OUTof FLAMES the · torching 45 houses. On the second day the winds turned erratic, and the fire increased its area fivefold. The third day saw the winds shift to the northeast, and

PointReyesTen Years

After the

Vision

Fire

The manifold wilderness of Point Reyes—from the waves breaking on its unspoiled beaches to

the raptors circling its fog-swept forests—embodies much of what we love about the natural world.

With its southern tip a mere 20 miles from the Golden Gate, this vast, diverse, yet accessible natural

sanctuary offers an easy escape from the mundane and urbane for 2.4 million visitors per year.

Ten years ago, in October 1995, an epic wildfire scorched 12,000 acres of the park and consumed

45 homes on nearby Inverness Ridge. Miraculously, no one was killed in the weeklong Vision Fire

(so called for its origin near the summit of Mount Vision), but the blaze sent chills down the spines

of people around the region, who feared for the health and survival of a favorite local treasure.

The perspective of a decade brings new understanding. The Vision Fire burned in a region that

is wild but not remote, affording scientists an unprecedented opportunity to study the complexities

of the landscape’s response to a massive burn. Meanwhile, open space districts and fire professionals

took on the challenge of rethinking strategies for protection of human communities situated at the

“wildland-urban interface,” yet another stage in the evolving and continuing relationship between

people and wildland fires in a flammable landscape. Different habitats and commu-

nities respond to flame in different ways, but today all the former burn zones look

lush and healthy, a testament to fire’s ancient regime of creation, destruction, and

transformation.

OUTofthe FLAMES

Smoke from the

Vision Fire billows

over Inverness Ridge

(seen here from

across Tomales Bay)

on the afternoon of

October 3, 1995.

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tree in a bishop pine forest is the same age,born from a single high-intensity blaze.

Such fire-adapted species are commonlyfound in landscapes with a Mediterranean

climate. In these temperate zones ofwinter rain and summer drought, theprolific sprouts of spring dry up andleave plenty of tinder for the confla-grations of fall. Wildland fire is partof the life cycle.

A bishop pine forest untouchedby fire grows decrepit, unable toregenerate itself. Bishop pines have a normal life span of 60 to 80 years,so any given forest prospers with onemajor fire on a regular basis withinthat time frame.

Here on Inverness Ridge, wherethe Vision Fire burned 1,000 acres of bishop pine forest, the “new” for-est demonstrates fire’s regenerativepower. Witnesses described thebishop pine seedlings coming up “like a carpet.” These trees, now tenyears old, cover the ridge in densethickets around the blackened snagsof their cremated forebears. Mus-cular branches of the rare Marinmanzanita reach up through the tangle, competing with ceanothusand huckleberry for the bright sun-light that penetrates the diminishingspaces between the 20-foot treetops.

In addition to renewing the trees,fire sets in motion a series of changesin the forest community, removingcertain species from the stage andcueing the conditions for others toflourish. Ecologists call this “succes-sion,” the natural sequence by which

certain groups of plants and animals are re-placed over time by others.

It begins in the soil. Soon after the VisionFire, UC Berkeley microbiologist Tom Brunsdocumented changes in the subsurface popu-lations of mycorrhizal fungi in the bishoppine forest. These symbiotic organisms colo-nize the fine roots of trees and plants and per-form the specialized job of collecting waterand nutrients from the soil; in exchange forthese goods brokered by their fungal partners,the roots pay in sugar, which the fungi couldnot otherwise obtain.

Bruns, who collected root fungus speciesin the bishop pine forest both before and afterthe fire, discovered that the mycorrhizal com-munity had completely changed. Differentspecies colonize the roots of seedlings ratherthan those of mature trees, and he found that

the fire shifted the underground populationradically from the latter to the former. Thisindicates that a substantial “spore bank” ofthe fungi that colonize young trees had laindormant in the soil for decades (probablysince a previous such fire, as the one in 1927),waiting for the return of conditions underwhich they could flourish. By helping thebishop pine seed-lings grow and sur-vive, these early-successional fungi prepare the eventualfuel for future forestfires that will lead totheir next generation.

The commonbolete mushroom,Suillus pungens, allowedBruns to track thespread of that mycor-rhizal fungus throughpre- and post-fire for-est. Before the fire, hefound huge swaths(more than 3,000square feet) of geneti-cally identical fungus,which means it hadspread like a clone, vegeta-tively, from a single individ-ual’s dna. This was a tiredpopulation in need of re-newal. But after the fire, thegenotype of every Suilluspungens mushroom collectedwas different—the result ofspore colonization, the fun-gal analog of sexual repro-duction. Like a phoenix,healthy diversity had arisenfrom the ashes of monoculture.

Fire has other effects on the soil. It burnsoff the upper layers of duff, the decomposingleaves and twigs that fall and accumulate overthe years, exposing the raw mineral soilunderneath. Ash contains nutrients such aspotassium, calcium, and phosphorus, whichare returned to the soil wherever ash accumu-lates (dispersed in patterns by the flow ofwater and the currents of wind); but com-bustion vaporizes nitrogen, which becomesscarce in the ecosystem after a burn.

Enter the legumes, or members of the family Fabaceae, whose roots contain nodulesthat fix nitrogen in the soil. A “big bang” ofclover, lotus, and lupine followed the fire,awakened from a dormant seedbank deepunderground and no doubt energized by the

revitalized mycorrhizae. Roughly 85 percentof vegetative cover by the second year wascomposed of these plants. They bloomed andset seed profusely, replenishing their ownseedbank in the soil, then died off as the tallertrees and shrubs overwhelmed them. Notablewas Lupinus propinquus, the blue-floweredcousin of the yellow bush lupine (L. arboreus),which grew into five-foot shrubs by the end of the first year and painted the hills violetwith their blossoms in the second spring.Today, L. propinquus is no longer found in theforested regions at all, but we can assume itwill spring up again after the next fire.

Plants and insects ride the roller coastertogether. Transitional communities oflegumes, for example, attract a transient pop-ulation of butterflies and moths, documented

j u l y – s e p t e m b e r 2 0 0 5 bay nature 19

Enter the woods on Inverness Ridge andpause for a moment to listen. Natural historyweaves itself into stories for those willing tohear—whether teased from the patterns instone, distilled from the rings of a tree, orgathered from the melody of birdsong. Herein the forest, bishop pine trees whisper in thecool rush of an onshore breeze, their voicesspinning a million-year-old tale.

In October 1995, several teenagers campingillegally on nearby Mount Vision lit a camp-fire. They drenched and buried the embers,but the fire apparently smoldered under-ground in old pine duff. Three days later, fed by 40-mph winds, the fire erupted. Thiscombination of specific conditions—gustyweather, dry landscape, the meeting of sparkand fuel—created the firestorm that followed.

The resinous, oily sap of a bishop pine tree burns hot, and the flames spread swiftly.A stiff northwesterly blew the blaze into theParadise Ranch Estates, a housing develop-ment on the ridge above Inverness Park,torching 45 houses. On the second day thewinds turned erratic, and the fire increased its area fivefold. The third day saw the windsshift to the northeast, and so began the fire’smarch from the ridge to the sea, where it metwhat firefighters call “the great Pacific fire-break” at Limantour Beach.

In its course, the wildfire burned through a number of distinct habitats includingbishop pine and Douglas fir forest,coastal scrub, grasslands, and riparianzones. All these ecosystems have beenshaped over time by fire, yet eachresponds differently to the burn.

bishop pine forest

The liquid whistle of an osprey piercesthe rising shadows of the forest, wherenew trees now stubble the face of MountVision like stout whiskers on the jaw ofan oft-shaven giant. Bishop pine (Pinusmuricata) grows contorted by the con-trary forces of high wind and thin,granitic soil. Once widespread (as sug-gested by the fossil record), it now occursonly in scattered stands along the Cali-fornia coast from Humboldt to SantaBarbara counties, with isolated popula-tions south to central Baja.

