Rotary Creek
During my very early days with the Forest Service, I was introduced to the concept of the slash burn. This event is intended to rid the landscape of the debris left behind by the loggers after they had extracted everything they deemed valuable. The remainder, consisting of limbs and tops, broken and shattered logs, the undesirable chunks from a size or species perspective, all of these were termed “slash”. I find it interesting to note that during the 1970s and 1980s when I was working in the woods, loggers often extracted cedar logs that been left lying on the ground after having been cut around the turn of the century, the 1900s, by the old-timers who found them too massive to drag out with the tools of the time. I recall one timber sale in particular where the most valuable wood on the sale was not the standing hemlock and fir but the downed cedar logs that had been lying for seventy years underneath it. Even now, we are beginning to see our earlier logging practices as unnecessarily wasteful. One hundred years ago, only the very best cedar was taken out. The other trees, if they weren’t needed for mining timbers or railroad ties, were simply left where they were cut in order to get them out of the way so the cedar could be extracted. Our contemporary practice of burning the leavings will no doubt be viewed as just as wasteful by the much more resource stingy thinking of the future. In some countries, the left over slash is already being utilized for both commercial power generation and as ground cover used during the logging operations to reduce site damage. But in 1976, we just set it on fire.
Forgetting for the time being the likely error of our ways and merely accepting fact as fact, let us return to the disposition of the slash that was left behind. Scientific forestry at the time preached that the only good clear-cut was one that had been cleaned and sanitized so the reforestation effort could proceed unimpeded by debris and leavings and, particularly in the Northwest, the residual mistletoe infestations that were commonly found among the old growth. This is not your Christmas time “kissing-under-the-mistletoe” variety but a relative that, like all parasitic mistletoe species, infects a host and draws its sustenance from it. This plant, officially known as dwarf mistletoe (Arceuthobium spp.) has long been considered a pest since it inhibits the growth of the big trees. In yet another irony of nature, it turns out that recent studies have determined this plant to be a keystone species, meaning it affects many other organisms in a way that far exceeds its relative biomass. Most ironic is the role it plays in nesting for the Spotted Owl, the current most popular indicator of forest health throughout the Northwest.
The mistletoe that infects the big timber of the Pacific Northwest is found in many tree species. I have never seen it in cedar or in any of the hardwoods, but the commercially more valuable fir and hemlock species suffer significantly from loss of growth caused by the strength-sapping effects of mistletoe. To a forester, this was always viewed as being akin to boll weevils in cotton or grasshoppers in the wheat fields. A very effective deterrent to the continued spread of the parasite is to reduce an area of infestation to carbon. This tends to remove any residual elements of the parasite from the immediate area and forces it to invade from neighboring, infected old-growth areas, assuming there is any remaining old growth. In any event, this slows the spread of the parasite. The process at the time was to dig a fire line around the perimeter of the clear-cut in order to have some definition of control, and to have a place for the fire crews to stand, and then light the entire thing on fire. This was, as bizarre as it may sound, a positively delightful experience.
My introduction to slash burning took place in an area known as Rotary Creek, located along the northwest slopes of Mt. Pilchuck, a far west pioneer mountain that extends as deeply into the Puget Sound lowlands as is permitted in this mountain chain. This is the same lovely mountain, visible from the parking lot in front of the Monte Cristo Ranger Station, that greeted me on my first day. There were a couple of things about this particular “unit”, as the clear-cuts were referred to, that were fortunate for me, the novice slash burner. First, it was relatively small. It covered only about twelve or fifteen acres as I recall. Secondly, it was nearly level. At least, it was level in the relative sense of the term as far as ground found in this part of the world. Size and slope are significant since lighting a slash fire consists of starting at the high point of the unit and making cross slope traverses with a drip torch.
The drip torch is a metal can that contains a bit more than a gallon of a mix of gasoline and diesel that is “dripped” through a foot long, spiraling metal tube that culminates with a nozzle containing a fiberglass wick, which has been set alight. The amount of fuel fed to this wick is greater than the wick can absorb so the excess is leaked out, ignited as it passes through the burning nozzle, and “drips” onto the ground. The gasoline gives the necessary volatility and the diesel prevents instantaneous explosive ignition. The “glop” that falls on the ground, or more likely on the slash, burns long enough and hot enough to ignite whatever object it contacts. Typically, three to five people will make a pass across the slope, each somewhat behind and below the person ahead. Spacing between these individuals determines just how much slash will be set on fire at a time, thus controlling to some degree, the size and enthusiasm of the blaze. The process of beginning at the top of a hill makes sense when you envision the results of subsequent passes across the hill at lower and lower elevations. The heat from the fire tends to pull the burn toward the top of the hill. One of the fascinating aspects of fire is its singular ability, among elemental components of earth to defy the laws of gravity. Starting at the top means that by the time (in theory) you reach the bottom of the area, the upper portions have had time to burn most of the residue clear, thus providing an ever widening fire line against the top of the clear-cut, which typically provides protection to whatever timber lies uphill from the conflagration.
Even though the Rotary Creek fire was relatively small and, as I mentioned, relatively flat, a great amount of time was expended in preparation for igniting the remaining slash. Not only had many hours been consumed in building the hand line around the perimeter, but several days before the event, the district fire crew had started positioning hoses, pumps and hand tools and planning for delivery of as much water as possible. This included setting up a portable water tank, in this case the Fol-da-tank, which is rather like a square version of the back yard above ground swimming pool. This was filled by a combination of tanker truck delivery and pumping from nearby streams. After all of this preparation and approval from the air quality folks at the state, and after the careful development of a plan and a thorough review by all parties, the big day arrived.
