鈥檚 structures were saved鈥攊t鈥檚 a place he鈥檚 skied since the early seventies. 鈥淭he fact that the ski area exists in a place where you could actually see Los Angeles, Catalina Island, and the High Sierra all at once is really pretty incredible,鈥� Nadalin told me.

Located two hours north of Los Angeles, the resort is something of a melting pot. Its night skiing draws a commuter crowd that can ski and ride after work. Its mix of gentle terrain and steep slopes draws skiers and snowboarders of diverse abilities. And it鈥檚 a great place to learn. When I lived in Oceanside, California, I would ski at Mountain High after work, and I loved to see the mountain’s diverse clientele: beginners getting on snow for the first time, semi-professional park riders hitting rails and jumps, and seemingly everyone in-between. I even wrote a feature on the Southern California ski scene for .

Nadalin credits the mountain鈥檚 quick response to firefighting to its innovative infrastructure. 鈥淢ountain High has always been an early adopter kind of place,鈥� he said. 鈥淕rowing up in Wrightwood and having a season pass since the early seventies, I’ve seen a lot of changes, a lot of improvements. Over the years, the snowmaking system has evolved into these big pipes and these big fan guns that are permanently mounted on the hill, where all they have to do is just turn a switch to get them going. That’s one of the reasons that the resort got saved鈥攖he snowmaking system is so good and so thorough.鈥�

The mountain operations employees will soon begin running safety checks to assess any damage to individual lifts, but it seems that a majority of its infrastructure was left unharmed. The Bridge Fire is currently zero percent contained.

These conflagrations sparked after an immense heat wave brought record-breaking 110-degree temperatures to the Los Angeles Basin. High winds and dry vegetation sat waiting for a spark. In the case of the 35,000-acre Line Fire, outside of Big Bear, California, an arsonist provided the ignition source. San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department arrested 34-year-old Norco man Justin Wayne Halstenberg on Tuesday on suspicion of arson.

The post How Mountain High Saved Itself from a 45,000-Acre Wildfire appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

One of Canada’s most popular national parks has been evacuated due to encroaching wildfires.

On Monday, July 22, the Canadian government ordered 4,700 residents living in Jasper National Park to flee, as flames from the Semo Complex Fire, roared into the area. Jasper National Park is located in western Alberta, along the province’s border with British Columbia, and the reserve encompasses large swaths of the Canadian Rockies.

According to multiple reports, the order to flee caught residents by surprise鈥攎ost live in the town of Jasper, which is located inside the park. The blaze cut off a number of escape routes in Alberta, forcing evacuees to flee to the west into neighboring British Columbia.

The order came after multiple conflagrations and thick smoke spread across the region from the mega-fire, which is a union of several smaller blazes that have burned a total of 237,221 acres in Alberta and British Columbia. Currently, Canadian firefighting officials consider the Semo Complex Fire to be “out of control.” There are more than 160 wildfires raging in Alberta as of Monday.

“One wildfire is approximately 12 kilometers (seven-and-a-half miles) south of Jasper on both sides of the river and wind may exacerbate the situation,” Mike Ellis, Alberta’s minister of public safety and emergency services, said during a news conference on July 23.

On Monday, escaping tourists and locals posted messages to social media that had tones of both confusion and frustration.听Escape routes were narrowed to single lanes in places and traffic slowed to a crawl amid the chaos.

鈥淐rawling out of town. It鈥檚 been smoky all day ash started appearing 9p,鈥� Jack Kearney, a videographer from New York, posted on X. 鈥淚n a lodge full of tourists we didn鈥檛 get a heads up from staff. Most of us weren鈥檛 sure what to do.鈥�

Carolyn Campbell, the president of the local Edmonton Community College, wrote on X that after nearly three hours of driving, she’d crossed just four miles due to traffic jams. 鈥淲e heard mobile gas stations are being set up, we鈥檙e ok but we know friends are almost out of gas, and folks are sharing same.鈥澨齭he wrote.

Stephanie Goetz, an Ontario resident, was on vacation in the national park when she awoke to a notification on her phone. “It was absolutely shocking. We didn’t realize how close it was to Jasper,” she told the . “When we were stopped, there was tons of cars behind us. And really realizing how close those cars had been to that fire … There’s a much larger fire south of us. I can’t imagine how that’s going to impact Jasper.”

