Prescribed Burning

PRESCRIBED BURNING The New/Old Look in Fire Management

by Joan Baéza In 1976 the Forest Service began calling its Fire Control Officers "Fire Management Officers," a subtle change that represented a basic policy switch from simplistic fire suppression to a more complex approach in which the entire ecosystem is considered in fire management. Timber losses from large fires, coupled with the rising cost of fire suppression, set a new course.

One of the most intriguing manifestations of this new thinking is the "let-burn" policy of Wildernesses, called "prescribed natural fire."

Kent Rethlake is the assistant fire management officer on the Alpine District of the Apache National Forest. A big, gentle man, he spoke enthusiastically about the Natural Fire Plan he helped formulate for the Blue Range Primitive Area in the spring of 1979.

Approved almost immediately by the Regional Forester, it was to be implemented on the Alpine and Clifton districts of the Apache and Gila National forests that summer. Almost 10,000 acres of Blue Range were considered "safe" enough to let burn. The pre-attack blocks were larger than those in ordinary prescribed burns. They knew flare-ups would occur in pockets, causing some timber loss. They also knew the wind could change suddenly and that they had far less control than they would have with a late autumn fire. If the fire blew up and destroyed the area, they would also have damaged the future of prescribed natural fire in Arizona.

Waiting for lightning to strike was agonizing. Kent Rethlake and Gene McDorman, the fire management officer, had feelings of both anticipation and anxiety. On September 13, 1979, a thunderstorm rattled over the Blue Range, with lightning striking at the high peaks and ridges. The next day, Gene McDorman spotted smoke near Horse Mesa on the Clifton District from a high point called Carlton Vista. On September 15, a patrol plane observed the smoke and estimated the size at 1.5 acres. The location of the fire and amount of rain in the area were considered before it was finally declared a prescribed natural fire. For the next few days, the smoldering burn, by then named the "Horse Fire," was sized-up from the air.

By September 26, the fire had grown to 25 acres. At that stage, the Clifton District sent in a ground monitoring team to observe the on-the-ground effects. The team took photos, mapped the perimeter of the fire, and took notes on weather, rate of spread, fuels inventory, and flame height and length. Their conclusion: scorch on large trees was minimal; consumption of dead and down material was good.

Kent recalled, "The fire increased rapidly after that and spread to the Alpine District. On October 8, the fire was spread over 4000 acres and appeared to be burning out of prescription. The fire staffs of Alpine and Clifton decided to take suppression action. Gene McDorman was named Fire Boss.

"We cleaned out the existing trails and backfired from them whenever possible. I had helped write up the Fire Plan and had all this theory down on paper about how the fire would go, but I hadn't thought about getting out there on the line and working with hand tools. We didn't use heavy equipment or bulldozers. I did more pick and shovel work on the Horse Fire than I had all the years I have been in the Forest Service.

"In the evening of October 18, the fire was called 'controlled.' We kept patrols on it until the 24th, at which time it was declared 'out.' The fire covered 8500 acres and cost around $100,000. We never used more than 55 people on the line at any one time. An ordinary fire of that size would have cost much more. The Horse Fire was a success. The burn has been evaluated regularly since the fire, and the effects seem to be beneficial. Some timber losses occurred, but they were small compared to the potential losses from wildfire in June. Grass and forbs recovered by the next spring and game counts were higher than normal. As vegetation increased on the burned area, erosion decreased. Only the "visual quality" of the wilderness was lost for a time.

"We have to write an environmental analysis for all fire now," Rethlake said. "Fire management is becoming more of a science all the time, and we are finding out more about the use of fire as a tool in management. Our basic policy is to suppress all mancaused fires, which are usually destructive. But when the rainy season comes in mid-July, we just monitor the lightning fires. When we feel they are doing damage we can't live with, we suppress them." Since the Horse Fire, the Blue Range has had three more prescribed natural fires to study.

Today, experimental stations are hard at work determining the effects of fire on soil, water, wildlife, fuel, and vegetation plus they are seeking clues to such questions as how often to use prescribed burning in the nation's forests.

One surprisingly rich source of information has been the fire history recorded in tree rings. Since 1976, Research Forester John Dieterich and others have been conducting studies at the Fort Valley Experimental Forest near Flagstaff. They are using tree-ring records in conjunction with stump cross-sections or wedges taken from fire-scarred trees.

The resulting histories " . . . include an exact record of the years in which the trees sustained fire injury, the maximum and minimum intervals between historical fires, and the average fire interval for the lives of the trees."

Findings so far have shown that during centuries past forest fires were as common in the ponderosa pine forests of the state as the occurrence of rain, wind, snow, or drought.

"Knowing this," said Dieterich, "gives us assurance that we can use fire safely and effectively in the protection and management of these stands."

