Ecological Fire Management in Kruger National Park

If fire has been present for a long time it may have to remain in order to maintain a site’s ecological integrity. Paradoxically, even as industrializing societies strive to eliminate open fire generally, they may have to retain or restore it on nature reserves” - Stephen Pyne

This project was born out of the idea to study three pillars of wildfires: history, ecology, and management, and their intersectionality in different countries. Essentially, there was a central question of how to infuse the ecological aspect of wildfires back into their management, and doing so in an increasingly uncertain world. A knowledge of landscape interaction developed by indigenous land users has dissolved within cumbersome bureaucratic agencies and a fast-paced society. Presently, many governments and communities are focused solely on themselves, unable or unwilling to prioritize the environment, let alone it’s more precarious mechanisms. Ecological wildfire is now mostly confined to language and empty mandates, its practice can only be found in small pockets.


My time with Parks Canada in Banff represents one of these positive examples, as it is the only Canadian entity I observed that is actively laying the fire down en mass for ecological aims. Other attempts for ecologically burning were taking place in Catalonia, but at a small parcel scale. The prescribed burning in Mafra Municipality (Portugal) is in a league of its own for its proximity of burning within highly developed infrastructure, however its focus is mostly hazard reduction as opposed to ecological. Similarly, there are significant burning processes and culture in KwaZulu-Natal, only the purposes of these burns are more oriented towards economic production (timber and grazing). The two areas (besides Banff) where this has not been the case are: Kruger National Park and Aboriginal management in Northern Australia (to be fair, I haven’t been to the Northern Territory yet,  plan to visit has been postponed).

Inside Drakensbergs (Royal Natal NP) Amphitheatre. Not Kruger, but on the way!

For most savanna ecosystems, fire is more important than rain. It is the impetus for life and biodiversity because many grasses are outcompeted in a few years by trees or shrubs. Fires may occur as regularly as every year, but many burn on cycles of 4-5 years, as lightening and human ignition during dry seasons play a crucial role. Without fire, many grazing or prey species will suffer as their foliage or the ability to watch for predator disappears under bush encroachment. Other bird species may lose valuable food sources as fires provide ample accessibility to insects, lizards, and beetles. Fire is a regular occurrence and many small creatures such as tortoises and hares can burrow under a passing front, and larger animals possess a simple comprehension just to move out of the way. If all of this seems tedious and elementary, it’s because it is and that is how it should be. Wildfire is not meant to be a necessarily exciting thing, it can be just as normal as a rain falling, an elephant walking through the bush, or a rocks rolling down a hill.

For Kruger National Park (KNP), it is impossible to ignore the importance of wildfire in maintaining the savanna’s ecosystem as well as the tourism that comes for the thriving megafauna that it supports. Simply driving around the park, it becomes abundantly clear that variance in vegetation cover is crucial for various fauna species. During my time in KNP, the approximate understanding that was provided was that species under 300 kg will exhibit strong preferences for areas burned annually, and species over 300 kg repeatedly select for areas with 5-10 years of vegetation growth. These preferences are based upon food availability and predator detection. 

This is one of the sites that is burned every year. Imagine what species of animal prefer this type of landscape. This is part of the Ecological Burn Project in Kruger - running since 1954


Directly adjacent to the annually burned site, this plot receives fire on a slower (10 year) interval. Species over 300 kg may select for this type.

As with many national parks,  KNP is afforded the mandate to focus extensively on the role of fire in its historical and ecological capacity. The absence of sprawling human development reduces civil protection pressures that are the primary handicap for most wildfire management agencies. Their status as a park allows for fire’s ecological role to be the priority, and with over 70 years of proactive fire management, KNP has developed some effective and innovative approaches to ecological wildfire implementation. Being the largest game reserve in Africa (7500 sq miles), the KNP extends across a wide geologic and rainfall gradient. This influences vegetation and subsequent fire regimes, and the KNP has taken the crucial step of developing a well of knowledge of fire history and extensive mapping. - In previous posts, I have written about the importance of the Sendai Framework, and the first step is Review. This is an excellent case study of an organization that is engaged in the Review process -  Utilizing a fire scar history record (since 1941), combined with data from a fire effects project (since 1954 - more on this later), and lastly interlaced with the detailed geologic and rainfall research, the KNP has delineated the massive area into five distinct management types.