Alberta residents are no strangers to wildfire, and over the years the province has seen multiple mega-fires rage across its borders. In 2016 a raging fire forced the evacuation of Fort McMurray in Northern Alberta鈥�88,000 people had to flee oncoming flames, the largest evacuation in Alberta’s history. The fire eventually burned more than 2,000 homes and buildings.

In recent years wildfire has had dramatic impacts across Canada.听After smoke from the worst fire season in Canadian history poured into the Eastern United States in 2023, warned that this current year could see even more wildfire activity.

The post Wildfire Forced Jasper National Park Residents to Flee Their Homes appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Call me Buzzkill Jill, because I鈥檓 about to say something that鈥檚 certain to bum out鈥攅ven tick off鈥攑lenty of people, including my mom. Fireworks, that perennial symbol of wholesome family fun, are really bad for the environment and our health.

I can already hear the whining: What鈥檚 so bad about a 15-minute pyrotechnics show that brings people joy? To that I鈥檇 say two things. First, fireworks do not bring joy to everyone. In fact, they can cause real and others who suffer from PTSD. (Chances are your , too.) Second, all that razzle-dazzle takes a serious toll in the form of wildfires, poor air quality, pollution, and wildlife trauma. Not to mention the fact that in 2022 fireworks sent .

Fireworks Cause Wildfires鈥擫ots of Them

Fireworks sparked an estimated 31,302 fires in 2022 that caused an estimated $109 million in direct property damage, according to Michele Steinberg from the National Fire Protection Association (NFPA). More than 85 percent of those were wildfires. In 2017, a 15-year old boy chucked a smoke bomb into a dry riverbed on the Oregon side of the Columbia River Gorge during a fire ban. It sparked the Eagle Creek fire, which ignited 50,000 acres, impacted air quality all the way to Canada, trapped 147 hikers amid the blaze, and took more than three months and $40 million to snuff. The boy who started the blaze was sentenced to 1,920 hours of community service and fined $37 million.

Still, fireworks are legal in all states except Massachusetts, where they were outlawed听in 2020. The proliferation of consumer fireworks makes many who work in the fire fighting industry hot under the collar. 鈥淭he NFPA does not support the use of any consumer fireworks,鈥� says Steinberg. 鈥淧rofessional fireworks shows are safer because the providers have to be licensed and permitted. There鈥檚 a lot more control over the usage and first responders and emergency personnel can be at the ready. Consumer fireworks are never safe.鈥�

Safety precautions for professional shows need to be rigorous, too. The late Bill Gabbert, founder of the website Wildfire Today and a fire management officer for the park service, developed a rigorous checklist to determine whether fireworks shows could go on safely at various NPS sites. Organizers had to obtain a Spot Weather Forecast from the National Weather Service, examine wind speed,听and confirm the availability of qualified firefighters, and evaluate the likelihood that a stray ember could ignite听a potential fuel source, like a ponderosa pine.

Fireworks Cause Air, Land, and Water Pollution

What goes up must come down. When fireworks explode, they rain down plastic, gun power, heavy metals like lead, copper, cadmium, titanium, and aluminum, and toxic chemicals like . These impact air quality, human health,waterways, and soil.

In a on the impact of fireworks on air quality, climate scientist Dian Seidel found that the 4th of July brings with it a pronounced spike in pollution across the nation. The study, which was co-authored with her student, Abigail Birnbaum, focused on the presence of fine particulate matter (PM 2.5) in the days surrounding Independence Day.

鈥淧M 2.5 is the type of particulate matter that鈥檚 most damaging to our health,鈥� says Seidel. 鈥淲hen you breathe dirty air, blow your nose, and see all that nasty dirt, those are larger particles of pollution. But the finer particles that lodge deep in your lungs, the ones that carry heavy metals and other carcinogens that damage cardiovascular and respiratory systems, those are the PM 2.5 particles.鈥�

Seidel鈥檚 study, which captured air quality metrics from stations all over the country over multiple years, found an average 42 percent spike in PM 2.5 in the hours following fireworks. The amount of pollution varies depending on the proximity to the fireworks, weather conditions, and the size of the display: Seidel found an increase of several hundred percent at one station close to the launch zone.

鈥淚f you watch fireworks close to the launch point, you鈥檒l be exposed to high rates of PM 2.5, especially if you鈥檙e downwind,鈥� Seidel says. 鈥淭his can be quite serious for susceptible people: the young, the old, and anyone with respiratory conditions.鈥�

The health perils are not limited to big professional fireworks shows. Consumer fireworks also , including lead, at even closer ranges.