On the morning of the lighting of the Rotary Creek slash fire, everyone, it seemed, knew every move. As the procession of Forest Service “green rigs” made their way up the gravel road to the scene, the event began to unfold like a well-rehearsed play. The district fire crew was the earliest to arrive and they had laid out several hundred feet of one and one-half inch hose along the road that bisected the unit, as well as a length or two up and down the fire lines on each side. This provided a reasonably complete coverage of the timber along both sides. This hose lay stretched not all the way to the top or to the bottom, but about halfway. As the crews arrived, trucks were positioned at safe locations, yellow Nomex fire shirts were slipped on over t-shirts, hard hats were donned and water bottles were attached via web belts so that each worker could remain fairly independent. Everyone knew exactly what their job was, what their position was to be, and how to proceed. Everyone, that is, except me.
As the new guy, I was dispatched to attend to relatively minor tasks. Presumably, I would do things that were useful but not critical and certainly not dangerous. I was also assigned to the watchful eye of an experienced crew-member who could serve both to demonstrate what to do and when to do it, but could also keep an eye on me to prevent me from creating a problem of any kind or finding a way to injure myself or others. Essentially, my task this first day was one of observation. Watch how the job is done. Watch what people do. Listen to the radio chatter. Perhaps then, I could be of some real use the next time.
Once the drip torch crew began work and ignition progressed gradually down the slope, I did in fact begin to get more of the picture and from time to time would do something of value, such as throw a few shovels full of dirt on a spot fire that had crept outside of one of the side lines and begun burning in the adjacent timber. These events were never allowed to become more than minor episodes but still, I had the chance to participate.
As the final few passes were made along the very bottom part of the unit, the crew had become somewhat jammed up in the lower reaches of the area since the top portion, above the road, was more or less burned out. By then it was midafternoon and all parties were growing weary and were eager to move ignition along at a pace that would allow sending most of the crew home after a reasonable day. This was caused not so much by the kind nature of the management on the district, but the very real need to conserve finances and avoid paying overtime for crews when it was not essential. That money needed to be held on to in case of real fires, the wildfires not the controlled burns, and the need to fund the suppression efforts for them. This budgetary emphasis caused the drip torch crew to be moved at a considerably faster pace than had taken place up to this point. With the increased number of people available to staff the fire lines and with the top two-thirds already burned clear of slash this was a sound decision on the part of the District Ranger and the Fire Management Officer, who were immediately responsible for such activities.
Things heated up in a real hurry as the rate of ignition was increased and in almost the time it takes to tell it, the slash was burning very hot and fires began to spot on the outside of the line where I was working. Being on the downwind side, we were subjected to both the drift of the smoke and the flying embers that were causing these spot fires. Within a few minutes, everyone assigned to my side was busy. The call went out for half of the crew from the opposite side to move over and reinforce in order to prevent a real fire from starting in the old growth that bordered the unit. As the radio call was made for these people, the District Ranger walked up to where my mentor and I were busy throwing dirt at a burning fir tree. We had at this point dropped below the end of the lowest hose that had been placed along the fire line.
“Willard, hustle up to the road and bring down two lengths of the black rubber hose,” he barked at me and then without pausing for breath he instructed my partner to get connectors and attach the hose that I would be bringing to the end of the inch and one-half that ended a short distance above where we stood. Things were beginning to get interesting. This being my very first experience with fire in the woods, I had no idea if this was routine, unusual or an impending disaster. I assumed in my enthusiasm that it was the latter. I raced away, moving as quickly up the incline as I could, trying to remember where I had seen the fire crew stack the hose that I was charged with retrieving.
Finding it once I hit the road turned out to be no problem and I grabbed two coiled bundles, threw one over each shoulder and turned back down the hill. The hose coils were one hundred foot lengths of heavy-duty one inch rubber garden hose. It is the same kind you have hanging on the side of your house, maybe just a bit sturdier. Together, taken with the task of climbing down the hill along the hand dug fire line, they were a load and I was panting and sweating by the time I reached the end of the inch and one-half run. Standing there was the Ranger, my partner with the necessary hardware already attached to the bigger hose and several others, ready to use the water on the ever-growing fires outside the line. I felt like I had done a fine job and had impressed the Ranger with the speed of my return until I looked at him, noticed that he wasn’t smiling and heard him say,
“Uncoil them.”
That was all. No smile. No "well done”. A flat stare, a sense of error, and for me, complete surprise. With my emotions in total confusion and having no clue what I had done wrong, I dropped both coils to the ground and kneeled to being untangling the hose. As I removed the proper end for my partner to connect to the larger hose, he looked at me and said,
“You should have uncoiled them on the road and drug them down the hill, male end in your hand. We’ll play hell trying to untangle them down here.” No one, of course, had mentioned a thing about that in the confusion and the rush to get water to the fire. He was right. It took a good fifteen minutes to unroll and stretch the very stiff rubber hoses down the slope, made the more difficult by the twisting, stump and brush filled terrain. Several times during this exercise, I saw the Ranger looking at me. His expression told me that he had clearly identified me as a complete bumbling city-bred idiot and he would make certain to keep an eye on me in the future. I do not think he was impressed.
In spite of my mistake, the fire was eventually controlled and only a few of the trees outside the line were scorched. The water from my late arriving hoses was useful but all parties indicated to me that the results would probably have been the same even without it. This did nothing to soothe my bruised ego. From that day on, I asked questions when I didn’t understand, moved as fast as I could up and down the hill, threw more dirt than anyone who stood near me, and in general, tried every way I could to redeem myself in front of the Ranger. Whether I succeeded or not I cannot say. He never told me.