A relict from the Plioceneepoch (two to five million yearsago), the bishop pine belongs to the category of “closed conepines,” which require intenseheat to reproduce. These so-called pyrophytes evolved at atime when lightning-caused wildfires were more common.The bishop’s cones have scalessealed closed with pitch, andthey open to release their seedsonly under high temperature.Direct sunshine on a late summeror autumn day can pop open theoccasional cone with a bang (thesound of which, overheard in the depths of the woods, can bestartling), but most cones remainclosed until touched by the heatof fire, thereupon “flowering”like grotesque tan blossoms anddropping their seeds onto thefreshly charred earth in whichthey germinate best. Most every

18 bay nature j u l y – s e p t e m b e r 2 0 0 5 O U T O F T H E F L A M E S

A Landscape Renewed by FireBy Geoffrey Coffey

(right) The Vision Fire burned hottest in

the bishop pine forest, torching mature

trees and depositing a rich layer of ash

that will nourish the newly-released pine

seeds. (below) View north to Point Reyes

from above Limantour Road; a vast area

was consumed by the Vision Fire, which

burned down from the ridge (out of photo)

until it met “the great Pacific firebreak.”

Bishop pines require intense

heat to reproduce. The Vision

Fire gave the conditions for

the renewal of the bishop

pine forest of Inverness

Ridge. (top) Burned bishop

pine cones opened by the

fire. (left) A new bishop pine

seedling, with seed cap still

in place (Feb. 1996). (bottom)

The fourth spring following the

fire, blue blossom ceanothus

and bishop pine saplings com-

pete for sunlight and space

along the Inverness Ridge Trail.

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Bruce Farnsworth, courtesy National Park Service

Charles Kennard

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bays, and madrones, and with a substory ofhazelnut, red elderberry, and an occasional big-leaf maple, the Douglas fir community is moreof a melting pot.This forest was heavily loggedwell into the 1950s, but many old-growth firsstill remain, especially on the steeper slopes;some of these trees are 400 years old, rivalingredwoods in height and girth.

As Douglas fir ages, it develops a thick andspongy bark that insulates it from fire; overtime the tree tends to shed its lower limbs,which might otherwise act as “ladder fuels”and carry fire into the crown. Thus adapted tothe periodic burn, older Douglas firs survivemost fires very well, and they regenerate read-ily in the aftermath. Forest fires not only clearduff from the forest floor, exposing the min-

eral soil in which the tree’sseeds prefer to grow; theyalso eliminate competitionfor the seedlings from theburned-away understory of more shade-tolerantspecies. As a result, Doug-las fir occurs in mixed-agestands, with young saplingsgrowing beside old grand-daddies and every age in between—a marked contrast with the stand-replacing self-immolationof bishop pine.

The Vision Fire ranthrough 1,500 acres ofDouglas fir forest, butmost of this burned at alow to medium intensity,far less hot than thefirestorm in the bishoppines. Thus many of theolder Douglas firs weremerely scorched on theoutside and otherwise

undamaged. The mortality rate of Douglas fir in this fire was 28 to 46 percent (vs. 42 to 82 percent mortality for bishop pine). Oaks,bays, and madrones here enthusiasticallystump-sprouted after the blaze. The forest isalso now peppered with a fresh new helping of young Douglas firs.

coastal scrub

As the ridge descends toward the Pacific, theforest gives way to coastal scrub, a “soft chap-arral” that occurs in patches at middle eleva-tions on the western side of the ridge and onthe northern point. Here the songs of white-crowned sparrows and wrentits serenade thesunrise, and trails of gray fox and mule deerweave among the coyote brush. Other com-

mon plants like sword fern, lizard tail, cowparsnip, coffeeberry, bracken fern, salal, huck-leberry, blackberry, and poison oak composethe thick tangle of a northern coastal scrubplant community, especially on the north-facing slopes that conserve more moisture.Certain dry south-facing slopes containCalifornia sagebrush (Artemisia californica),an aromatic species with feathered gray-greenfoliage more common in Southern California;here at Point Reyes it reaches the northern-most limit of its range.

All these scrub species respond well tofire, and regrowth after the Vision Fire wasrampant. Today the casual observer can hardlytell that a fire happened here at all. But thescrub usually burns in a patchwork pattern,forming a checkerboard of early- and late-stage growth; this maintains the equilibriumof the habitat, with food and shelter for ani-mals redistributed according to the vagariesof the fire. The Vision Fire disproportionately


by UC Berkeley professor Jerry Powell. In the first year, native butterflies appearedabundantly in association with the lotus,especially the orange sulphur (Colias eury-theme) and the acmon blue (Icaricia acmon).Abundant milkmaids (Cardamine californica)attracted masses of the exquisite mustardwhite butterfly (Pieris napi), which flourishedthrough three or four generations flying untilOctober (highly unusual for this species). Alldeclined in numbers as the low-growingplants yielded to manzanita and pine.

For the best example of life lurking on themargins, consider the rare yellow blossoms ofrush-rose (Helianthemum scoparium), listed in1990 as being “of doubtful occurrence in thenational seashore.” This plant sprouted by thethousands after the fire, and within two yearsPowell discovered an association with a tinyblack moth of the species Mompha, whose larvae fed on the rush-rose seeds. Enormouspopulations of the Mompha did not diminishby year five, and a specialist has declared thismoth “previously undescribed,” i.e., a speciesunknown to science. “Based on past behaviorof Helianthemum following large fires,” wrotePowell, “in time this plant and its predatorwill become rare again.” Sure enough, most

of the Helianthemum weregone by year eight, andPowell has not seen anyof the mystery Mompha in the last few years.

Another nitrogen-fixer, the blue blossom(Ceanothus thyrsiflorus),proliferated from dor-mant seed on InvernessRidge, stimulated to ger-minate by the intenseheat and emboldened bysunlight, in the absenceof the burned-awayunderstory. A survey bySan Francisco State bio-geographer BarbaraHolzman, who countedplants at 50 points along30 transects in the post-fire forest, found thisblue blossom had spread significantly, with an

observed increase of almost 200percent in the number of plantsin the study area between yearsone and two. They reached tenfeet tall in year five, codominantwith bishop pine, and by year tenthey have maintained a positionof relative supremacy. Thosegrowing in dense stands of pinewill eventually fade, but thestrong population along the forest margins and in the chap-arral most likely will continue to thrive.

Years three through seven saw the heyday of the Marinmanzanita (Arctostaphylos vir-gata), another rare endemic. Theheat of the Vision Fire, and theremoval of the competing under-growth, triggered thousands ofthese seedlings in areas where noplants had been known to occurin our generation. Peekingthrough forest openings, they

can reach treelike heights of 15 to 20 feet withgnarled red trunks and a gorgeous Januarybloom. But even now many ten-year-old man-zanitas are suffering in the deepening shade ofthe rising bishop pine canopy, and don’t havelong to live. Survivors will be rare. Yet plentyof new seed now waits underground, broodingon the future.