The chemicals and plastic that fireworks leave behind impact more than just human health. a nonprofit focused on reducing plastics pollution, almost always finds bits of fireworks in their regular trash cleanups, says Marcus Erikson, a researcher for the organization. 鈥淐ollectively, fireworks add up to a tsunami of pollution in the environment鈥搇ittle plastic cones and stems, half-melted plastic cords, cellophane wrappers. It鈥檚 a tragedy of commons,” he says. All those microplastics are toxic on a cellular, genetic, and neurological level for animals, according to a听 published in Science of the Total Environment.

A 2022 of The River of Thames in England showed an enormous increase in microplastic pollution following the New Year鈥檚 Eve firework show.听And a U.S. Geological Survey in 2016 found elevated levels of perchlorate in groundwater and soil samples in the area where Mount Rushmore鈥檚 annual fireworks show takes place. Perchlorate interferes with the function of the human thyroid gland and also remains in the environment for long periods of time, impacting soil, flora, and fauna.

Fireworks Freak Out Wildlife

If you own a pet, you know how scared they can get when fireworks start popping. The same goes for wildlife.听In , Professor Bill Bateman of Curtin University studied fireworks鈥� impact on animals and found both immediate and long-lasting effects. Noise and lights caused short-term fear responses, 鈥渓ike animals leaving an area and then coming back,鈥� he says. There were significant long-term听 consequences as well. 鈥淒isturbances to roosting or nesting animals caused harmful expenditure of energy and in some cases reduced breeding success,鈥� he says. The toxic haze of heavy metals and pollutants also influenced animal health.

鈥淭he effects of fireworks were multifarious and profound,鈥� Bateman says. 鈥淲e were pretty much blown away by the extent of them. Fireworks are not a minor problem. My feeling is that the time of fireworks is over. We need to consider other options, such as drone displays.鈥�

The Case for Drone Fireworks鈥攁 Better Way to Celebrate

Heat domes and droughts are the new normal these days, so it might indeed be time to move toward a gentler and just-as-cool way to celebrate. That鈥檚 why many cities, like Salt Lake City, Utah; Napa, California; and Nashville, Tennessee have switched from combustible fireworks to drone shows.

Tahoe City, California, dropped fireworks in favor of drones in 2022, following the Caldor fire (started by a bullet strike) which torched over听220,000 acres, took more than two months to contain, wreaked havoc on air quality, and forced the evacuation of more than 50,000 people. 鈥淚t was a terrifying experience,鈥� recalls Katie Biggers, executive director of Tahoe City Downtown Association. 鈥淔ire safety, as well as environmental pollution, was the primary driver behind our move away from a combustible 4th of July celebration.鈥�

Tahoe’s 2023 drone fireworks show was a big success with 2,500 people watching from the lakefront and another 100 on boats. The 15-minute show听used 300 drones, synched to music which was broadcast on local radio stations.

Biggers says the community loves the new eco-friendly听drone fireworks听show. 鈥淥ur lake, our surrounding mountains, our wildlife鈥攖hese are the reasons people live and visit here, so sustainability and stewardship are core values in Tahoe City,鈥� she says. 鈥淲hen you look at the fire danger we鈥檝e lived through here, 4th of July fireworks just don鈥檛 make sense.鈥�

鈥淐hange can be hard and we had a few people complain that not doing traditional fireworks was unpatriotic,鈥� says Biggers. 鈥淏ut more importantly, we also heard from veterans and members of their families who were thrilled to be able to celebrate together without navigating the fear of getting triggered by the loud explosions.鈥�

Doing right by the planet can make you happier, healthier, and鈥攜es鈥攚ealthier. 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 head of sustainability, Kristin Hostetter, explores small lifestyle tweaks that can make a big impact. for her twice monthly newsletter or write to her at climateneutral-ish@outsideinc.com.

The post Fireworks Are Not Patriotic鈥擳hey鈥檙e Harmful. Here鈥檚 Why. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

May 2024

This time when I see the first tree hung with the blowing, ragged shirts, the sight is more familiar, less stark than before. I am more prepared.

Hiking the Storm King Mountain Memorial Trail, near Glenwood Springs, Colorado, my son Ted and I approach another tree, this one with firefighter helmets at its base.

