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.