All these organisms compete with eachother for limited resources of water, nutrients,and sunlight in the seemingly random patternsof the forest. Dense stands of bishop pine willslowly thin out as the stronger trees surviveand the weaker die off; scientists estimatethat only three of 100 trees in an even-agedstand like this will survive to maturity. Buteven dead trees or “snags” play a role—theyare room and board for wood-boring insectsand the birds that like to eat them, and theyprovide nesting and perching sites for raptors.Falling snags knock over young trees and cre-ate openings in the forest, allowing shrubslike coffeeberry, huckleberry, wax myrtle,thimbleberry, poison oak, and others to reachthe sunlight. Some snags roll down slope andinto streams, damming the flow and creatinghabitat for fish and other aquatic creatures.

douglas fir forest

The northern end of Inverness Ridge remainsthe stronghold of bishop pine, while the shale-derived southern end is dominated by Doug-las fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii). Mixed with oaks,


Fire OriginFire OriginFire Origin

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The colorful mosaic pattern in

this mixed oak woodland near the

Hostel reveals the variable effects

of low intensity fire and wind. The

patchiness of the burn promotes

variation in vegetation structure,

leading to a wider range of ecologi-

cal niches and greater biodiversity.

A Point Reyes mountain beaver caught on film with

a remote camera set up by biologists studying this

unusual and reclusive rodent.

This sequence shows the advance of the fire over the

course of the first three days, from its detection at

1 p.m. on Oct. 3. The red marks the area burned since

the time on the preceding map; the gray marks previ-

ously burned areas. Note the fire’s dramatic wind-

driven run to the ocean on the morning of Oct. 4.

A fire-charred log is surrounded

by rampant Lupinus propinquus,

a species of bush lupine that

appeared for several springs

following the fire, then vanished.

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Bruce Farnsworth, courtesy National Park Service

Gary

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GreenInfo Network\LIJ; data from National Park Service (Point Reyes National Seashore)

backed chickadee and Pacific-slope fly-catcher) were found in reduced numbers atthe burned site in the first few years; they willlikely return only as the alders and willows ofthe riparian woodlands regrow.

All the above factors would account forincreased numbers of birds, but not necessar-ily for their increased reproductive success.The latter is a better indicator of habitat qual-ity, and hence important to measure (thoughdifficult to quantify). Geupel’s and Gardali’snest survival and population growth modelsfor song sparrows suggest that the burned sitebecame a population “source” for the region,while unburned sites were “sinks.” Whataccounts for the vigor that characterizesthese numbers? No matter what we choose to call that special ingredient, fire appears todeliver it.

grasslands

The coastal prairie, composed of perennialbunchgrasses and sod, once covered vaststretches of Point Reyes, occupying the lowerelevations roughly between the scrub and thebeach. As with all of California’s native grass-lands, this habitat has succumbed to a num-ber of outside forces that disrupted their nat-ural cycles. First came the Europeans, whoseintroduced annual grasses overwhelmed thenatives with their sheer insurmountable num-bers. Next came the beef and dairy cattle,allowed by ranchers to overgraze the bunch-grasses. Finally came the roads and the carsand the houses, the growth of the wildland-

urban interface,and the need forfire suppresion, instark contrast tothe practices ofthe indigenous Miwok, who regularly burnedgrasslands to keep them fresh and productive.

Today the grasslands of Point Reyes aremore rangeland than prairie, a weed patch ofEuropean annuals and grazing grounds forseven dairy and 15 beef operations. But nativebunchgrasses such as hair grass (Deschampsia),oat grass (Danthonia), and fescue still bear up through the invaders, complemented bywildflowers like goldfields, checker-bloom,buttercups, Indian paintbrush, and Douglasiris. What few grasslands remained in theregion touched by the Vision Fire lay black-ened and fallow for one season of rain, thenerupted that first spring with new life—thefirst and fastest zone of transition.

a shifting mosaic

Nothing in nature is cut-and-dried; thingsoccur by degrees. Such is the case with fire,which yields different effects on the land-scape at different intensities of burn. Studiesafter the Vision Fire found that 70 percent ofthe vegetation burned at low intensity, 20 per-cent at moderate intensity, and 10 percent athigh intensity. The result was a kaleidoscopeturned in different ways—soft and easy in thelow-intensity burn zone, where many of theold trees survived, vs. hard and fast in the cen-ter of the firestorm, where the old trees were

incinerated. The uneven distribution of ash and sediment from erosion is blown bythe wind and washed by the rain, settlingunevenly upon the landscape and furthercomplicating the patterns of regrowth. Thislong-term life cycle dances to a tune called by fire, ancient destroyer and creator, artistextraordinaire.

Native plants so invigorated push theboundaries of their own communities, dic-tating the watershed-wide laws of succession.A grassland untouched by fire turns into scrub as coyote brush and other pioneershrubs move in; scrub unburned may become

evergreen forest with theadvance of Douglas fir. Smallfires along the edges keepthe boundaries in flux—or a high-intensity crown firecan torch the entire forest,setting the stage again forgrassland.

We find that all roadslead back to the source,where a spark in the shadowof an old-growth forest car-ries all the metaphor ofmyth. Such ancient connec-tions are like time-ripenedseeds held in store for thecalamity, yielding beautyfrom ashes.


“zeroed the odometer” on thousands of acresof this habitat.

This spells difficult times ahead for thePoint Reyes mountain beaver (Aplodontia rufaphaea), an unusual and prehistoric speciesfound nowhere else in the world. Roughly thesize of a muskrat, the mountain beaver digstunnels in cool, north-facing slopes undermoderately dense coastal scrub; its primitivekidneys require it to live in moist areas and to drink one-third of its body weight in waterevery day. It feeds on coyote brush, swordfern, cow parsnip, and other scrub vegetation.

The Vision Fire burned 40 percent of themountain beaver’s known range, includingthe majority of its prime habitat. A vast net-work of holes was revealed underneath theburned-away scrub. Roughly 98 percent of themountain beaver population in the burn areadied in their burrows—roasted, asphyxiated,or parched.

But all was not lost. Monitoring eight sitesthat showed post-fire activity, U.S. GeologicalSurvey biologist Gary Fellers found signs ofrecovery at all but onesite. The presence orabsence of cow parsnip(Heracleum lanatum)appeared to play a factorin the survival of the rarerodents—presumablybecause this robustshrub grows quickly and thus provides moreimmediate food andshelter. But to thrive, the mountain beaversrequire the thicker

protection and taller architecture of a late-stage scrub community—especially the tallerwoody shrubs like coyote brush and coffee-berry, which can reach ten feet in height andusually shed their lower limbs as they grow,opening up the understory beneath them.Fellers says we must wait at least five moreyears, probably more, before this biomeachieves the maturity necessary to supportthe estimated pre-fire population of 5,000animals.

riparian corridor

Rivers, streams, and creeks—riparian corri-dors—trace serpentine lines of living greenupon the landscape. Because they channelfresh water, these zones grow more lush treesand vegetation, and host more wildlife. In afire, the presence of water means that plantsare better hydrated, and thus more resistantto burn. Indeed, the 500 acres of riparianwoodland in the Vision Fire perimeter burnedat low (and occasionally medium) intensity,with a tree mortality rate of only 5 percent.

Wherever theriparian zone doesburn, turnover happens fast—blackberry, thimble-berry, rush, nettle,man-root, poisonoak, and cow par-snip swiftly recolo-nize the burnedareas, then yield tofast-returning wil-low and alder, bayand buckeye. Sed-iment and ashwashed downhillfrom the denudedforest leave theirfertilizing deposits

in rich alluvial fans, spurring even greatergrowth. Many animals displaced from otherburn zones take refuge in the riparian corri-dors; here the fast-growing shoots make goodforage for mammals, while the tangle of oldand new growth provides excellent shelter for rodents, reptiles, and birds. According toPowell, who monitored Lepidoptera larvae,plants on the ridge in the bishop pine forestaccumulated their caterpillar faunas slowly,while the lower canyon’s riparian woodsreestablished Lepidoptera sooner and more quickly.