In the wildfire of 1994, the ridge we鈥檙e on was the dividing line between the firefighters who lived or did not: those who escaped over the other side or those who were caught as they labored uphill, not knowing that the fire behind them would move upward at speeds up to 35 feet per second. There had not been a similar since the loss of 13 in Mann Gulch, Montana, 45 years before.

Ted and I look around, west at the wide valley spreading out from the sinuous Colorado River, the fluted edges of Hogback Ridge to the south catching evening light. At the end of May, the slopes around us have just changed from the light green of spring into fresh early-summer emerald.

It is a hot day, and we stand in the breeze in a saddle beneath the 8,797-foot apex of the ridge; the same saddle the survivors attained in 1994 is the hike鈥檚 destination. 鈥淭his wind is heavenly,鈥� I say.

鈥淚t would be bad for firefighters,鈥� Ted responds. 鈥淚t鈥檚 really beautiful here,鈥� he says, turning to me with a faint grimace.

Unspeakable tragedy happened in this spot. The beauty is no justification, but a solace, a benediction.

From here, the trail descends along the fire break the firefighters battled to establish, and then loops back to rejoin the approach. We start down the loose, gravelly trail, toward the first cross.

July 1994

1994 was a drought year. On Saturday, July 2, an intense thunderstorm roared in from the west, and lightning struck a tree on a major ridge of Storm King Mountain, five miles west of听Glenwood Springs. The next morning a tendril of smoke showed, visible from the adjacent I-70, and was reported by many. That day the fire was named the South Canyon Fire, but it was on Storm King Mountain, off the Canyon Creek turnoff; like many, I just call it the Storm King Fire.

Accidents in mountaineering and aviation and hospitals are often caused not by one error or element, but a series, in what is often referred to as the of causation. Various factors, each of which can be represented as a layer of cheese, and each of which could have altered the course of events, line up. Elements that affected or might in some way have prevented the accident are holes that, unfortunately, align.

A day after the fire started, over three dozen lightning-sparked fires were burning in the encompassing Grand Junction District, managed by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM). As days passed with agencies spread thin, major resources were diverted to the largest fire, in Paonia, 70 miles from Glenwood Springs, which burned three houses. I live in Carbondale, 12 miles from Glenwood and 58 from Paonia; we smelled the smoke, and ashes flecked our neighbors鈥� trampoline.

On July 4, three crew members from the White River National Forest carried chainsaws up Storm King mountain and made assessments. The next day, July 5, seven BLM and听Forest Service firefighters hiked up to the fire, located on what is known as the Main Ridge (or Hell’s Gate Ridge). Crew members cut a helicopter landing spot (called H1) and an air tanker dropped retardant.

According to the 250-page investigation prepared by the South Canyon Fire lnteragency Investigation Team for the Chief of the Forest Service and the Director of the BLM, at 5:30 p.m. the first crew left for equipment changes, and at 5:45 p.m., eight smoke jumpers parachuted in above the fire. On July 6, more firefighters arrived, putting 49 on the mountain by the afternoon. The report states that 16 smokejumpers, 20 hotshots, a six-person helitack crew (two at the fire and four at the helibase), and 12 BLM/Forest Service firefighters (ll at the fire, one at the helibase) were assigned to the fire.

That afternoon a helicopter dropped water, but after a cold front moved in at 3:00 p.m. and the winds picked up, drops became ineffective.

The same day, July 6, 1994, I was walking 10-month-old Teddy around town in his stroller. I remember the day as bright and hot, and looking up thinking, Where鈥檇 that wind come from? It was blowing, and the undersides of nearby tree leaves turned up, glinting.

That was the day the fire on the Main Ridge of Storm King spread, likely by lofted , down into the adjacent West Drainage and then moved rapidly up that narrow canyon and east to the Main Ridge. 听

I wheeled Teddy home. That evening our friend and employer Michael Kennedy, then owner of Climbing magazine, called saying that 14 firefighters had been killed on Storm King.

July 2001

The South Canyon Fire and what happened is important history in the area, and I鈥檇 heard from a couple of local friends that I should go, in part to see the mementos brought here in tribute. In 2001, my sister Lucy and I took our boys partway up when Teddy (what we called him when he was younger) and his brother, Roy, were seven and four, and her son, Sam, was eight months old. The trailhead is just off I-70, where it runs alongside the Colorado River. We carried the younger kids in backpacks, and Teddy walked.