Through collaborative meetings between scientists and rangers, KNP created a zoning system that combines fire thresholds and the preferred ecological outcomes. This knowledge exchange and joint priority setting is crucial to allow for cross-communication of research and application. The product was the recognition of specific bio-geo zones with different science-based management actions for how to strategically apply fire. The creation of five distinct zones combines the severity and area targets of acceptable fire, as well as the desired landscape result:

  • Zone 1 - regular prescribed burning. Fires should burn an area based upon previous two year’s precipitation. - Outcome should be maintenance of high quality grazing and healthy diversity of grass sward 
  • Zone 2 - mix of high severity burning (bush encroachment) and strategic, low-intensity burning (mosaic creation). Fires should burn about 33% of the area - Outcome should be to reduce bush encroachment.
  • Zone 3 - reduce fire frequency and severity (reduce loss of important large trees); use strategic, low-intensity burning (create fuel breaks and mosaic) - Outcome should be the increase of tree saplings and maintenance of existing large trees.
  • Zone 4 - no fire accepted - Outcome should be to maintain fuel breaks and protect infrastructure 
  • Zone 5 - no fire ecological objectives as fires rarely burn in these areas.

Zoning in wildfire management areas is not necessarily a groundbreaking concept, but it is super interesting to see it being done on a purely ecological basis. 

The five distinct management zones are an approach based upon adaptive management and fire effects. “Adaptive management explicitly embraces uncertainty, recognizing that management may not deliver the desire results, that changes to these strategies may be required” (van Wilgen et al 2013).


When I was in Canada, one of the things that stood out to me was how personnel were frustrated at the lack of upkeep of strategy. Members of BCWS and AAF expressed to me that wildfire management plans were made, but updated maybe every 15 years to account for changing landscape conditions or to identify fluctuations in risk. In KNP, they update the burn plans every year. Part of this stark contrast can be attributed to different vegetation types and its status as a national park (where land-use is consistent), but still the difference is significant. KNP’s approach to it is straightforward and calculated as burn plans are based on the preceding two years precipitation. From this, wildfire management in KNP can dictate to the Sectional Rangers just how much area they need to burn. Simple fuels certainly add to the simple implementation, but its the mindset on updating and carrying out burn plans that is the real take away. How do other agencies that are struggling to get more fire on the landscape extract and adapt these mentalities and processes to be more ecologically oriented?

All of this information is coming from the time I was fortunate enough to get with KNP’s Fire Protection Officer, Navashni Govender (a trained entomologist, who has become a leader in proactive fire management). Between Navashni, Bob Connelly, and Brick Shields, the car was filled with interesting viewpoints on the current state of wildfire management. Needless to say, these three are huge proponents of ecological fire management and recognize that it is desperately lacking in our global approach to wildfires. Some other takeaways from my conversation with Navashni:


  • When we think of “natural fire”, we must remember that man is natural part of the system and can not be systematically removed from the ecological process. Human ignition can be natural (USFS are you reading this?)
  • Not burning is a management decision. By trying to avoid the liability of undertaking a prescribed burn, there are consequences.
  • Anti-poaching is currently occupying most of the rangers’ attention, and wildfire management becomes secondary. A system of generalists (like KNPs section rangers) is beneficial because it taps into the holistic approach to environmental management, but it can be taxed as some priorities trump others.
  • Navashni also took us on a tour of KNP’s Ecological Burn Project, which has been going on since 1954, and is a huge generator of knowledge for savanna fire ecology. There are 16 “strings” throughout the park, and each string contains various burn plots. Some of the plots are burned every year, while others every 2, 4, 8, 10, or never. This project has been extremely beneficial to understanding of regeneration of plant biodiversity, but is now focused on understanding fire-herbivory relationships. It adds inherent value to landscape management because it generates burning, data and practice, to remain within a government framework, what if other parks adopted similar fire ecology projects?


The approach to wildfire management in KNP is really important to learn from because it places value both on the certainty of the past and the uncertainty of the future. Across a large and heterogenous landscape, there is recognition that a “one-size-fit-all” approach cannot function, because the area has different fire histories and must have different ecological futures. Rather than try to mimic a historical fire regime, KNP has elected to learn as much as possible about the histories, allow for flexibility in the face of climatic uncertainty, and make management decisions that strive for identified ecological outcomes. 