PRBO Conservation Science biologistsGeoff Geupel and Tom Gardali discoveredinteresting fire-driven dynamics in the riparian bird community. Monitoring songsparrows (Melospiza melodia) in burned vs.unburned sites after the fire, they found significantly more birds in the burned area.As the song sparrow builds its nests in lowshrubs, it likely benefited from the swift anddense regeneration of the riparian understory,and moved there en masse. An analogousboost in seed production, small insects, andother food sources likely drove the return as well.

Other bird species, such as the Americangoldfinch and the Allen’s hummingbird, showmore flexibility in their nest-height place-ment—yet they were also more abundant atthe burned sites than in the unburned. Theproliferation of early food sources (seeds forthe goldfinches, nectar for the humming-birds) may have drawn these species back tothe burn zone. Not surprisingly, most birdsthat live primarily in trees (e.g., the chestnut-


Two views of the same spot in the bishop pine forest

along the Inverness Ridge Trail, taken shortly after

the fire in February 1996 (left) and four years later, in

March 2000 (right). Even though coast live oaks are

much more resistant to fire than bishop pines, the

intensity of the pine-fueled fire killed the oak seen in

the center of both images.

Song sparrows in

Muddy Hollow showed

increased reproductive

success following the

Vision Fire.

The fire led to a burst of new

growth and wildflowers in

coastal scrub and grasslands

the following spring. A charred

branch frames an Indian paint-

brush near the Laguna Trail,

April 1996.

View of coastal scrub and

Muddy Hollow from Limantour

Road in the winter following the

fire. Drakes Bay and the headlands

of outer Point Reyes are visible in

the distance.

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Point ReyesStation

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T O M A L E S B A Y

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Point ReyesNational SeashoreVisitor Center

Hostel

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Bayview Trail

Fire Lane Trail

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Bucklin Trail

Baldy Trail

Old Pine Trail

Meadow Trail

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SkyCamp

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Paradise RanchEstates

Nature Conservancy Bishop Pine Preserve

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FIRE ORIGIN

The Vision FirePoint Reyes

Horizontal Scale

6000 feet

Vertical Scale varies due to perspective in this simulated 3-D view. Fire intensity data courtesy of Point Reyes National Seashore. Cartography by Louis Jaffe and Peter Maier, GreenInfo Network.

�Burn Intensity

High

Medium

Low

Vision Fire 10th Anniversary Events

OngoingFilm: Spark of Life—Fire at Point ReyesAn 11-minute presentation on the Vision Fire. Includes original footage and interviews with people involved in different aspects of the fire. Shown on request at the Bear ValleyVisitor Center, Point Reyes National Seashore.

Saturday, September 10, 10 am–2:30 pm Nature Hike: Tour of the Burn AreaSee how various park habitats responded to the Vision Fire on a visit to the burn area at Point Reyes with Bay Nature and Jennifer Chapman, Fire Education Specialistwith the National Park Service at Point Reyes.Sponsored by Bay Nature and Point Reyes National Seashore (NPS)www.baynature.org

Saturday, September 17, 10 am–4:30 pmSeminar: Fire in the EcosystemPoint Reyes National Seashore Association Field Seminar10 am–12:30 pm—Presentations: • Laurel Collins, Geomorphologist, Watershed Sciences • Tom Gardali, Biologist, PRBO Conservation Science• Barbara Holzman, Professor of Biogeography, S.F. State• Jerry Powell, Professor Emeritus of Insect Biology,

UC Berkeley• Gary Fellers, Biologist, US Geological Survey, Point Reyes Field

Station1:30–4:30 pm—Field Trip Registration required; call (415)663-1200.Suggested donation $15–$35www.ptreyes.org

Saturday, October 1, 10 am–4 pm Seminar: Fire in the Wildland-Urban Interface Point Reyes National Seashore Association Field Seminar10 am–12 pm—Presentations:• Ed Mestre, Battalion Chief, Marin County Fire Department• Keith Parker, Senior Captain, Marin County Fire Department

(Tomales Station)• Roger Wong, Fire Management Officer for Point Reyes National

Seashore• Alison Forrestel, Fire Ecologist, National Park Service,

SF Bay Area1–4 pm—Field Trip Registration required; call (415)663-1200.Suggested donation $15–$35www.ptreyes.org

Sunday, October 2, 4–9 pmCelebrating Rebirth—A Gathering on Inverness RidgeSlide show, potluck, artwork, and storiesHosted by photographer Richard Blair and artist Kathleen GoodwinRSVP to (415)663-1615

Saturday, October 8, 7–9 pmReadings: Point Reyes Ten Years After the Vision FirePoint Reyes Books, 11315 State Route 1, Point Reyes StationGeoff Coffey, Sim Van der Ryn, Ane Carla Rovetta, and Greg Sarris.Sponsored by Bay Nature and Point Reyes Books

Saturday, October 15, 2–4 pmDiscussion: Community Perspectives—Reflections on the Vision Fire Red Barn, Bear Valley, Point Reyes National SeashoreA public dialogue on ecology, firefighting, private property, andfire safety; guest speakers will present insights for discussion.Sponsored by Point Reyes National Seashore (NPS)

October is Fire Safety Month and Fire Prevention Week is October2–8. The Marin County Fire Prevention Officers are sponsoring theirannual Fire and Life Safety Fair on October 8 in Corte Madera.(415)927-5077.

Please check the Bay Nature website for additional events and updates on those listed above.(www.baynature.com/events_ptreyes.html)

Bishop Pine Forest:From Bayview parking lot on Limantour Road, takeInverness Ridge Trail (which starts as a fire road) northtoward the ridge. After passing around a gate, cross a stretch ofasphalt and reconnect with the trail on your left (watch for sign). SkirtingParadise Ranch Estates to your right, you will find the rare Marin manzanita inter-mingled with the more common arctostaphylus glandulosa in openings between the youngbishop pines. Turn left on Drakes View Trail and go downhill through the dense forest. Turn left onBayview Trail to return to parking lot (4.6 miles round trip). Or you can walk 0.5 miles farther down, toMuddy Hollow Road, for a good view of the riparian habitat of Muddy Hollow Creek. Note the bandof mixed hardwood trees running along the creek; the water these trees draw from the creek makesthem more resistant to fire. (Please note: Muddy Hollow Trail is currently closed for restoration.)

Douglas Fir Forest:Hike the Sky Trail south from Limantour Road to Woodward Valley Trail (2.6 miles).This route through mixed-age Douglas fir reveals the varying effects of fire at differentintensities. In some places, fire blackened the bark of many large, old Douglas firs, but they suffered no permanent damage. In other places along the route, you will passstanding dead trees (snags), victims of isolated crown fires. Part way down WoodwardValley, look for a clearing with a number of young Douglas fir saplings, profiting fromthe fire-made opening in the canopy.

Coastal Scrub:From the trailhead near the Hostel, take Laguna Trail south to Fire Lane Trail and continue up through coastal scrub toward the ridge. Gently rub your fingers on theabundant California sagebrush and inhale the scent of its aromatic oils. These oils fedthe flames that swept through here in 1995, but with the rampant regrowth, evidenceof the fire is scant today. As you climb, the slope grows steeper, and soon you reenterthe forest. (3.1 miles to Sky Trail; 2.8 miles return via upper Laguna Trail.)

HIK

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another two decades for prescribed fire to beembraced agency-wide as a means of ecologi-cal management and restoration.

Meanwhile, human settlements expandedrapidly in the 20th century (the suburbanboom of the 1950s, the “back-to-the-landmovement” of the 1970s, and the sprawl of the 1990s), resulting in a sharp increase of thenumber of people living at the wildland-urban

interface (wui). Research by the U.S. ForestService in 2000 found that California had 5 million homes on the wui, more than anyother state and twice as many as second placePennsylvania.

