In the diverse ecosystems of North America, a love story as old as time is playing out between an ember and the land.

An epic love story once burned brightly between fire and the landscape. Through conversations with wildfire experts across the West, I began to picture the gentle kiss of an ember falling on the landscape, setting ablaze a flame that nurtures and rejuvenates—bringing water, fostering biodiversity and keeping brush in check. This harmonious partnership, borne of both natural occurrences and human intervention, serves as a testament to the powerful connection between fire and landscapes in the American West.

Yet, as these researchers, fire managers, land stewards and indigenous firekeepers all noted, the bond between the ember and the landscape has in many places been broken or stretched thin, leaving ecosystems out of balance. In acknowledging the strain on this once-passionate relationship, we find ourselves at a crossroads. To rekindle a healthy relationship between ember and land, we must turn to those whose wisdom has kept the flame alive. 

Losing control of our embers

Humans have had a relationship with fire from time immemorial. “As soon as the glaciers were retreating, people were burning,” says Mary Huffman, director of the Indigenous Peoples Burning Network (IPBN). “Indigenous burning is deeply, deeply rooted in their cosmology, in their sense of responsibility for the land and in their sense of reciprocity.” 

In parts of North America, there is evidence of human influence on the landscape dating back as far as 23,000 years ago. And as Gloria Edwards, director of the Southern Rockies Fire Science Network, puts it, “Practically all organisms, plants, and animals in North America have adaptations to survive fire, even to thrive in the face of fire.” In other words, “Fire is not the newcomer to the landscape,” says Cindy Super, forestry and prescribed fire coordinator with Montana’s Blackfoot Challenge conservation collaborative.

Just as seeds are plants’ bearers of new life, embers are fire’s seeds. They can travel miles on the wind, and when they settle in the right conditions, a roaring conflagration may sprout. But just like seeds, they can also be planted carefully by humans when conditions are just right. It is relatively recent in the human history of North America that we have let our relationship with fire fall into disrepair. But why?

Throughout the 20th century, public land managers across the U.S. practiced aggressive fire suppression, taking a militaristic approach to fire fighting on public lands and generally instilling a fear of fire in the American public.  Several devastating fires in the early 20th century, especially what became known as the Great Fire of 1910 (see The Big Burn on page 69) that burned more than 3 million acres of private and federal land, killed at least 85 people, and obliterated whole towns in Idaho and western Montana, served to bake the “fire is bad” narrative into the fabric of the fledgling U.S. Forest Service. Starting in 1938, the U.S. Forest Service’s national wildfire management policy was to extinguish all wildfires by 10 a.m. the following morning. Along with aggressive suppression, federal agencies prohibited indigenous cultural burning on tribal trust and public lands. 

Today, we are experiencing the consequences of these policies. Wetter climates of the past century gave a false sense of security in fire suppression tactics, leading to more damaging wildfires in the present. Even the U.S. Forest Service acknowledges the flaws in its past approach. In a 2023 article on the enduring significance of Smokey Bear, Forest Service communications official Robert Westover admitted that “completely removing fire from the land prevented fire from playing its natural role in removing flammable debris, which instead built up to dangerous levels over time. The 10 a.m. policy is a strategy of the past that unfortunately helped create the wildfire crisis of today.”

Keepers of the Flame

“When you live in the mountains and that’s been your home, you know when your home is dirty. You know when your home needs to be cleaned. You know when things are not right,” says Ron W. Goode, tribal chairman of the North Fork Mono Tribe in central California, in an episode of the PBS series “Tending the Wild.” “Not only Native Americans, [but also] ranchers, people who use the mountains, people who understand the forest, they’ll tell you the same thing: You have to have fire in order to have rejuvenation.” 

Yet, as climate change alters ecosystems and intensifies wildfires, the question of when fire is or isn’t the right solution has become increasingly complex. Fire ecologist Bill Romme emphasizes the significance of maintaining historical fire regimes to preserve forest ecosystems. “Every organism in that forest had experienced fire in its evolutionary history and had adaptations to survive that fire,” Romme notes. Many organisms, such as the ponderosa pine with its fire-resistant bark, showcase remarkable resilience, with some trees surviving even after two-thirds or four-fifths of their mass has been burned. 

Grasslands, too, benefit from fire. For generations, ranchers in Kansas’ Flint Hills region have embraced a fire culture, recognizing that prescribed burns are essential for preserving the prairie ecosystem and enriching the soil to produce better forage for their cattle. In the film “Flint Hills Fire Culture: A Legacy of Caring for the Tall Grass Prairie,” rancher Byron Burlingham states, “The prairie originated and developed with fire as an essential component of its evolution. If we don’t continue to burn the prairie, we won’t have any prairie.”