Summary of Third Quarter

I wrote my last report from an abandoned schoolhouse turned firebase nestled in the Hottentot-Holland Mountains. A cirque of mountains surrounded the base, with the mountain gap open toward the shark-infested waters of False Bay. The southeasterly winds from the Kahalari Desert pulled moisture over the mountain backbones like puffy, woolskin blankets. In the foreground, “hotshots” intermingled in competition with some of the kids from the local farm hamlet. The quality of the play was sufficient for the evening’s physical fitness and entertainment. In this place, the lessons percolated as fluidly as the clouds dissipating over the ridgeline.

The previous report, despite being written in South Africa, focused on the European experience with wildfire. Human migration away from historical landscapes removed constraints for free-ranging fire, and exasperated by compounding demographics and global shifts shunted many nations into a short-sighted firefighting dependency. It is strange to have it summarized in such a succinct sentence as it took me many different investigations to fully capture all angles of the dynamic. Putting that sentence together meant that I was subjected to experiences such as touring with a rambunctious entourage of Portuguese and Canarian shepherds, or teaching Norwegian firefighters how to conduct a burn-out operation in the Catalonian cork oak hills. It also meant that my primary form of knowledge gathering was specifically coordinated one-off meetings. I became drilled in interviews, utilizing maximum efficiency to a) glean as much information as possible, b) unearth their personal views and career paths, and c) engage with them to a degree that our singular meeting might be somewhat reciprocally beneficial. The second-quarter-version of myself was hellbent on working with the best teachers possible. 
It was “fast-learning”, short sessions devoted to as much knowledge collection as possible. For my next acts, I hoped to develop relationships that would allow for the slow percolation of knowledge and understanding.

“Are you fit enough?” Aphelele Stuma asked me while exhaling cigarette smoke. Immediately my emotional defences went up, “What kind of question is that, Aphelele”, then my ego-sharpened offensive weapons came on, “Coming from the guy with the cigarette in his mouth, are YOU fit enough?”. He looked quizzically at me, registering that I had some internal mechanism blockading the purpose of his question. He motioned to the line of light that served as the only distinction between the night sky and rocky mountain top, “Look, Herry-man. The fire is in the heavens”. 

A headlamp. A pair of worn gloves. A yellow hard hat. One flash hood. A jacket for the cold night.  A set of dusty goggles. A plastic bag with some corned beef and peanuts. Four insufficient litres of water. A “beater” (a broom handle with rubber strips at the end). This is everything that a wildland firefighter in South Africa will carry with them to the line. These ten items encompass the complete toolkit available to an individual as they sustain themselves to engage in rigorous fire suppression for 12-36 hours. A heavily clothed endurance athlete that will scale mountain cliffs in the dark while seeking out combusting vegetation for extremely little pay. Watching them work is poetry: both fire and muscle taking their respective turns, until both are exhausted and burnt out. When bonded into tight teams, their collective physical and mental tenacity provides a small portal of understanding into how humankind became an evolutionary pinnacle of social cohesion. 

The firefighters and their group dynamics that I interacted with in South Africa represent some of the deepest human learning that I have had from this year. We taught one another what it meant to be public servants to different societies, and what it meant to be outdoorsmen in unpredictable elements. I lectured on different influencers of fire behavior, and they presented to me the techniques of human resilience.  The inequities that permeate South Africa are sinesterly apparent in the face of wildfire, proving once more that environmental interaction is reflective of local civic values. The seemingly subconscious selective concern for human life, especially those of selfless practitioners, made me check myself. It was difficult to manage my surprise when Incident Commanders would deem it acceptable to send personnel into hazardous areas, with no radio communication, limited water, and no medical plan, for almost two days. And everytime, the crews would emerge at the predetermined time, singing as they hiked off the trail.