This reality presents an ongoing challengeto fire officials. At Point Reyes, as in othernational parks with nearby towns, the 2004fire management policy calls for suppressionof any “unplanned ignition.” Even prescribedburns, conducted here on a limited scale, may not burn freely within their perimetersthroughout the night, but must be extin-guished by the end of the day they are set.This denies fire its elemental role as unregu-lated destroyer and creator, but it defers tothe imperatives of the contemporary world,where human life and property must be pro-tected. A major blaze like the Vision Fire is no longer just a harmonious (if dramatic) ele-ment of the landscape. It’s an emergency.

The bulk of fire-related work today alongthe wui at Point Reyes focuses on mechani-cal fuel reduction, on both the landscape andpersonal scales. For the former, “shaded firebreaks” (i.e., stands of trees that have beenthinned rather than clear-cut) can slow thespread of wildfires and keep them at a lowerintensity until they can be contained; the current fire policy authorizes up to 1,500acres of mechanical fuel reduction each year.For the latter, the clearance of trees, brush,and tall grass at least 30 feet around homesand other buildings creates a localized bufferof “defensible space” that can slow the spreadof fire in developed areas. In the last fouryears, the nps (working with the local non-profit FIRESafe Marin) has distributed $1.7 million in grants for fuel reduction work along the wui, most of it focused on private

property. “In the eventof a wildland fire,”says Wendy Poinsot,environmental plan-ner for the nps fireprogram in the BayArea, “no amount of fuel reduction on federal lands cancompensate for thehazards of high fuelloads immediately surrounding homes


that had previously turned in harmony withmankind. Native grasslands began to degradeas scrub vegetation took over and fuel levelsrose in the forests, compounding the risk ofuncontrollable wildfires.

The Spanish Crown eventually yieldedCalifornia to Mexico, and fire policy wasrevised to allow Mexican ranchers to burncoastal scrub as a means of opening up newlands for cattle. These regions werethen grazed to the ground and leftfallow as the cattle were driven totheir next pasture, a high-shock andlow-value transaction.

When the United States tookCalifornia from Mexico in 1848, firepolicy became an instrument of thelogging industry, which operatedunder the principle of “preservationof capital.” Trees are lumber andlumber is money, so total fire sup-pression was the rule. In the 1940s,the National Park Service begandoing controlled burns in theFlorida Everglades, the first officialrecognition of fire as a positive fac-tor in promoting viable plant andanimal communities. Still, it took

26 bay nature j u l y – s e p t e m b e r 2 0 0 5

Getting Burned: PEOPLE AND WILDLAND FIREBy Geoffrey Coffey of wild rye, madia, wyethia, lupine,

and red maids, which they madeinto seedcakes called pinole. Byscorching the sun-dried bunch-grasses in fall, the Miwok removedold thatch and encouraged healthynew growth and a heavy inflores-cence (thus more seeds) the follow-ing year. Tasty edible bulbs likecamas, soap root, blue dicks, andBrodiaea all proliferate after a burn.Fires also kept coyote brush, sage-brush, and other pioneer shrubs ofthe coastal scrub in check. And, byburning up to the edge of the forest,the Miwok created the illusion of afence that elk and pronghorn werehesitant to cross, a technique for“tending” wild herds.

According to a Miwok chief,“Burning was limited to certain elders who were looked up to asleaders or who understood how fireshould be handled.” This show ofrespect for fire’s elemental impor-tance underscores the Miwok’sacknowledgment of the associated dangers.They lacked hydrants, hoses, and the othertools of a modern fire department; a fire outof control could easily mean the loss of a vil-lage. The Miwok’s regular maintenance burnsnot only rejuvenated the landscape but alsoprevented the buildup of fuels that could leadto a catastrophic wild fire.

The arrival of the colonial powers fromSpain brought major changes in the fireregime. In 1793, Governor Arrillaga outlawedall deliberate fires set by Indians in California,citing “widespread damage which results tothe public from the burning of fields.” We do

not know whether this negativeassessment derived from a fear ofgrass fires spreading into towns, amisunderstanding of natural firedynamics, or simple racism. Butwithout a doubt, the Spanishedict altered cycles of fire ecology

Fire dwells deep in the human psyche. It isamong the oldest of words, the most elemen-tal of tools, and the primary means by whichearly man projected himself onto the world.The torch and the hearth fire enabled ourmove from the cave to the village, whilebroadcast burning gave us the ability to shapethe environment to fit our needs, rather thanmerely adapting to the existing landscape.

The Coast Miwok lived along the coast ofMarin at least 5,000 years before the arrival of Europeans. While more is known aboutthe practices of the related inland Miwok ofthe Sierra foothills, the Coast Miwok mostcertainly managed their environment in partby regularly burning it. They learned throughobservation of nature that a landscape in theearly stages of succession after a fire producedtheir primary foods in greater quantity andbetter quality. Thus the bounty of this regionexisted not despite human presence, butrather (to a certain degree) because of it.

According to Carlos Porrata, former rangerat Tomales Bay State Park, the Miwok wouldallow the season’s first crop of acorns—whichwas often infested with worms—to dropuncollected. They would then light firesunder the oaks; the subsequent acorn cropwould be prolific and worm-free. After a fire,stump-sprouting trees, understory shrubs,and new grasses would attract elk, deer, andother game that preferred the new shoots ofsecondary growth to the woody stems of theold forest. Of course, an open understory alsomade it easier for hunters to see their prey.

The Miwok also lit periodic fires in thegrasslands after they had collected the seeds

O U T O F T H E F L A M E S

Immediately after the fire, an emergency

Cultural Resources Team was assembled

to survey the burn area for possible dam-

age to cultural sites. Park ranger Lanny

Pinola shows Bob Allen, of the Drake

Navigators Guild, a Coast Miwok stone

artifact uncovered by the fire.

Firefighters from the

California Department of

Forestry keep an eye on

flames in a bay laurel

grove near Sky Camp on

the third night of the fire.

The Coast Miwok people were the original inhabitants of the area now known as Marin and Sonoma counties, including the Point Reyespeninsula. This Coast Miwok story—brief as it is (perhaps it is part of a longer narrative)—demonstrates several Coast Miwok valuesregarding the subject of fire. Fire is something,like all aspects of nature, that is useful and necessary and yet powerful, demanding respect.If misused or disrespected (i.e., stolen), it canturn on people in a harmful manner, or, as in the case of this story, get out of (human) control.Tom Smith, the last Coast Miwok medicine man,was over 90 years old when he related this story(probably speaking in a mixture of Miwok andSpanish, as he was not fluent in English) toIsabel Kelly, a UC Berkeley graduate student,in 1932. Greg Sarris

Theft of FireOne time kulupi [hummingbird] went up

the coast to get fire.The people here had

none. Old Coyote sent that kulupi up the

coast. He [kulupi] went at night and got a

chunk of fire. He stuck it under his throat.

The next day those people from up the

coast came after him. Kulupi had reached

San Lucas already, which was near Tomales.

Kulupi came pretty quick.

Old Coyote saw Fire Man chasing kulupi,

and he was burning all the coast and the

salt water. He was a big fire. Coyote came

outside and said, “I’ll fix it.” He took mud

in his hand and threw it on Fire Man. The

mud put out the fire.

Coyote asked Fire Man, “What do you

want to be burning people for?”

“Somebody took my fire in the night.”

Coyote told him, “I have that fire now. I

had none for cooking.”The Fire Man said,

“Why didn’t you come and talk to me?

Why didn’t you tell me you wanted it?

Why steal it?”

They talked and Coyote said he had

his fire now. “You can go home now and

take care of your fire. I don’t need you here

anymore.”

Kulupi wanted the fire on his throat so

that everybody would see it as he flew

around. They made this fire at San Lucas.