Without fire, trees and shrubs encroach on this ecosystem. Forests of juniper and piñon pine are spreading across much of the great plains in what some ecologists refer to as the green glacier. These trees have extensive root systems that deprive native grasses and forbs of water they need to survive, and ultimately, reduce the diversity and resilience of prairie ecosystems.

In wetter, low-elevation forests, such as those in Oregon’s Klamath Basin and northern California, fire has long been a natural component of ecosystem balance. Don Gentry, former chairman of the Klamath Tribal Council, emphasized in a 2022 film about the Sycan Marsh Preserve and the Bootleg Fire that “lightning fire was so frequent, it happened every year… that was the disturbance that kept our forest in balance.”

Prescribed burns and cultural burns can mimic the effects of natural, lightning-ignited fires to maintain ecosystem equilibrium. In July 2002, The Nature Conservancy, Klamath Tribes and federal agencies initiated controlled burns and selective thinning across 30,000 acres in Oregon’s Sycan Marsh. When confronted with the 2021 Bootleg Fire, the treated areas experienced significantly lower mortality rates in forest overstory and soil damage. Observing the forest four years later, Katie Sauerbrey, Oregon fire program director for The Nature Conservancy, remarks, “Some of the (treated) areas look even better to me after the Bootleg Fire because fire is a such an important process in these 
systems when it occurs at the right time of year and under the right conditions.”

The Right Conditions

According to Super, the Blackfoot Challenge forester, “We have a multiheaded problem,” requiring a multipronged approach to maintain ecosystem health. This includes considering the nuanced factors that influence the fire regime, such as climate, vegetation, topography and human activity.

In certain ecosystems, prescribed fire may not be the best approach, or other interventions may be required before implementing it. Sauerbrey, with TNC in Oregon, cautions that “we can’t just jump straight to fire as the tool.” In an area that historically experienced fire every three to seven years, like the mesic forests of the West Coast, but has missed the last 10 natural burn cycles, she says, fuel buildup may necessitate thinning before prescribed burning can occur.

In the case of sagebrush ecosystems, fire can be detrimental to restoration efforts as sagebrush does not resprout after fire. Large, severe fires can significantly alter the habitat, leaving it susceptible to invasive grasses that burn frequently, ultimately converting the landscape to invasive-dominated grasslands.

Higher elevation forests, such as those with lodgepole pines or spruces and firs, pose another challenge. Bill Romme’s research revealed that these forests historically experienced fire intervals ranging from 300 to 400 years. Fires in these landscapes are typically “stand replacement fires” that burn old trees to ash to allow seedlings the light, water and nutrients they need to replace them. As such, these ecosystems cannot be treated with prescribed fires in the same way as lower-elevation forests.

Though the end results of prescribed and cultural burning may be similar, it is important to note the differences. Huffman, of the IPBN, stresses differences in intent, historical context and knowledge transmission. According to Huffman, prescribed burning is characterized by a “very literal, written down and approved recipe” that outlines the specific conditions and goals for the burn, akin to a medical prescription. Deviating from this “prescription” can have severe implications for practitioners.

On the other hand, cultural burning is steeped in generations of place-based knowledge and spiritual connections. Huffman explains, “If you’re an indigenous person and you are burning according to your sacred obligations… there’s some tie there that’s more than just what’s the wind, what’s the moisture percentage.” Over hundreds of generations, Indigenous communities have developed a deep understanding of their lands and fire’s role within them, shaping their decisions on where, when and how to burn. As Huffman highlights, cultural burning is an ingrained practice used to promote specific cultural outcomes, from proliferation of medicinal or food plants or game to spiritual connection and fulfillment of the cosmic order.

To thrive in this era in the West, we must weave a web of connection with people, land and history so that we may once again steward an ember we can gather around.

Think Like an Ember

As we grapple with the results of a century of fire suppression, it is crucial to recognize the value of fire as an intrinsic part of our natural world and work toward restoring the balance that once existed between landscape and fire.

“At the end of the day, eliminating fire is not just a fool’s errand, it is also unnecessary!” says Super. “Fire can easily coexist within our communities, but it’s going to take planning, thinking like an ember and weaving our communities together. If we ramp up prescribed fire and work toward a future where we don’t try to STOP fire but let it carry on around us, then we will be truly resilient. All of that starts with changing our understanding of and relationship with fire.”

As land managers navigate the complexities of climate change and its impact on fire regimes, understanding the nuances of ecosystems and their relationships with fire is critical for effective and sustainable land management practices. To thrive in this era in the West, we must weave a web of connection with people, land and history so that we may once again steward an ember we can gather around.