Intrigued by the unique richness of South Africa, I pressed on to other corners of the country. In Mpumalanga and Limpopo, fire is more important than rain for the savanna ecosystems. From the composition of annual grasses to selection preference of top predators, the presence of fire dictates environmental integrity. Spending time with Kruger National Park Rangers and scientists portrayed an organizational mentality that actively supports burning for ecological purposes. To bolster wildfire implementation, KNP has been experimenting with fire effects, or the secondary and tertiary environmental impacts of fire, since 1954. The science, interpretation, and application can all occur “in-house”. This science based decision-making capability has allowed the park to practice progressive adaptive management, an important practice in the face of increasing planetary uncertainty. Similarly to the narratives I observed during prescribed burns in Banff National Park, nature reserves entail the only areas where links between fire and ecological integrity are supported. 

KwaZulu-Natal was another chapter that promoted self-cultivation. The concept was to understand the feasibility and process of community based fire management, in which local populations engage in fire management practices at a landscape-level to best mitigate and prepare for the threat of wildfires. Deep in Zululand, I became part of the FireWise team, dedicated to removing the invasive vegetation depleting resource flow in waterways and aggravating wildfire risk. Being one of the only people in the Nhlazuka Valley with a vehicle, my Nissan 3000 and I became the project’s mobile management unit, but also the local ambulance, church services, school bus, and general public transport. The dramatic topography made both driving and landscape management onerous exercises, but the level of effectiveness from a community-level approach was clear. General awareness about fire, natural resources, and risk mitigation methods surpassed any equivalent from my previous community engagements. By regulating FireWise work through a convoluted framework that involves US organizations, South Africa state programs, non-profits, and Zulu tribal governance, the FireWise Program in Nhlazuka distinguished that there is validity to the overused phrase, “think globally, act locally”. The communities and nations of our global society are not operating in closed systems, and neither can our approaches to handling natural hazard.

South Africa represents a dynamic nation that seems to draw many Thomas J Watson Fellows to study their particular passions in its unique context. A collection pan at the bottom of the African continent, it represents the swirling of ideas intermixed with challenging, persisting histories. One endemic idea to South Africa is the creation of Fire Protection Associations (FPA) and landowner accountability for risk mitigation. In the United States, if someone starts a fire, and it burns down some homes, the ignitor is held accountable. In South Africa, if someone starts a fire, and it spreads to your property and then spreads to your neighbors property, your neighbor can hold you liable for not managing your fire risk (as well as hold the ignition party responsible). In this scenario, the defending party must prove that they were not negligent - guilty until proven innocent. Enter the Fire Protection Associations, which act as the legal umbrella: join the FPA, be compliant with their landscape recommendations, and be protected as the prosecution must prove that negligence did occur - innocent until proven guilty. This approach is not foolhardy but it achieves several aspects that we, as Americans, are failing miserably at: it introduces the concept of landowner accountability for fuels management; provides an educational and enforcement platform that opens communication between individual landowners, municipal governments, and fire departments; and establishes legal precedent for the dissemination of natural hazard risks. 

I really latched onto this idea and governance structure partially because the vast majority of landowners in the United States, and other countries, defer ownership of risk to the state. Specifically in my case, when my hometown burned (most recently in 2018, but has experienced numerous, smaller fires previously) homeowners were shocked and angry when state firefighters were unable to save 1,650 structures. Almost all of these were built in high risk areas, with little to no recognition of the natural processes that define the landscape that residents enjoy so much. How could they default on their own preparation and be so surprised? The answer is because neither their insurance, municipality, state, fire department, community or immediate neighbors were emphasizing the natural risk that individuals own when they choose to live in these environments. As climate change accelerates natural hazard, it may be imperative for risk recognition and ownership to become more integrated into individual and communal decision making.

    South Africa yielded many versions of myself that I am striving to hold onto. Traveling alone was an entirely new concept for me at the beginning of the Watson experience. I could not really figure out what solo travelers did to fill their days, the premise of relying on a Lonely Planet guidebook was strange to me. My experiences in South Africa finalized my understanding that true exploration for me is about formulating relationships, most importantly to people, but to places as well. The relationships that were crafted with my firefighter brothers, or the children that would run the Nhlazuka hills with me everyday, or the practitioners in Kruger NP, are the ones that I carry with me. 