Story taken from Interviews with Tom Smith and

Maria Copa: Isabel Kelly’s Ethnographic Notes on

the Coast Miwok Indians of Marin and Southern

Sonoma Counties. Edited by Mary Collier and Sylvia

Thalman. mapom, San Rafael, Calif. 2003. (The story

has been further edited for clarity by Greg Sarris, tribal

chair of the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria and

the great great grandson of Tom Smith.)

One of the 45 homes in

Paradise Ranch Estates on

Drakes View Drive that burned

down in the Vision Fire.

(continued on page 32)

Bruce Farnsworth, courtesy National Park Service Richard Blair, www.richardblair.com

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crowns of the big pines on the ridge poppedinto flame like wooden matches. We sat in thehot water, transfixed by the awesome powerof the wildfire. We heard no sound except thefierce explosions of trees bursting into flame.There was a northerly breeze and in the 45minutes we sat silently sipping scotch in thehot tub, the fire had moved quite a distancesouth along the ridge, the flames movingmore slowly in our direction down the easternslope. We figured the fire would have to leap a fire road about a half mile west of us beforecrossing the drainage and moving towards us.The upward draft of the ridge fire slowed thedownhill movement of the flames; and themoist, dense bay trees on that slope wouldn’tburn as quickly as the dry needles and shaggybark of the pines above.

The scotch bottle was empty. Our mindsnumbed by the spectacle, our bodies limp fromthe warm water, we went into the house for anuneasy sleep. Sometime during the night, Iheard men shouting and went outside. Therewere two fire trucks idling in the driveway withfive or six firefighters inside. They were fromKensington in the East Bay. The chief lookedme over. “Didn’t the sheriff tell you to leave?”“They never came here,” I lied. The chief toldme, “The fire’s moving mostly south but itcould easily come this way, and we need tokeep it from moving down the hill toward thetown. There are other units up at the houses

on the Nature Conservancy land. You can stay for now, but if we tell you to leave, you’llfollow my orders. Have you got a place for mymen to sleep?” I smiled and took them to theArk, our old class project which had sincebecome a popular bed-and-breakfast cottage.

In the morning, the chief asked me to showhim around the property he might have todefend. I took him through our ramblinghouse and I showed him our 10,000-gallonconcrete water tank with its own hydrantalong with our 15,000 gallon-concrete-linedfish pond. The chief nodded approvingly.“You’re in good shape. We’ll hope for thebest.”

I walked up the road with the chief and my son into the Bishop Pine Preserve, a 600-acre watershed that had been donated to theNature Conservancy byan English painter,Gordon Onslow Ford,who still lived on the pre-serve together with fellowartists J.B. Blunk and JohnAnderson, to whom hehad granted homesites.

Department ofCorrections fire crewswere busy cutting treesalong the road throughthe preserve to widen itfor big equipment thatwas arriving later that day.Ford’s home overlooked adeep valley and a hill withmagnificent stands oftwisted old pines. My sonhad often taken me downsecret trails through this

unique fairyland of sword ferns, mosses,and pines. Because Pinusmuricata has no value aslumber, this forest hadnever been logged.

The Fire Commandhad decided to makeFord’s home their com-mand center for our sector. Ford, a recluse,seemed confused andupset by all the activity. I thought of his talk many years earlier, at the dedication of the pre-serve, which had made adeep impression on me.Referring to his paint-ings—abstractions of the

carbon molecule in points, lines, and circles—he spoke at length of “carbon consciousness.”I thought to myself, “We may all get to experi-ence carbon consciousness pretty soon now.”But for the time being we were in no immedi-ate danger, as the prevailing wind kept push-ing the fire south, away from us.

Wednesday was a quiet day in our sector as the fire raced south into the park, jumpingthe Limantour Road toward Mount Witten-berg, the highest point in the area. It alsoroared into Paradise Ranch Estates, a hous-ing development near the top of the ridge,destroying many of the homes there. I walkednorth along the Inverness Utility District fireroad, where California Conservation crews


On a clear January day in 2005, I took a walk up from my house on the east slope ofInverness Ridge to the trail that runs southfrom Mount Vision in Point Reyes NationalSeashore to Drakes View Drive and theParadise Ranch Estates area. At the crest of the hill, in every direction, young bishoppines, their needles glistening in the sun,filled the view. The tallest were 15 feet ormore, and they were packed together, needleto needle, forming a dense, almost impene-trable, living wall. In mid-October 1995, thesame walk had taken me through a ghostlylandscape of ash and the stumps of once-mighty trees. I was witnessing a miracle oftransition and change—the regeneration of my sanctuary, the bishop pine forest ofInverness Ridge.

The scene took me back to an experiencemore than 30 years ago on the five acres whereI now live. I had recently bought this piece of wilderness forest land and decided to hostthe UC Berkeley architecture class I wasteaching on “Making a Place in the Country”here. The first assignment was to decide col-lectively how to design and build a structurethat would meet our needs for food, water,sanitation, and energy, while impacting theland as little as possible. The first structure we built was a 16-by-24-foot meeting space we fondly dubbed “the Ark,” after the orig-inal Maybeck building that had housed theBerkeley architecture school until its moveinto an ugly concrete tower in 1964.

The group debated about the best site to erect the building so we wouldn’t have to

remove any big trees. In the end, we selected asite that required the removal of several verysmall bishop pines. But several students—inthe Berkeley fashion of the time—staged a“sit-down strike” to defend the young trees,proclaiming it was immoral to destroy anytrees, no matter how small. We argued theissue for some hours before finally agreeingthat inhabiting a forest did not have to meandestroying it. The kind of design for living we were experimenting with required a mutually beneficial adaptation and coevolu-tion of forest and humans. What we weren’t aware of at the time was how a forest of a relatively fast-growing and short-lived speciesquite regularly changes and renews itself.

Fast-forwardalmost 25 years.On the afternoonof October 3, 1995,I got a call at myoffice in Sausalitofrom a friend inBolinas who saidthere was thicksmoke overhead

from a fire up in Inverness. He offered todrive me up to my house in his big 4x4 truck.Soon thereafter, we were heading up north onHighway 1. From the road we could see thethick plume of smoke along the top of theridge. At the Inverness turnoff we werestopped by a Highway Patrol roadblock.There were fire crews parked at the intersec-tion trying to make radio contact with unitsfighting the fire. My friend talked his waythrough, saying he was a volunteer fireman.We headed up the hill to my house. The smellof smoke became stronger; looking up towardMount Vision, we saw dense smoke andflashes of flame.

Soon after we got to my house, my sonshowed up. No one else was around. We tooka hose and wet down the roof. I called a friendin another part of town; he told me our hillhad been evacuated hours earlier. By then itwas dark. We heard a sheriff ’s car approach-ing and ordering everyone to evacuate. I wasn’tgoing to leave my sanctuary, at least not yet.We headed up to the hot tub hidden from thehouse, taking along a bottle of my favoritesingle malt scotch. We heard the sheriff ’s car in the driveway, saw flashlights, heard men talking and then drive away.

From the hot tub, we had a clear view of Mount Vision, a 45 minute hike from myhouse, maybe a mile and a half northwest asthe crow flies. One by one, the bushy-needled


Fire on the Ridge: A REMINISCENCEBy Sim Van der Ryn

A firefighter from

the Marin County Fire

Department arrives on

the scene as a house in

Paradise Ranch Estates

goes up in flames.

(left) Strong winds from the northeast on October 3

blew embers from the initial fire site, causing the fire

to leapfrog south along Inverness Ridge. The view of

the resulting “spot fires” is from across Tomales Bay,

north of Point Reyes Station. (above) “One by one, the

bushy-needled crowns of the big pines on the ridge

popped into flame like wooden matches.”