"I wanted to climb high to see deep inside myself." Ah Wilderness, continued from page 11

Pinnacle Peak is a granite finger which pokes up through the desert floor on the northern end of the McDowell Mountains, beckoning climbers with a certain come-hither quality. It is not a lofty crag in comparison to the cloud piercing spires of Coronado National Forest's Pusch Ridge Wilderness; nor does it comprise the sheer mass of Prescott National Forest's monolithic Granite Mountain. In fact, this small outcropping of slabs and summits bears little resemblance to a wilderness as most bipedal Americans understand the term. From the summit you can see two steak houses, a golf course, a wild west town, several hous-ing developments, and a movie studio. And it's frequently buzzed by airplanes and dirt bikes. But to Phoenix rock climbers it has become a refuge in which to explore the slower, more contempla-tive vertical wilderness of stone.

Twenty-eight-year-old Christine Keith wanted to climb Pinnacle Peak not just to stand on its tiny summit, but because for her the process of rock climbing opens up that door of perception which too often remains jammed shut in the city. "It gives me an opportunity to view life from a different perspective," she said, driving toward the climb one warm November day. "And to see things that no one else but another rock climber, or a bird, might see."

To a visual artist, perspective is obviously important, but so is movement and touch. "Few other art forms, or wilderness activities, use touch so exclusively as rock climbing does." As she stood near the top of the second pitch, or rope length, you could see exactly what she meant. Maintaining three point contact with the rock, using both feet and one hand, she first worked out the puzzle in her head sometimes testing a hold with her free hand. Satisfied the puzzle had been solved, she then put the sequence of moves together in a fluid dance up the rock, as if fear had nothing to do with her aerial choreography.

But if fear had circled in the background as Christine and her partner climbed higher, it darted in from its ever-tightening orb as soon as she stood on the summit. Staring her in the face was a gaping abyss 70 feet across, a trip she was determined to take rather than the regular route down the mountain. And the only way to negotiate it would be with a Tyrolean traverse a rock climber's version of the legendary tightrope walks performed by the great 19th-century funambulist Jean Francois Gravelet. Unlike rock climbing, which melds mind and body to rock and demands a certain amount of grace under pressure, a Tyrolean traverse requires a climber to put his or her faith in a mechanical system that can be far more unforgiving than any miscalculated move. One shoddy rope anchor or hastily clipped carabiner and you're enroute to taking a "grounder." Not fun.

It was late afternoon by the time Christine's partner finished setting up the traverse. He put her on belay by holding the rope attached to her body around his waist and signaled for her to start across. She double-checked her seat harness, then clipped two locking carabiners onto the ropes spanning the void. The first step is the hardest, she said to herself, stepping off the summit. As soon as she did, she swung out into space, the ropes stretched, and her heart went into her throat. Consciously, she tried to rein her fear before it stampeded over her, but her palms broke out into a sweat and her left leg began shaking uncontrollably. She took in quick deep breaths as she slowly pulled her way toward the middle of the traverse. But the further she slid down the ropes, the more she wondered when, not if, the system would fail, and she'd be dashed against the rocks 80 feet below."I could have avoided this," she thought to herself. And she could have, by rappelling or roping down the stan-dard descent route. But fear was as much a part of her motives for climbing that day as was her blending of perception, movement, and touch. "Most city-type fears are negative fears. You're afraid of being robbed, afraid of getting in a wreck, afraid of not being able to pay your bills. Whereas on rock your fears are of nature, not fears contrary to na-ture. And by confronting those fears and overcoming them you learn some-thing new about yourself."

By the time Christine reached the halfway point on the traverse, a late afternoon breeze was swinging her back and forth. But her sewing-machine leg had stopped and her heartbeat was no longer bounding and leaping off the chart. It was as if she had made a cer-tain peace with herself. The butterflies stopped fluttering in her stomach, and her body grew more relaxed. She turned and smiled. It was then, she realized, her worst fears had been conquered all that a climber ever conquers. And she couldn't ask for more than that.

Yours Sincerely

Comments and questions from around the state, the nation, and the world.

Dear Readers, Arizona Highways received a landslide of mail on the July Route 66 issue. It would seem that ol' 66 has found a home in the memories, and a tender place in the hearts of Americans. With that in mind, we have devoted this entire "Yours Sincerely" page to compare notes and share experiences that so many of you have had along America's Main Street."

Dear Editor, What a wonderful trip down "old Route 66." A memory to be cherished. I was very young when we followed it from Illinois to California during a mid-30's summer. I've always treasured the memory of that adventure The second time, in 1953, Mother and I, travel-ing alone, were "blown" along by the brownish-orange fist of a terrible dust storm. That was four hours of terror neither we nor our brand new Buick ever forgot. Many thanks for this "gold nugget." Jean Pennington San Jose, CA Dear Editor, Our July issue arrived 42 years to the day after our first visit to the great state of Arizona.... We followed Route 66 to L.A. that June in 1939. We kept... a record of our eight week trip of 8155 miles. We find it hard to believe now, but we used 436 gallons of gasoline, got 18.7 miles-per-gallon which cost $88.76, and spent $8.44 for oil and grease service on our 1935 V-8 Ford for a total of $96.20. We spent $23.33 for 17 nights' lodging, which cost us from $1.00 to $2.50 per night, and camped in our 9'x9' tent the remainder of the time. Wilmer H. Walker Albion, IN Dear Editor, Having been raised in Gallup, New Mexico, I can recall many trips that we made to California and return over old 66. I recall one very vivid instance in which my family was going to California in 1932. We passed two young men, teenagers, who had been stranded for two days in the desert near hackberry, Arizona, as their Model T had broken down on their way to Cleveland, Ohio. My mother wrapped up a few sandwiches and some fruit and placed two quarters on each apple, and we handed the package to them They reached Cleveland (and) their mother and mine corresponded for many years. Such was "Old 66," friendly, warm, and vibrant.