My experiences in South Africa inspired me to continue traveling the continent, however the recent tragedy in Australia beckoned me strongly. Deemed “the Black Summer”, Australia’s wildfire season set records for area burned, animals killed, carbon emitted, and loss of economic productivity. Despite my apprehension to study further in yet another highly developed, bureaucratic commonwealth country, I would have been remiss to ignore their ongoing circumstances. Upon landing in Sydney, the loudspeaker in baggage claim was urging those who felt slightly unwell to seek medical attention immediately. At the time, I thought it sounded ominous and reminded me of Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven; I dismissed the foreboding implications. 

My time in Australia would be inevitably cut short, but not before I was able to delve into the traumatized state of New South Wales and explore ecological restoration in Tasmania. Paying tribute to what had been lost through visits and discussions with those most impacted. Surrounded by businesses that have evaporated and homesteads vaporized; the communities internalized resiliency, but it was laced with the social burns of wildfire. 

In Tasmania, I explored the premise of pyrogeography. The intersectionality of fire in past, present, and future; a juncture of geophysics, biology, and society. On field outings with pyrogeographic researchers, I spent considerable time roaming the World Heritage Conservation Areas, examining how fire decimated some of the planet’s oldest forests. Trying to answer questions about the feasibility of restoration in a more pyrophytic planet, and reflecting the duality of fire poses to the field of conservation. It was here that I explored the process of fire ecology in its true sense. Following, I had arrangements to travel to North Australia to spend time with aboriginal fire practitioners, still proficient in cultural land management. After, I hoped to pivot to Madagascar and eventually on to South America. 

As consistent with the sentiment of the world, things did not go as planned. I write this report to you from my sister’s couch - all roads seem to lead back to the couch - where the view is pleasant, but sans soccer match. Esparto, California feels like a continuation of the journey, from where I can see the coastal foothills of Sonoma County - the site of the 2017 Tubbs fire that swept Napa and Santa Rosa. Walking through those hills, trying to outsmart my sister’s flock of sheep, it’s clear that the vegetation is exceptionally dry. California, right now, is only at half its average precipitation, casting a sense of premonition in the COVID19 era. The current abnormal aridity of the American West may generate smoke-filled skies that will afflict air quality, further exacerbating coronavirus threats to those with compromised respiratory systems. The challenges of wildfires, just as their solutions, do not occur in isolation. In order to avoid contributing to the overflowing pool of pandemic speculation, I will simply say that COVID19 is teaching important lessons about the power of prevention - proactivity to avoid collapse of reactionary resources - and they will be applicable to more than just issues concerning human health. 

For this next quarter, I will do my part. Despite my constant rallying cries against the militarization of firefighting against ecology, I will put the boots back on this summer and walk in single file lines. COVID19 will grind much of society to a halt, but past grievances against the human-environmental relationship will persist and compound challenges. This next quarter will be far different than I had ever anticipated, but I look forward to the new lessons that will be laid out before us. I wrote my last report from an abandoned schoolhouse turned firebase nestled in the Hottentot-Holland Mountains. A cirque of mountains surrounded the base, with the mountain gap open toward the shark-infested waters of False Bay. The southeasterly winds from the Kahalari Desert pulled moisture over the mountain backbones like puffy, woolskin blankets. In the foreground, “hotshots” intermingled in competition with some of the kids from the local farm hamlet. The quality of the play was sufficient for the evening’s physical fitness and entertainment. In this place, the lessons percolated as fluidly as the clouds dissipating over the ridgeline.


The previous report, despite being written in South Africa, focused on the European experience with wildfire. Human migration away from historical landscapes removed constraints for free-ranging fire, and exasperated by compounding demographics and global shifts shunted many nations into a short-sighted firefighting dependency. It is strange to have it summarized in such a succinct sentence as it took me many different investigations to fully capture all angles of the dynamic. Putting that sentence together meant that I was subjected to experiences such as touring with a rambunctious entourage of Portuguese and Canarian shepherds, or teaching Norwegian firefighters how to conduct a burn-out operation in the Catalonian cork oak hills. It also meant that my primary form of knowledge gathering was specifically coordinated one-off meetings. I became drilled in interviews, utilizing maximum efficiency to a) glean as much information as possible, b) unearth their personal views and career paths, and c) engage with them to a degree that our singular meeting might be somewhat reciprocally beneficial. The second-quarter-version of myself was hellbent on working with the best teachers possible. 
It was “fast-learning”, short sessions devoted to as much knowledge collection as possible. For my next acts, I hoped to develop relationships that would allow for the slow percolation of knowledge and understanding.