The bishop pine forest before the fire was a “unique

fairyland of sword ferns, mosses, and pines.”

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Richard Blair, www.richardblair.com

80 years—and I had to cut them down or riskhaving them fall on the house. One totem treethat had towered over the Ark had been cut afew years before, after being damaged in asevere windstorm. We counted 103 annualrings on that tree—the oldest bishop pine Iknow of. Some new trees have sprouted on myproperty since the fire, but nothing like thedense mass up the ridge, sprouting from seedsliberated by the fire’s heat and nourished bythe minerals released by the fire.

The regular pulse of nature, like our ownbreathing, feels normal and we scarcely noticethe gradual changes taking place until a so-called surge event disrupts the normal pat-terns. Even though the proximate cause was human, the fire surge event of 1995 wasnature’s way of renewing the forest’s 60- to80-year life cycle. And of reminding us thatliving in a bishop pine forest is an inherentlytemporary situation.

If I had really wanted to continue living in a bishop pine forest, I suppose I could have carefully planted young trees around myhouse. I didn’t, in part because it is the formof the mature trees that attracts and intriguesme. And in many ways, I find myself appreci-ating the new adaptations that have occurred.We have more light and sun. Yes, our carefullynurtured shade garden had to be replantedwith plants more adapted to sunlight. Wherethere was brush and dying trees, we now havea lush meadow. The new solar collectors onthe third-floor roof, unshaded by toweringtrees, produce two-thirds of the electricity we use. Where the giant pines once stood, we are planting an orchard.

Thirty-five years ago, I settled in the midstof a forest of bishop pines, bays, and oaks.Today we live in an ecotone (or transitionalarea) that is partially natural and partiallydesigned. The wildlife have adapted to thenew landscape. The water elements attract a great number of birds, and also deer andskunks. The food and flower garden needs tobe fenced from the ubiquitous deer, but mostof the garden plants are natives. The house isalso home to a large colony of bats. I love towatch them darting at dawn and dusk makingtheir way out from the eaves over my bed.

And then there are the ospreys, the majes-tic heralds of the forest ridge. I’ve countedeight nests in tall dead pines in our watershed.All spring and summer the birds circle andwheel in the sky above us, their sharp matingcries reminding us of the process of continualrenewal.

The inevitable question is, Should peoplelive in or near fire-prone forest areas ? On my

desk is a postcardof a photo taken in 1909 on MountTamalpais lookingout over Mill Valleytoward San Fran-cisco Bay. There isvery little settle-ment except forfarms in the flat-lands; the hills above are mostly grasslands.Today those hills are filled with houses, trees,and dense brush. The trees were probablyplanted and grew up with the houses. When I drive through the steep, narrow canyons ofMill Valley today, where the trees grow rightup against the houses, it is clear to me thatthere will be a major conflagration soon, likethe 1991 Oakland hills fire. If people and for-est are to coexist, we have no choice but tosteward and manage habitation and vegeta-tion as a single system, both components ofwhich change over time.

Of course, the local forest landscape was already managed by humans prior to the arrival of European settlers: The NativeAmericans here kept the forest understoryclear, in order to hunt more easily and toreduce the fire danger. They respected andutilized the forest for the valuable resources it provided, but they didn’t live in it. InSwitzerland, Germany, and Japan, we findsimilar models of forest/habitation interfaces,with villages and farms limited to meadowgrassland and ripararian corridors borderingforests that remained as “commons,” supply-ing a sustainable supply of fuel and timber forthe local communities. However, our appar-ently inextinguishable love affair with privateproperty and distrust of collective forms ofownership make this model impracticable inthe here and now.

Some insurance companies have already

made clear where they stand on the matter,declining to issue fire policies for homes inmuch of California’s forested and brush-covered areas. Current fire regulations thatrequire a brush-free zone 30 feet around astructure are no guarantee of safety in a majorfire. Neither are so-called fireproof materialssuch as concrete and steel; when tempera-tures are high enough, concrete crumbles and returns to dust, while steel loses itsstrength and collapses or melts.

Basically forests and permanent humanhabitation don’t mix well, unless they are sep-arated by wide enough corridors of meadowor other less flammable ecosystems. Better totake a walk in the woods nearby than to worryabout trees falling on your home or setting italight. The damp debris-covered forest floorand the dappled, leaf-scattered light of thecoastal forest are great for quiet explorationand calm contemplation; they are less desir-able as living environments for people.


were cutting firebreaks to keep the fire fromworking its way down towards us and thetown of Inverness below. Bulldozers rippedthrough a steep slope of sword ferns, exposingthe three-foot-solid mat of roots that makesthese dense communities of native ferns anideal form of natural erosion control.

On Thursday some friends showed up withrented equipment to cut a firebreak. Ken, amaster builder for the Zen Center for manyyears, had experienced the Marble Cone firenear Big Sur which had almost destroyed theZen monastery at Tassajara. He recommendedthat we clear the underbrush and small treesto the south and west of the house. If firewere to come, it would be from that direction.By now, there were more than 3,000 firefight-ers on the line up the hill, lots of bulldozerscutting firebreaks, and a number of helicop-ters making the five-minute round-trip fromthe ridge to Tomales Bay with their 3,000-gallon buckets. Never had the thumpingwhine of helicopters sounded so sweet.

On Friday morning, the chief woke usearly. “The fire is headed this way. You’d betterpack up and get ready to leave.” Until then, we had been having a shared high adventure.Now, for the first time since that first night of the fire, I felt the sour rush of fear in mystomach. I surveyed the house filled withartifacts and the stories they told. We loadedup the beautiful rare redwood lace burl tablethat J.B. Blunk had made, along with a fewother pieces of handcrafted furniture andsome favorite old clothing and treasured photos. We left our collection of bronzeBuddhas to melt back into the earth.

We walked up the road to the fire line atJ.B.’s house a quarter mile up the hill. All hellwas breaking loose. The bulldozers that had

been cutting a firebreak deep in the majordrainage through the preserve had just beenoverrun by the fire and their operators hadbarely escaped. “Hot shot” crews (speciallytrained backfire crews from Montana) hadbeen cutting other firebreaks to contain thefire at the bottom of the canyon. The firejumped their lines and roared up the hill,fanned by its own risingheat. Luckily no lives hadbeen lost. Clusters ofexhausted firefightersstood gazing upward atthe line of helicoptersexpertly tipping theirloads of Tomales Baywater on the flames,which were now only several hundred yardsdown the hill fromBlunk’s house. I heardone crew chief tell hismen, “The ’coptersare our only shot atkeeping the fire fromtaking Inverness.”Borate bombersmade direct hits on Blunk’s house and outbuildings,covering them withpinkish fire retar-dant. The smoke was so thick I couldhardly see.

The chief spottedme and put an armaround my shoulder.“It’s time to headback to your house

and wait for word from the command center.We’ll need to hook up our pumps to yourpond and storage tank.”

It was late afternoon and the helicopterswould have to stop flying when it grew dark.We went back down and got in the pickups,ready for a quick exit. Sitting in the driver’sseat, I again felt the cold jolt of fear in my gut.

It was almost dark when the chief droveup, a broad smile on his grimy face, with aMarin County fire captain. “The fire’s beencontained,” he said. “You’re safe.” The all-outassault of borate and the cooling effect ofhundreds of water drops had held the fire.Onslow Ford’s and Blunk’s houses on thenorth shoulder of the canyon came throughunscathed. The next day, crews went into thestill-smoldering canyon to put out the linger-ing small burns. Our adventure, and ourordeal, had ended.

