15
FIRE IN THE MOUNTAINS
"Fire is the most perfect and unadulterated reflection, in Heaven as on Earth, of the One Flame. It is life and death, the origin and the end of every material thing. It is divine substance." 1
The summer of 1988 started with reports of a drought scorching America's Midwest. In Jackson the heat of June had reached an all time high of 96 degrees. These record-breaking temperatures began to dry out forests that had already been subjected to two mild winters and on the hill behind our cabin some wells were dry. Fires began as expected but in July the magnitude of the fire season suddenly became apparent. The national media turned from the plight of Midwestern farmers and converged on the Yellowstone ecosystem to report about the most volatile and political fire story in the country's history.
From 1880 to 1970 National Park policy had been to put out all fires as soon as possible. However, natural fires do a number of important jobs: they clean out areas of deadfall that burn easily and they burn firebreak corridors through expanses of otherwise solid forest, thus reducing the risk of catastrophic fire spread. The forests, in other words, take care of themselves. But ten years of mountain pine-beetle infestation had killed many trees, thus adding fuel. Because of the dry climate and long winters, not much deadwood had decayed. Ninety years' worth of kindling was still on the ground in 1988. The policy placed in effect in 1972 gave park officials discretion in handling natural fires. These were monitored daily but allowed to burn if they posed little threat to life or property.
Ten lightning-caused fires at the end of June and the beginning of July were allowed to progress naturally despite severe drought conditions. Four more fires raced upon the Park from adjacent national forests, and we watched the towering columns of smoke rise above the valley to the north as the oldest national park in America was burning on its seventy-fifth anniversary. It was still very much in the distance and not a threat to Jackson Hole.
On July 25 fierce winds drove some of the blazes into Yellowstone's Grant Village and one building was lost at West Thumb; others threatened property in the Gallatin National Forest and forced the evacuation of the Montana towns of Silver Gate and Cooke City; another became a wildfire in four days and the sight of a dramatic back burn which let off 3.5 billion BTUs, the equivalent of a nuclear bomb. On July 22 the North Fork fire, set accidentally by a woodcutter's spark in the Targhee National Forest, quickly spread into Yellowstone and, when the wind picked up, exploded onto five fronts nearly engulfing Old Faithful and rolling within a half mile of Park Headquarters at Mammoth. A finger of it split off threatening Canyon, Tower and Roosevelt Junctions. Helicopters, bulldozers and ground troops could only stand aside as the North Fork fire took its toll.
West Yellowstone residents claimed that full suppression tactics were not employed in the early stages of that fire. Certain crews were prohibited from using chainsaws and a water-truck driver was ticketed for driving off the road. Bull- dozers were banned when they didn't pass park inspection. In mid-August a fire started in the Custer National Forest when a horseshoe nicked a rock sending a spark into dry grass. Another ignited near Pinedale, ninety miles south of Jackson. Tinder-dry forest conditions coupled with gale-force winds produced the notorious "Black Saturday," when 56,000 acres in Yellowstone were consumed. The fire- fighting forces doubled but still could not stop the growing infernos. Another fire started from the same windstorm and spread to Shadow Mountain, four miles north of our cabin. We watched as helicopters flew at five-minute intervals carrying huge water buckets swinging from their underbellies.
Our friend Bonnie called from Jackson offering storage space if we wanted to move some of our things. It was hard to believe it might come to that. We talked about transferring our artwork but decided to wait a day. There was fire every- where, ash on everything and we couldn't stay outdoors. The helicopters continued until dark when the full moon rose, turned blood red, then disappeared as the smoke moved in again. When a dull orange sun shone at 9:00 the next morning, the smoke was so thick that some valley residents reported not being able to see their neighbors' houses fifty feet away.
The fire close to us was contained and so on August 22, Elizabeth and I drove south towards Pinedale and the Elkhart Park entrance to the Winds. Because we had seen a plume of smoke on the way to the trailhead, we stopped at the ranger station. There was a fire at Fayette Lake, just a little blaze and nothing to worry about. We also found out that Knapsack Col, a steep gap on the divide between Peak Lake Valley and Titcomb Basin, was devoid of snow, this being such a dry year, so we could cross the mountains, making a loop rather than retracing our steps. The parking lot was full as usual but only a few people on the trail. After a nine-mile march up to Seneca Lake, we descended two miles to Lost Lake, lost in the woods, ringed by high rocky ridges. A site by a rushing creek away from the few pitched tents provided some privacy and we cooled our burning feet in the lake. I was tired. After dinner and a walk in the woods to see our surroundings and stretch our legs, we lay back in the tent, studying tomorrow's route while a full moon lit this small, secluded valley leaving us in semi-darkness.
At 2:00 a.m. I awoke with a burning sensation in the middle of my stomach. I remember experiencing this when Elizabeth left for Nepal. Was I scared about climbing that high col? Anxious about the prospect of disappointing her? Heights bothered me. I changed sides, tried lying on my back to relieve the pressure and finally fell asleep.
In the morning I discussed my predicament with my daughter. She didn't care what we did or how we got there, she was just happy to be in the wilderness again. I felt better. The pressure was off and the pain almost gone. But the smoke we had seen yesterday had spread across the mountains to fill the draw at the south end of the lake. A wrangler on horseback crossed the stream to find out what we knew about the fire, wondering if he should take his group out the way we had come in. I was just as concerned heading into the mountains for three more days. After he found out where we were going, he said we'd be able to see the fire from the high country and would know what to do. He drew a map in the dirt showing us a more northerly exit in case the fire should continue to spread.
We packed up and climbed to Fremont Crossing, uneasy about going on. Two hikers passed wondering if their car back at Elkhart Park might have melted. As we crossed Shannon Pass we saw the smoke whorl in the southern distance. The trail into Peak Lake Valley, a rocky quadrangle of lakes and huge boulders, was steep and stony, and the creek carrying the melt waters of Stroud Glacier above became the headwaters of the famous Green River. We hiked around this opaque turquoise tarn, set up camp and cooked dinner. I tested myself using kinesiology, taught to us by our naturopath, and found that I was full of acid rain which could have been the cause of my discomfort the previous night. A few minutes after taking some homeopathic pills I felt better. After washing the dust off in the lake, we walked up the canyon towards the col to see what we could see. It looked steep as we arched our necks trying to pick a path. I was feeling positive and Elizabeth reassured me that we could retrace our steps if I felt threatened. We passed one tent on the way back with two guys smoking a joint behind a boulder. The smell taunted me and I lit up back at our site. The sun went down behind the rocky outcrops and the valley deepened in color. I slept well.
The next day we were up before the sun and walking soon after; we reached the "trail's end" sign denoting that we were on our own, a bit unnerving. The col came into view, so high ahead of us, but it disappeared as we walked along a creek which went underground although its gurgle could still be heard. There was only a faint trail as we approached the top and as I scrambled up the last few feet, Elizabeth turned and reached for me. I didn't need help, exhilarated at being where I was, 12,240' in the air. Knapsack Col - the saddle between Twins and Winnifred Peaks with Peak Lake valley on the west, Titcomb Basin on the east and the upper end of the Twins Glacier at our feet.