“Are you fit enough?” Aphelele Stuma asked me while exhaling cigarette smoke. Immediately my emotional defences went up, “What kind of question is that, Aphelele”, then my ego-sharpened offensive weapons came on, “Coming from the guy with the cigarette in his mouth, are YOU fit enough?”. He looked quizzically at me, registering that I had some internal mechanism blockading the purpose of his question. He motioned to the line of light that served as the only distinction between the night sky and rocky mountain top, “Look, Herry-man. The fire is in the heavens”. 

A headlamp. A pair of worn gloves. A yellow hard hat. One flash hood. A jacket for the cold night.  A set of dusty goggles. A plastic bag with some corned beef and peanuts. Four insufficient litres of water. A “beater” (a broom handle with rubber strips at the end). This is everything that a wildland firefighter in South Africa will carry with them to the line. These ten items encompass the complete toolkit available to an individual as they sustain themselves to engage in rigorous fire suppression for 12-36 hours. A heavily clothed endurance athlete that will scale mountain cliffs in the dark while seeking out combusting vegetation for extremely little pay. Watching them work is poetry: both fire and muscle taking their respective turns, until both are exhausted and burnt out. When bonded into tight teams, their collective physical and mental tenacity provides a small portal of understanding into how humankind became an evolutionary pinnacle of social cohesion. 

The firefighters and their group dynamics that I interacted with in South Africa represent some of the deepest human learning that I have had from this year. We taught one another what it meant to be public servants to different societies, and what it meant to be outdoorsmen in unpredictable elements. I lectured on different influencers of fire behavior, and they presented to me the techniques of human resilience.  The inequities that permeate South Africa are sinesterly apparent in the face of wildfire, proving once more that environmental interaction is reflective of local civic values. The seemingly subconscious selective concern for human life, especially those of selfless practitioners, made me check myself. It was difficult to manage my surprise when Incident Commanders would deem it acceptable to send personnel into hazardous areas, with no radio communication, limited water, and no medical plan, for almost two days. And everytime, the crews would emerge at the predetermined time, singing as they hiked off the trail.

Intrigued by the unique richness of South Africa, I pressed on to other corners of the country. In Mpumalanga and Limpopo, fire is more important than rain for the savanna ecosystems. From the composition of annual grasses to selection preference of top predators, the presence of fire dictates environmental integrity. Spending time with Kruger National Park Rangers and scientists portrayed an organizational mentality that actively supports burning for ecological purposes. To bolster wildfire implementation, KNP has been experimenting with fire effects, or the secondary and tertiary environmental impacts of fire, since 1954. The science, interpretation, and application can all occur “in-house”. This science based decision-making capability has allowed the park to practice progressive adaptive management, an important practice in the face of increasing planetary uncertainty. Similarly to the narratives I observed during prescribed burns in Banff National Park, nature reserves entail the only areas where links between fire and ecological integrity are supported. 

KwaZulu-Natal was another chapter that promoted self-cultivation. The concept was to understand the feasibility and process of community based fire management, in which local populations engage in fire management practices at a landscape-level to best mitigate and prepare for the threat of wildfires. Deep in Zululand, I became part of the FireWise team, dedicated to removing the invasive vegetation depleting resource flow in waterways and aggravating wildfire risk. Being one of the only people in the Nhlazuka Valley with a vehicle, my Nissan 3000 and I became the project’s mobile management unit, but also the local ambulance, church services, school bus, and general public transport. The dramatic topography made both driving and landscape management onerous exercises, but the level of effectiveness from a community-level approach was clear. General awareness about fire, natural resources, and risk mitigation methods surpassed any equivalent from my previous community engagements. By regulating FireWise work through a convoluted framework that involves US organizations, South Africa state programs, non-profits, and Zulu tribal governance, the FireWise Program in Nhlazuka distinguished that there is validity to the overused phrase, “think globally, act locally”. The communities and nations of our global society are not operating in closed systems, and neither can our approaches to handling natural hazard.

