As the forest literally burned around me, I pulled over and got out of my car. And walked into the flames.
In 2005 prescribed burns near Grant Grove in Sequoia National Park brought fire right up to the road I traversed weekly. These efforts would prove instrumental in saving large areas a decade later, as the Rough Fire—the first of a series of mega-fires that recurred subsequent summers—raged, uncontrolled through the area for months.
But in that moment, as tendrils of red flame crept up the trees, and smoke choked visibility beyond every corner, it felt dangerous and momentous. A unique occurrence worth investigating.
A compelling need to capture what I was witnessing enticed me to stop in a nearby pull out. Grabbing my tripod and camera, I stepped off the road and into the smoldering underbrush. I looked back to note my most likely exit in the case that the wind picked up or smoke blinded me. My intent was to walk into a small opening of trees and set up on a slight hill, surrounded by burning trees. As I entered the forest smoke from charred shrubs clung to my feet, occasionally blurring the ground around me. Embers showered down from crown fires still growing overhead.
I was vividly aware of the susurrus around me. When you walk into a forest on fire you enter a beast of constant sound and motion. The fire moaned in a low whooshing growl, punctuated by high, crackling pops as wood burst from exploding moisture. More ominous was the echo of snapping limbs and breaking trees, as they lost the will to stand. The moment felt slow, like scuba diving in a red, glowing cavern of heat, anger and smoke.
Most of my attention was focused on finding interesting compositions from among the chaos. As an amateur photographer, low-light photography was still new to me. I had no instinct for what would look good after the shoot, and firelight is incredibly fickle. There wasn’t a chance to pre-visualize my images, or move to reframe them. I’m always one to put extra pressure on myself, and I had one chance and one vantage point to get something amazing—knowing that it would be literally gone a few hours after my departure.
In hindsight, I don’t recommend doing this. Fire science, and consequently the documenting of fires, is likely going to increase in value for the foreseeable future, especially where I live. Millions of acres of national forest, and some of the giant sequoias I visit annually, are already gone. Much of the Sierra is now charred skeletons of what once seemed unending vegetation. Even the dirt and rocks have a feel of ache to them, where the trees have been burned to death.
These images are wistful ones for me, as they show the devastation of fire that represents healthy maintenance of one of our most precious resources. The forest will always feel like Home to me. I pray we can preserve them for all generations.