The memorial trail first began as a path made by family and friends, and over ensuing months was improved by the BLM, Forest Service, Air Force cadets, and 100-plus volunteers as a tribute to the 14 who lost their lives鈥攁nd firefighters everywhere.

Nine of the lost were from the 20-person Prineville Hotshot Team from Oregon: Kathi Walsleben Beck, 24, Tamera Jean Bickett, 25, Scott Alan Blecha, 27, Levi Brinkley, 22, Douglas Michael Dunbar, 22, Terri Ann Hagan, 28, Bonnie Jean Holtby, 21, Rob Johnson, 26, and Jon R. Kelso, 27. Four of the five women on the Prineville team were killed. Three of the deceased were smokejumpers, who parachuted in: Don Mackey, 34, Roger Roth, 30, and Jim Thrash, 44, and two were helitack crew (meaning they were transported by helicopter): Richard Kent Tyler, 33, and Robert E. Browning, Jr., 27.

The roundtrip hike is only four miles, but steep, rising 1,500 feet. As my sister, the children, and I started out, we stopped and read the excellent interpretive signs鈥攇iving the firefighters鈥� names and faces, different maps, and other information鈥攁t the trailhead, then started up the path, deliberately left rough as a reminder of the conditions firefighters face, 700 feet to a minor ridgeline looking over at the Main Ridge.

We peered into the drainage east of us, where the fire had ascended, and then we all dipped slightly down the hillside to an observation platform, with more plaques and a wide view. I had read Fire on the Mountain,听the meticulously researched account of the tragedy by John N. Maclean (son of Norman Maclean, who wrote Young Men and Fire about the 1949 Mann Gulch disaster), but the visuals and signage here showed me something I鈥檇 never understood: where on the rib opposite us one group of firefighters had escaped to previously burned terrain, deployed their fire shelters, and lived.

Other visitors had stopped at the observation point, unwilling or unable to continue the steepening second half of the trail, some leaving messages and flowers. Teddy knelt by a potted African violet, opened his Nalgene bottle, and watered it. That was as far as our young party could go, too, and we turned around and descended.

June 2004

Three years after that first, abbreviated hike, when I thought both Teddy and Roy, now aged ten and seven, could make the full ascent, I brought them again, and two of their friends the same age.

At the trailhead, we all looked at images of each of the men鈥檚 and women鈥檚 faces, read out their names, and talked about some of them. One, Levi Brinkley, was a triplet. Two others鈥擱oger Roth and Terri Hagen鈥攚ere from the Iroquois Nation. I knew that one firefighter, Kathi Beck, had a subscription to Climbing, where I was an editor at the time, giving me a small sense of connection to her.

The five of us proceeded, with breaks and snacks, to the observation point, crossed the gully, and hiked up the other side. At the Main Ridge we saw the T-shirts, left by others as remembrances and in solidarity, tied on trees, then reached the vantage point where the photos I鈥檇 studied so often in the book had been taken. There, two firefighters, Sarah Doehring and Sunny Archuleta, pulled out a camera and took a few pictures at the top of the ridge. Archuleta saw the fire advancing toward the other firefighters, and realized disaster loomed. He knew that documentation would be crucial to later study.

The west-flank crew on the fireline, 13 of them, approached the ridge in a line on the last rise. The terrain is uneven, rolling, and they could not see what was coming up behind them. I鈥檝e always remembered how they carried packs, chainsaws, and water, not realizing they should drop them to increase their speed; the fire must have still seemed some distance off. Between 4:14 p.m. and 4:18 p.m. the fire spread below the west flank of the ridge. The wind whipped the flames into a 鈥渂lowup鈥� (a 鈥渟udden increase in fireline intensity or rate of spread,鈥� according to the USDA, often involving violent convection) racing up the drainage in two minutes. The fire caught the west-flank crew on the final 300-foot rise, a stone鈥檚 throw from safety on the other side.

Two other firefighters, Brad Haugh and Kevin Erickson, who had waited by a tree (subsequently referred to in accounts as The Tree) 200 feet below the ridgeline to encourage the crew on the way up, had to flee, receiving first- and second-degree burns respectively.

Only one of the west-flank crew, Eric Hipke, made it to the ridge, but with his fingers badly burned and burns elsewhere. From there, he escaped down the eastern drainage with help from Erickson and Haugh. Scott Blecha was found only about 100 feet below the ridge. The rest were engulfed closely grouped together 200 to 280 feet below. A few had deployed their shelters.