South Africa represents a dynamic nation that seems to draw many Thomas J Watson Fellows to study their particular passions in its unique context. A collection pan at the bottom of the African continent, it represents the swirling of ideas intermixed with challenging, persisting histories. One endemic idea to South Africa is the creation of Fire Protection Associations (FPA) and landowner accountability for risk mitigation. In the United States, if someone starts a fire, and it burns down some homes, the ignitor is held accountable. In South Africa, if someone starts a fire, and it spreads to your property and then spreads to your neighbors property, your neighbor can hold you liable for not managing your fire risk (as well as hold the ignition party responsible). In this scenario, the defending party must prove that they were not negligent - guilty until proven innocent. Enter the Fire Protection Associations, which act as the legal umbrella: join the FPA, be compliant with their landscape recommendations, and be protected as the prosecution must prove that negligence did occur - innocent until proven guilty. This approach is not foolhardy but it achieves several aspects that we, as Americans, are failing miserably at: it introduces the concept of landowner accountability for fuels management; provides an educational and enforcement platform that opens communication between individual landowners, municipal governments, and fire departments; and establishes legal precedent for the dissemination of natural hazard risks. 

I really latched onto this idea and governance structure partially because the vast majority of landowners in the United States, and other countries, defer ownership of risk to the state. Specifically in my case, when my hometown burned (most recently in 2018, but has experienced numerous, smaller fires previously) homeowners were shocked and angry when state firefighters were unable to save 1,650 structures. Almost all of these were built in high risk areas, with little to no recognition of the natural processes that define the landscape that residents enjoy so much. How could they default on their own preparation and be so surprised? The answer is because neither their insurance, municipality, state, fire department, community or immediate neighbors were emphasizing the natural risk that individuals own when they choose to live in these environments. As climate change accelerates natural hazard, it may be imperative for risk recognition and ownership to become more integrated into individual and communal decision making.

    South Africa yielded many versions of myself that I am striving to hold onto. Traveling alone was an entirely new concept for me at the beginning of the Watson experience. I could not really figure out what solo travelers did to fill their days, the premise of relying on a Lonely Planet guidebook was strange to me. My experiences in South Africa finalized my understanding that true exploration for me is about formulating relationships, most importantly to people, but to places as well. The relationships that were crafted with my firefighter brothers, or the children that would run the Nhlazuka hills with me everyday, or the practitioners in Kruger NP, are the ones that I carry with me. 

My experiences in South Africa inspired me to continue traveling the continent, however the recent tragedy in Australia beckoned me strongly. Deemed “the Black Summer”, Australia’s wildfire season set records for area burned, animals killed, carbon emitted, and loss of economic productivity. Despite my apprehension to study further in yet another highly developed, bureaucratic commonwealth country, I would have been remiss to ignore their ongoing circumstances. Upon landing in Sydney, the loudspeaker in baggage claim was urging those who felt slightly unwell to seek medical attention immediately. At the time, I thought it sounded ominous and reminded me of Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven; I dismissed the foreboding implications. 

My time in Australia would be inevitably cut short, but not before I was able to delve into the traumatized state of New South Wales and explore ecological restoration in Tasmania. Paying tribute to what had been lost through visits and discussions with those most impacted. Surrounded by businesses that have evaporated and homesteads vaporized; the communities internalized resiliency, but it was laced with the social burns of wildfire. 

In Tasmania, I explored the premise of pyrogeography. The intersectionality of fire in past, present, and future; a juncture of geophysics, biology, and society. On field outings with pyrogeographic researchers, I spent considerable time roaming the World Heritage Conservation Areas, examining how fire decimated some of the planet’s oldest forests. Trying to answer questions about the feasibility of restoration in a more pyrophytic planet, and reflecting the duality of fire poses to the field of conservation. It was here that I explored the process of fire ecology in its true sense. Following, I had arrangements to travel to North Australia to spend time with aboriginal fire practitioners, still proficient in cultural land management. After, I hoped to pivot to Madagascar and eventually on to South America. 