David C. Armijo San Gabriel, CA Dear Editor, Our hearty compliments and a very well done to you for "Route 66 The Yellow Brick Road." In 1934 my Dad and I took a trip from California to visit and see and enjoy Kayenta, Betatakin, Mesa Verde, Acoma, etc. a month of it. We had a 1932 Plymouth with a soft top and hard seats. It was pure heaven to get off the dirt roads and back onto that magnificent Route 66!

M. B. Falkell Mokelumne Hill, CA Dear Editor, In 1924 my brother and I drove east via the future Route 66 - Topock, Oatman, Kingman, Peach Springs, Ash Fork, Williams, Flagstaff, Winslow, Holbrook he was 24 and I was 20. I recall vividly our problem in getting out of Oatman. The road was not marked, so my brother inquired about the route to Kingman. He thought he had the information. We started out only to end at a mine shaft. Back to the center of town, more inquiry, and another start. This one ended at another shaft. The third time we found the road out. The road was narrow, with a few turn-out places if one met a car coming from the other direction. It was strictly a "one lane" affair, with ruts and boulders slowing progress.... In 1930 my wife and I were going west over what was then Route 66. Still a narrow, rocky road between Kingman and Oatman. My wife was on the "down" side and at times quite worried when there were no guard rails... For sentiment's sake, we purposely drove from Topock to Kingman via Oatman last year when we were returning to Texas. What memories we had!

Glenn Lembke San Antonio, TX Dear Editor, Your "Route 66" issue brought back wonderful memories of the trip my boyfriend and I took from Chicago to the West Coast in the summer of 1928 We had a brand new "touring car" Ford Model A and it was a sensation wher-ever we went The towns along the way had macadam only one mile at each end. When that mile was gone, it was back to the gravel road. We tented out on the deserts and prairies along the way, just like the painting on page 9 Traffic was almost nonexistent. Sometimes we would not see a car for 20 or 25 minutes. Gas was hard to come by, as many times stations were 75 miles apart. It cost, of course, only 20¢ a gallon. In the wide open spaces one can see for miles, and the distant rainstorm, shown opposite page 43, reminds me of a similar place where we saw the rain coming down many miles away. We shortly arrived where the rainstorm had been, and suddenly our car slithered around until it was almost facing backwards! I got out, hoping to push the car, but my foot sank down in gumbo for about eight inches. So we sat, and in about two hours the gumbo began to harden and we were able to get out of the rut... Yes, your issue gave me a wonderful nostalgic thrill.

ever we went The towns along the way had macadam only one mile at each end. When that mile was gone, it was back to the gravel road. We tented out on the deserts and prairies along the way, just like the painting on page 9 Traffic was almost nonexistent. Sometimes we would not see a car for 20 or 25 minutes. Gas was hard to come by, as many times stations were 75 miles apart. It cost, of course, only 20¢ a gallon. In the wide open spaces one can see for miles, and the distant rainstorm, shown opposite page 43, reminds me of a similar place where we saw the rain coming down many miles away. We shortly arrived where the rainstorm had been, and suddenly our car slithered around until it was almost facing backwards! I got out, hoping to push the car, but my foot sank down in gumbo for about eight inches. So we sat, and in about two hours the gumbo began to harden and we were able to get out of the rut... Yes, your issue gave me a wonderful nostalgic thrill.

Wm. T. Elliott Santa Ana, CA Dear Editor, My first trip on "66" was in 1927, at seven years old, in a 1925 Hupmobile. We suffered the inevitable and had to be towed into Williams. After that there were many different vehicles. Our last trip before "66" became divided I-40 was shortly after my son got his driver's license. Although they have taken the challenge and adventure out of traversing Arizona, we still vacation there (and) usually get off the interstate and travel on parts of what is left of old "66."

Robert A. Morris Anaheim, CA Dear Editor, Route 66 was still a dream when I first travelled across Arizona by car, in 1923, with my parents and older sister and brother. Running boards were stacked high with things, cots, cooking stove, and gasoline can. The desert water bag would swing as we crawled along dirt roads from Iowa to California. Roads? Primitive tracks in the dust! The painting "Tin Lizzie Travelers" by Duane Bryers tells the story.

Alice M. Olson Iowa Falls, IO (Inside back cover) A wildflower covered ridge in the high country of the Chiricahua Wilderness. In the early morning haze, background, rise the western slopes of the Chiricahua Mountains. (Back cover) Rugged red rock outcrops in Douglas Canyon in the Galiuro Wilderness. Jerry Sieve photos