Browning and Tyler, on the helitack crew, were last seen on the ridge jogging upwards, heading northwest, possibly toward a flat outcropping, but were caught by the fire. Eight others to the south fled up toward a helicopter landing spot on higher terrain on the Main Ridge, deploying their shelters 100 and 200 yards below it. They survived.

On our 2004 hike, the time the boys were elementary-school aged, as we reached the Main Ridge, Teddy said, 鈥淟et鈥檚 all take off our hats.鈥�

We started carefully down the loose slope to the main site, me in the rear, searching for the memorials below. 鈥淎 cross!鈥� the boys called out, coming to Scott Blecha鈥檚, so terribly, painfully close to the ridge top. We gazed at flags, medals, beads, and hats left there for him. Then we descended, the boys calling out as they came upon each cross, and reading each firefighter鈥檚 name aloud. Names. As my life proceeds, I have found names more and more important; speaking them to be an honor. We brushed the red dust off little treasures and marveled at pocket knives, badges, always more hats, empty bottles of favorite beer. We gently opened an enamel box to find a guitar pick, then closed it again.

On the way home, I asked the boys what they learned. Teddy said people should communicate, and his friend Carson said, 鈥淭hat nature is powerful, and to pay attention.鈥� I need to remember that myself.

June 2024

As I write, it鈥檚 fire season, with two devastating blazes in New Mexico and another in Southern California. I鈥檝e already seen two small wildfires where I live, heard the sirens; seen posts about fires along nearby highway 70; known, as ever, to be grateful when it rains. I often think of what the Storm King crew went through and what the young crews fighting fires endure today. 国产吃瓜黑料 has published stories about many wildfires, including Torched, about smokejumpers across the West, in 1997, and 19: The True Story of the Yarnell Hill Fire, investigating the deadliest fire in the U.S., in 2013.

A few days before my most recent hike with Ted, our third time to Storm King, I looked through Fire on the Mountain again, gazed at the faces of the ten men and four women, most in their twenties. Wildland firefighting is an exhausting job often done by students or youth with seasonal work.

At the trailhead a metal box contains a visitor register and many dozen custom patches and stickers, left by hundreds of visiting firefighters. In it is a photo of a young Jon Kelso, labeled as 鈥渆ntertaining his cousins,鈥� ages four to 15.

We start up the first section, and Ted stops partway to wait for me. 鈥淭hey were just young men and women drawn to adventure,鈥� he says when I join him.

Cicadas chirr, my trekking poles click. I smell sage.

Ted has grown up. He鈥檚 now 30 years old. This year he moved in with his partner, Aisha, and鈥攁fter years in finance and much thought鈥攔ecently bought a longtime area guiding and horseback company, Capitol Peak Outfitters, in Old Snowmass, near Aspen. He has been hunting with his father since age five and knows more about the woods than I do.

We step over an oval of scat in the trail. 鈥淐oyote,鈥� he says.

鈥淗ow do you know?鈥�

鈥淏y the hair in it, and the shape.鈥� He nudges it with his toe. 鈥淪ometimes you can see bones in there.鈥�

The air is dusty and hot, with temps in the 80s and the sun blasting the sandy slopes, and I keep coughing, dry little barks.

鈥淚s that cough from the thyroid cancer?鈥� he asks.

That was eight years ago. So many things have happened in 30 years. In 1994, his brother hadn鈥檛 even been born.

After my father (for whom Ted is named) died, suddenly and at only 54, my mother sometimes said: 鈥淚 feel so bad for him. He鈥檚 missing everything.鈥� I keep thinking of the 14 firefighters who have missed everything in these years.

Higher, we make out the marble crosses, always a poignant sight, and the still-maintained fireline. We cross the drainage and begin the final ascent.

Birds sing and, using an app, Ted identifies the spotted towhee and evening grosbeak. Lizards scuttle in our path.

We traverse the ridgeline, stopping to read a plaque, festooned with flags, bracelets, and beads, marking the helitack crew sites. An empty green bottle flanks the stanchion. 鈥淛agermeister,鈥� Ted says with a chuckle. We pass a flat red rock covered in ten firefighter medals. Finely wrought belt buckles from other squads line another stand.

Moments further, I tell Ted, 鈥淭his is where they took the pictures.鈥� I gaze down, remembering the images, taken from this spot, of the landscape and fire line.

