With winter on the way and the snow-covered mountains giving us a visual tap on the shoulder, it’s easy to fall into that melancholy longing for more daylight hours, the smell of barbecue on a warm summer’s evening, lying on a floatie in the pool or lake and mindlessly paddling with nothing but the sounds of nature on the breeze.
As I close my eyes to visualize the scenes and sounds of the summer months as though to bring them back to life and wish the upcoming winter away, a sudden jolt of reality hits me and I realize this summer, like some recent years, wasn’t really all ice cream, butterflies, coconut-smelling sunblock and dipping our toes into a nearby stream as we gazed at the clear blue sky above.
Much the opposite in fact, so we might as well just face facts. Yes, we’ve historically “always” had fire season: nature running its course, rejuvenating, cleansing, regrowth, challenging us as humans to understand what we should be doing better, smarter, and more strategically if we would only listen, pay attention and do our homework. Somehow, though, we tend to ignore the signs or put things off until we just can’t any longer. Of course, you know I’m speaking of the horrific and devastating wildfire season of 2023 here in B.C.
Spending the majority of my teens and younger years in the Interior of B.C. in Clearwater, with a three-million-acre wildlife park, Wells Gray Park, as our recreational paradise, we were also taught from the best early on, about caring for our environment. My Aunt Hettie and Uncle Bob Miller, legendary “earth instructors” to so many (even experts sought their life school advice) held “Hettie and Bob” school daily for anyone happening to drop up to their place at Mountain Terrace in Clearwater, which was our sanctuary growing up. It was a hidden paradise, which often felt like a secret hideaway of wonder, knowledge, and living off the land with and for nature.
Uncle Bob’s nursery was locally famous, in summer brimming with beautiful hybrid, one-of-a-kind peonies, poppies, irises, kabocha and buttercup squash, cross-bred fruit trees, lovingly pruned trees of all types, so full and lush. The landscape of the nursery was groomed artfully, pulling you in and out of the magic garden discovering treasures as you listened to Uncle Bob’s lessons for the day on how to save water by hoeing out your steps, what the bees were interested in, why a graft he tried on this tree took when it didn’t on the same species of tree nearby.
Following Aunt Het, proudly my namesake, was another class filled with butterfly and moth study, bird watching, and insect life, taking us into others world of thought about how nature works together to sustain life.
Their bush life was always on the move with them, growing, changing, evolving. They were adamant, even fervent in their dedication to taking care of such a life-giving woodland environment. You clean the brush as you go, a rake, a hoe in hand, piling, limbing, pruning, raking, composting, and yes, even burning. It was a “best practises” classroom without seats and chalkboards, technology, or meaningless chatter. Even the squirrel and bird family “discussions” seemed to make sense in a melodic mix more soothing than a white noise machine in a baby’s room.
Wide paths, woodlot selective logging practises, fireguards, a pump on the raft in the family lake were just normal precautions. Hot summers with lightning that resulted in wildfires? You bet.
Cousin Peter had a wildfire fighting company, Clearwater Climbing Corp., and it was busy in the summer with well-trained crews at the ready, backpacks pre-loaded and inspected in the large shop. Equipment was ready; the cook-shack was stocked and ready to be driven-in or be dropped by helicopter. If there was an emergency, people were stopped and recruited immediately, with local logging equipment, and ranchers offering to drop what they were doing and rally to protect property. A different time, but there was an organization, a plan. Most of all there was no “wait and see”.
Rap attack crews were trained, on call, and ready to go. The air attacks were pretty quick, as I recall, big bombers and huge yellow helicopters hitting the mountainsides over and over with retardant or water. Fast and hard. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t as much access to the type of air support and huge machinery available now, and definitely not the technology.
Back to the property. There was fall and winter burning, common and necessary, constant maintenance and mitigation. Homestead duties including chimney sweeping and clearing a perimeter. With only a huge wood-burning stove for baking, cooking and warmth, regular care of it was normal to us. We learned to stoke the fires, clean out the ash box/bin. Wood storage was in a specific area, drying a year ahead, stacked in what we called the “bridge to the ridge” in two-to-three year supplies at times.
Could things have been done better? More efficiently and even more safely? No doubt. What have we learned looking back on years ago and at this past fire season, and what can we learn moving forward?
We’d better figure it out and find the answers, because we are in this for the long haul. It’s time to enroll in this new, now semi-rehearsed nature class before there is no more blue sky left to see.
As Uncle Bob said, time to take care of our own backyard woods and wildlife before it’s too late. Watching for the signs as he told us to years ago, I’m hoping we can still figure this out together. Pull up a log. It’s time to listen, make a plan and roll up our sleeves.