At the end of May, a huge wildfire, some 10,000
hectares in size, was out of control and threatening the town of High Level in
northwestern Alberta. Townsfolk were
evacuated. It was only one of many fires burning across the country.
Fortunately, High Level was spared and residents have returned.
Fire has been both a tool and a danger.
Indigenous people fired the prairie to green up the grass that, in turn,
brought the bison back in their numbers. Europeans travelling across the plains
described fires stretching from one horizon to the other, creating a scene
worthy of Dante’s Inferno, leaving behind miles of scorched, blackened earth
that they crossed for days afterward.
Forest-dwellers regularly burned the undergrowth
to keep it free of trash. In the process, they created a patchy environment
with a much higher carrying capacity, with browse and pasture for both their
livestock and wildlife. All benefited.
For decades, received wisdom was the wild fires
were bad. We now are learning, all too well, the folly of that practice. We
forgot, or didn’t know, or chose to ignore that fires are Nature’s way of
getting rid of mess, of eliminating the Old to make way for the New. Final
succession-stage forests are prone to disease (such as Mountain Pine Beetle)
and the forest floor is covered with a thick layer of trash, all of which,
combined with the effects of climate change, result in a dangerously high
probability of uncontrollable wild fire. Witness the partial destruction of the
towns of Slave Lake (2011) and Fort McMurray (2016) in Alberta, the evacuation
of thousands of residents in the interior of British Columbia (2017) and the
disastrous Camp Fire (2018) in California that destroyed the town of Paradise
and killed at least 86 people.
We seemed to have learned our lesson about the
role of and the need for fire. Controlled burns of forests are now the norm.
The prairies are not immune. Farmers fear fire,
too.
* * *
The continuous ring on our old party-line phone
– a general ring, we called it –
signaled an emergency. We already knew what it was about – a fire out of
control across the road from our farmyard. Through the trees around our yard,
we had seen the flames leaping into the air. A neighbour had been burning
stubble, the wind had caught the fire and sent it raging down the field. Now
Dad and several neighbours were there, fighting to get it under control before
it burned into town a mere 1/4 mile away. The situation looked desperate.
And then they set a backfire.
A major fire creates its own environment by
sucking air towards it, creating an updraft. Backfires take advantage of that
updraft.
I watched as the men started a second fire some
distance – just the “right” distance – in front of the wall of flame. I did not
understand why they thought it a good idea to set a second fire, but it didn’t
take long to realize that they knew what they were doing. The smaller fire was
sucked into the larger fire, burning up the stubble as it went. With no more fuel,
the main fire fizzled out; the few remaining hot spots were quickly doused. The
town was safe – this time.
*
* *
Meyronne wasn’t always
spared. In September of 1923, a late night fire raged through the village. This
is how Addie described that night:
“We were startled out of bed shortly after
11:00 pm with a general ring, but we didn’t have to answer the phone to know
what the problem was, we could see light flickering on our bedroom wall. Abe
said, “Don’t wait up, who knows when I’ll be back.”
“You expect me to go back to sleep while you’re
off fighting a fire,” I retorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll be worried sick
and won’t be able to sleep a wink until you’re back home.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, “but this will be a
long night.”
And it was. I paced back and forth in the
kitchen. Bert came down rubbing his eyes wanting to know what was happening, I
told him that Dad was in town helping some folks fight a fire and he should get
back to bed ‘cause there was nothing he could do. Edith got him settled and
then sat up the rest of the night with me. We stood out on the front step and
watched the flames leap up into the air. We could smell the smoke, hear men
yelling, cursing, horses screaming. I made and drank an entire pot of coffee. I
prayed that everyone was safe, that no one would be injured or worse, would
die. It seemed to go on forever. “Is the whole town burning down?” Edith asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I hope not.”
Abe finally got back about 4:00 am. He reeked
of smoke.
*
* *
You can read what was lost that night in
Chapter 31, The Night the Village Burned, in “Our Bull’s Loose in Town!” Tales from the Homestead.
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Interesting. Fire has always been seen as a friend and an enemy
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