Often over the years, I have thought of the dilemma of Hipke, the sole survivor of the west-flank group. Third in line on the way to the ridge and feeling urgent as the crew evacuated along the fireline, he thought of hurrying around the two people in front of him but out of decency hesitated. When they paused, however, one saying the word, 鈥渟helter,鈥� he ran through, in the last seconds hurling himself over the top of the ridge.

A report on reads: 鈥淲e estimate that after a short hesitation, Hotshot [Scott] Blecha stepped around the group, and continued up the hill. Our timeline places Hipke about 45 seconds behind [Kevin] Erickson [who had waited at The Tree]. We estimate that Blecha followed about 40 seconds (100 feet) behind Hipke.鈥�

Hipke has since made a documentary film, which came out ten years ago, called 鈥�.鈥�

At the first cross, for Scott Blecha, Ted and I feel a fresh rush of sorrow.

鈥淪cott was trying so hard,鈥� Ted says. 鈥淭hink if you gave it everything you had, and you were so exhausted. And it was so hot.鈥�

Jim Thrash is next. We read all the names, stop at every one. Some of the crosses are so close together. More mementos鈥攃hainsaw chains, pocket knives, dreamcatchers. Skis: for Levi Brinkley, the triplet. The skis have been here since the first time I hiked the trail.

I remembered that Jon Kelso was found beside Terri Hagen, to whom he had once been engaged. Around his cross鈥檚 arm a chainsaw chain is rusted fast.

So many ball caps. Some newish, some tattered. 鈥淭his one has lichen!鈥� Ted says, turning over a white brim with delicate orange-rust patches. A foot-tall dreamcatcher hovers above Terri.

We find the cross for Don Mackey, who had reached safety but circled down to warn his crew, and brought up the rear, with Bonnie Holtby, a third-generation firefighter. 鈥淭raps,鈥� Ted says, pointing to the rusted iron teeth, and I suddenly remember the boys identifying those hunting traps last time.

Last time, though I knew Bonnie鈥檚 cross was here, I was bewildered to have trouble finding it. It turned out to be overgrown by a bush. That has been cleared now.

Ted reads aloud from the words scratched into her father鈥檚 own helmet, left here now: 鈥淭his hard hat is left in memory of our daughter, Bonnie Jean鈥� Here in respect to Bonnie, where she gave her life on the line.鈥� He looks up at me, stricken, and repeats, 鈥淥ur daughter.鈥� At 21, Bonnie was the youngest of the lost.

All this area was once black, and now it鈥檚 green. Full regrowth takes 100 years.

We begin our descent, cross the gully. 鈥淟ook!鈥� Ted says. 鈥淎 bear!鈥� I have difficulty spotting it, then pick out the roly-poly cinnamon body just before it trundles into the thick oak below the lowest point of the fire line.

鈥淚t鈥檚 probably a boar,鈥� he says.

鈥淗ow do you know?鈥�

鈥淣o cub.鈥� He adds: 鈥淚t covered that hillside in about two minutes. Put its snout down and just went through that tangled scrub oak.鈥�

I often recommend the memorial hike and experience to visitors. No one has ever taken me up on the idea except my brother. He understood the hike and returned reverent.

In the car, Ted says, 鈥淚t鈥檚 very tragic, but going there is not horrible, because of all the respect shown by the other firefighters.鈥�

Many lessons were learned, too (see video below)鈥攕uch as for firefighters to become situationally 听(and to be included in briefings and able to speak up more); for managers to have intimate knowledge of terrain and conditions; for weather warnings to be communicated to those on site; and for better cooperation and coordination between agencies, and better communications between managers and firefighters. Storm King is considered a turning point in wildland firefighting culture, helping those to come later.

July 6, 2024, marks the of the Storm King tragedy. Please give the families privacy and refrain from hiking the memorial trail that morning.

The trail is just off I-70, commonly used by people traveling to the Colorado mountains and Utah desert. It is south-facing, better done in spring or autumn than the summer sun, but always a sacred journey. Stay on the trails to protect the hillsides, and bring plenty of water. Go and remember the people, honor them, say their names.

During this fire season, let鈥檚 salute and appreciate the people who are on the line trying to keep the rest of us safe.听

Watch: Lessons From the Storm King Fire

Alison Osius is a senior editor at 国产吃瓜黑料 magazine and 国产吃瓜黑料 Online. She has lived in Western Colorado since 1988, when she moved to Aspen for a job at Climbing magazine. Now residing in Carbondale, she is an avid climber, hiker, and skier. She can be reached at aosius@outsideinc.com.