As consistent with the sentiment of the world, things did not go as planned. I write this report to you from my sister’s couch - all roads seem to lead back to the couch - where the view is pleasant, but sans soccer match. Esparto, California feels like a continuation of the journey, from where I can see the coastal foothills of Sonoma County - the site of the 2017 Tubbs fire that swept Napa and Santa Rosa. Walking through those hills, trying to outsmart my sister’s flock of sheep, it’s clear that the vegetation is exceptionally dry. California, right now, is only at half its average precipitation, casting a sense of premonition in the COVID19 era. The current abnormal aridity of the American West may generate smoke-filled skies that will afflict air quality, further exacerbating coronavirus threats to those with compromised respiratory systems. The challenges of wildfires, just as their solutions, do not occur in isolation. In order to avoid contributing to the overflowing pool of pandemic speculation, I will simply say that COVID19 is teaching important lessons about the power of prevention - proactivity to avoid collapse of reactionary resources - and they will be applicable to more than just issues concerning human health. 

For this next quarter, I will do my part. Despite my constant rallying cries against the militarization of firefighting against ecology, I will put the boots back on this summer and walk in single file lines. COVID19 will grind much of society to a halt, but past grievances against the human-environmental relationship will persist and compound challenges. This next quarter will be far different than I had ever anticipated, but I look forward to the new lessons that will be laid out before us. 


An Idea about Recovery

One conceptual idea that has been spurned by my travels and research is the need for linking and strengthening communities impacted by wildfire (and potentially other natural disasters). As important as global and federal efforts are to increasing our cumulative resilience to wildfire, action must also be local and ground-up to become fully institutionalized. Communities cannot be dragged into accepting wildfire as an ecological process, they will have to embrace the reality. One way to do this is to bolster the local recovery process following wildfires, to strengthen communities after they have been exposed to their stark vulnerability.

    In November 2018, I watched from a far as my town burned down. I got back as soon as I could, but the wind-driven chaparral fire had already made its way to the sea. Taking with it 3 lives, 1,650 structures, and evacuating 300,000 people. At the same time, the community in Paradise was decimated and lost 86 lives. At home, the most surprising part to me were the reactions of people in the weeks following the fire. Shifting blame, general discoordination, confusion on how to maneuver insurance and rebuilding, and then the slow slide into forgetting all of the promises we made to do better next time. The year prior, Santa Barbara/Ventura experienced its record-breaking Thomas Fire; did we as a community learn anything from their communal experience? What lessons and promises did countless other communities make after the wildfire, and which ones worked and why? All of these communities are learning or forgetting in isolation, but they are all experiencing the same challenges. There are so many bridges that can be built.

    The concept is an Impacted Community Wildfire Support Network. Linking communities that have undergone the recovery process, and are willing to share those lessons with those that have just experienced a wildfire. The impacts of wildfire are deep, the burns are emotional as they are physical, and people need others to lean on. I believe that those that have had the experience themselves will understand best, and be most willing to offer the necessary empathy. 

However, the network would not only be an emotional support platform, it will have technical and practical application as well. The recovery process is hard to navigate - insurance, reconstruction, landscape architecture, environmental engineering - all of the essential pathways to “build back better”. The Network would provide expertise and advice on all of these elements, and they can be provided in forms such as recommendations from anyone that has undergone a wildfire up to professional consultation level services. 

Another interesting part of the Network could be outreach into the unimpacted surrounding communities to raise awareness. If awareness is only being generated in those that have experienced the loss, its impossible to get ahead of the problem. Events and functions need to occur in areas that are close enough to observed the damage, but still possess their risk. Try and learn lessons before being forced to confront them the hard way.

Inspired by a conference poster about local Portuguese efforts to remedy  severe burn environmental impacts, communities need support in understanding their natural resources post-fire and how to work together to conserve them. Sediment loss, revegetation challenges, water contamination, and mudslides may all be secondary concerns following an intense wildfire. An organization that can provide knowledge and potentially structure landscape restoration projects would contribute a lot to “building back better”. It is immediately following a disturbance when invasive species rebound, and it also the most challenging time to view alien vegetation as a priority. Ecological engineering is an important field that is not integrated well into disaster management, but it has a role to play. 

Lastly, I think this concept could help unite a voice calling for climate change and proactive wildfire management action. The most powerful stories are those that are told from the ones that have been at the front of the problem, and born its brunt. The wildfire experience is a heavy and strong one, it should be harnessed and channeled so to achieve meaningful action. Do not let the stories told in California, Greece, Spain, Australia, Arizona, or elsewhere disappear.


-Harrison

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