Two aerial images—one taken in the early 1990s, the other just recently—show my homesite before and after the fire. I lostno trees in the fire, but afterwards, many of the trees still standing were attacked by

beetles attracted by the large stands of fire-damaged trees. Many of the mature trees had reached the end oftheir relatively short lifespans—generally 60 to


During a moment of calm on the morning of

the fifth day of the fire, two firefighters make

their way across a charred ridgetop.

(left) Architect Sim Van der Ryn

in the now-sunny garden of his

home below Inverness Ridge.

(below) Recent aerial view of

Van der Ryn’s home. Note the

solar panels and the open areas

around the house that were for-

merly shaded by bishop pines.

(above) A view of the north-

west flank of the fire on Mount

Vision, on the morning of the

third day. The day before, fire

crews had conducted “burn-

out” operations (i.e., a pre-

scribed burn) from the “dozer

line” to deprive the advancing

wildfire of fuel.

(right) The leading tip of a

seven-year old bishop pine

sapling in the burn area.

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on private lots.” To this end, the MarinCounty Open Space District allows privateland owners to mow grass into public land up to 30 feet from shared boundaries.Officials can’t do it all (they just don’t have the budget), so they encourage local residents to help out.

Since the Vision Fire, officials at PointReyes have taken steps to inform future fire-fighting efforts by collecting data on the specific location of major water resources,endangered plant communities, and listedanimal species. When a wildfire occurs thatdoes not threaten life or property, NPS policycalls for suppression methods that minimizeresource damage. The park now has resourceexperts on staff to help the lead respondingfire agency develop or adapt strategies thatavoid undue incidental harm.

But how can we reconcile the subdivision

and the forest? Paradise Ranch Estates, whereall the houses were lost in the Vision Fire, wasswiftly rebuilt even as young bishop pines roseup all around and throughout its properties.These young pines are flammable; they willgrow old within our lifetimes, and require afire of their own to produce heirs.

“You get a short-term response from thepublic,” says Kent Julin, president of FIRESafeMarin. “We have these fires—the Oaklandhills, the Vision Fire—but within a few years,people just forget and move on.” His organiza-tion works to reduce or eliminate fire hazardsand to promote fire safety education, but thecontradictions of human habitation in a fire-prone ecosystem cannot always be resolved.“It’s definitely a challenge to balance theneeds of people and ecology,” he admits.

The photographer Richard Blair, who lost a cabin to the Vision Fire, offers a wry

hypothesis that, along with house sprinklersand 30-foot brush-free zones, insurance maybe the latest human adaptation to fire. “If youwant to live in a fire zone,” he says, “and every50 years you’re willing to take a settlementfrom the insurance company and rebuild—well, that’s one way to handle it.”

Blair recalls watching the fire that con-sumed his neighborhood, and describes hisunexpected feelings of hope and expectation.“I sensed that something good would come of it,” he says. “Even as my house was burningdown, I was struck by the sheer beauty andmajesty of the event.”

Such are the paradoxes along the wildland-urban interface, where our desire to communewith Nature confronts its fierce and ancientmandates, contributing yet another chapterto the ongoing saga of people and wildlandfire.

(continued from page 27)

“Out of the Flames” is a special section of the July-September 2005 issue of Bay Nature magazine, anindependent quarterly that

explores the natural world of the San FranciscoBay Area. Published by the nonprofit Bay NatureInstitute in Berkeley, CA, Bay Nature fosters under-standing and appreciation of local landscapes andthe people who work to protect them. To subscribeor order additional copies of “Out of the Flames,”visit www.baynature.com, call (925)372-6002, orreturn the enclosed form. Bay Nature can also befound at local bookstores and visitors centers.

Thanks to the following funders for their support:

The DMARLOU Foundation is a private foundationcreated by Dorothy and Martell Kaliski, longtimeresidents of the Bay Area. Their love of animalsmotivated their philanthropy in life and thatlegacy is now carried on by the trustees of theFoundation: Stanley Diamond, Richard Rahl andFelipe Santiago.

The MarinCommunityFoundationis the primary

center for philanthropy in Marin County, providingsupport in the areas of the arts, community devel-opment, education, the environment, humanneeds, and religion, ethics, and conscience.TheFoundation administers assets from the Leonardand Beryl H. Buck Trust and funds entrusted byover 300 individuals, families, businesses, andcommunity groups. MCF is the largest communityfoundation in California, with assets of $1 billionand annual grants of approximately $50 million.

Resources on Fire Ecology & Wildland Fireorganizations

The California Fire Safe Council (CFSC) fosters the creation of local and county Fire Safe councils, which provideinformation and resources to protect communities from wildfires. The CFSC maintains a comprehensive website(www.firesafecouncil.org) that serves as a clearinghouse for fire prevention education materials. Bay Area Fire Safe Councils Diablo FireSafe Council (Contra Costa County): www.diablofiresafe.orgFIRESafe Marin: www.firesafemarin.orgFIRE SAFE, San Mateo County: www.smcfiresafe.orgSanta Clara County FireSafe Council: www.sccfiresafe.orgFire Safe Sonoma County, Orinda Fire Safe Committee, Mount Veeder Fire Safe Council (NapaCounty), Santa Cruz County Fire Safe Council (See www.firesafecouncil.org)

literature

Kent, Douglas. Firescaping: Creating Fire-Resistant Landscapes, Gardens, and Properties inCalifornia’s Diverse Environments. Wilderness Press, 2005.This new hands-on guide to fireproofing your home turf includes tips and resources on fire resistant land-scaping and construction, including fire resistant plant lists tailored to the myriad climates of California.

websites

Point Reyes National Seashore: Vision Fire www.nps.gov/pore/fire_visionfire.htmNational Park Service website specific to theVision Fire provides access to historical incident reports andpublications, including the recently released “Vision Fire: Lessons Learned from the October 1995 Fire.”Firewise www.firewise.org/fw_index.htmServing both homeowners and firefighters, Firewise offers resource materials ranging from informationon fire-proofing your home to fire safe landscaping to a new video series, “Firefighter Safety in theWildland/Urban Interface.”Annotated Bibliography for Fire Ecology in Californiawww.ice.ucdavis.edu/cafe/tab_info_biblio.htmlA searchable bibliography that canvasses electronic databases, scientific literature, and other sources.Fire Safe – “Inside and Out” www.firesafecouncil.org/education/insideout/firesafebig.htmlThis CFSC educational website covers a breadth of fire-safety issues, including how to develop andmaintain fire safe landscaping around your home, how to build or remodel your home to be fire safe, andwhat to do when a wildfire threatens.

The above–listed resources are only a small sample of what is available for learning more about fire safety and fireecology in California. For a more complete listing, please visit www.baynature.com (July–Sept 2005 issue).

contributors• Geoffrey Coffey writes features on local landscapes for the San Francisco Chronicle. He is the proprietor of MadroñoHorticulture (www.madrono.org), a landscape design and education concern; and a founding partner of Triteleia Natives(www.triteleia.com), a nursery specializing in Bay Area native plants. Find more online at www.geoffreycoffey.com.• Noted Bay Area architect Sim Van der Ryn has been a pioneer in sustainable design for forty years. He is the principalof Van der Ryn Architects (Sausalito) and president of the Ecological Design Institute. He served as California StateArchitect under Governor Jerry Brown and was Professor of Architecture at UC Berkeley from 1961 until his retirement in 1995. He has lived on Inverness Ridge since 1969.

Edited by David LoebDesign by David BullenCartography by GreenInfo NetworkGuidance from Jennifer Chapman

Special thanks to:Matthew BettelheimEllie CohenLouis JaffeAnna LyonsDave Schirokauer

OUTof FLAMES the · torching 45 houses. On the second day the winds turned erratic, and the fire increased its area fivefold. The third day saw the winds shift to the northeast, and

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