For more by this author, see:

This Is the Most Beautiful Town in Colorado

Must-Know Camping Tips from a Lifelong Camper

In 2022 A Stranger Saved Us in a Storm at Green River. Trying to Find Him, I Just Got a Surprise.

The post Colorado’s Storm King Mountain Memorial Trail Takes You to Sacred Grounds appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

In 2022, 68,988 wildfires in the United States burned , and the federal government ran up a suppression tab. In 2023, our forests fared a little better:听 burned . These fires, and, and triggered numerous , and closures across the west. Wildfire, of course, has played a critical role in North America鈥檚 ecosystems for thousands of years. But these days, most of them .

Modern wildfire risk reduction policy focuses on two strategies: forest thinning and prescribed burning, which even the Forest Service admits cannot be scaled to properly address the problem. Efforts are underway to harden communities and infrastructure to wildfire鈥� to reduce structural losses. But little has been done to address the human ignition problem.

So I have a proposal: We听should ban campfires.听All of them.

Every summer, in response to hot and dry conditions made worse by climate change, public land managers across the country issue fire restrictions and often close large swaths of land, sometimes for months on end. I suggest the inverse: a year-round blanket ban on campfires on public lands, with exceptions during especially wet periods. Banning campfires sends a clear message to the public that humans (and all their toys and infrastructure) are the most common source of ignition, and that reducing the number of fires we light鈥攐n accident and on purpose鈥攊s an important part of living in a dryer, hotter West.

The Forest Service鈥檚 current strategy revolves around two stages of restrictions: Stage I prohibits campfires outside developed campgrounds, smoking outside of developed campgrounds or vehicles, and driving a vehicle without a properly functioning . Then comes Stage II, which bans all campfires, smoking outside of a vehicle or building, fireworks, explosives, welding, driving a vehicle off a road, and some nuanced limitations on daytime chainsaw use (you may use a chainsaw at 3 a.m.). You will forgive the camping public for not having these committed to memory.

And then they close the forests. These closures do more than disrupt weekend plans, they upend that are tied to public lands recreation. They cancel events from major races to small, private weddings and complicate the collection of scientific data.

Plus, the closures always seem to arrive a day late and a dollar short. In the summer of 2022 and a smoldering slash burn erupted in early April and later merged to become the largest wildfire in New Mexico history. It wasn鈥檛 until on May 19th that a closure order was issued for the rest of the Santa Fe National Forest, even though it was abundantly clear that conditions were dangerously hot, dry, and windy as early as late March.

Let’s enter an era of year-round modified Stage II fire restrictions on all public lands. No campfires, no smoking outside of a car, and restricted vehicle access during peak fire seasons. The outside of Flagstaff, AZ has already taken many of these steps and created a template for what should be included in a new national wildfire policy.

Banning campfires is of course a euphemism for comprehensively addressing the primary source of wildfire: human ignition. Recent studies suggest that 89 percent of all wildfires are , and that number jumps to 97 percent for . Unattended campfires are not the only culprit: negligent smoking habits, malfunctioning off-highway vehicles, trash burning, target shooting and firework use are all known causes of wildfire. Also included in this category are fires started by ,, and gender reveal parties, including a that sparked a blaze that destroyed five homes and killed one firefighter. Recent studies show that have both increased the duration and severity of the

A campfire is a primal pleasure and for many of us, our main contact with fire. But a blanket ban on campfires is both practical and a symbolic reminder that any spark-emitting activity is a potential tragedy in the making. Each summer, the government assumes that we, the camping public, have left our incendiary ways on the last cold hearth of spring. They wait for someone to start a fire when it is particularly hot and dry, or all the available firefighting resources are in Canada or California, and then roll out the fire restrictions.

But one of the harsh realities of climate change is that our future will look very different from our past. This is inevitable, whether we make choices that direct that change or wait until our hands are forced. Our best bet is to make bold decisions now that offer a chance at a livable future.

A ban on common sources of human ignition is a small price to pay when the alternative is considered: abnormally long, large, and hot fire seasons driven not just by human-caused climate change, but by human-caused fires. And if you find yourself nodding in agreement, there is no need to wait for the government to act. You can simply leave the firewood and axe at home next time you head out.

The post It鈥檚 Time to Ban Campfires for Good appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.