ceanothus grows old and eventually dies off, to be replaced by other plants. But, in fact, the land always burns. Big-pod ceanothus does not worry about old age.
At another stop, we look at spiny ceanothus, Ceanothus spinosus . It is wetter here, along the edge of a gully. It occurs to me that a wetter area would be a good place to avoid fire, to hide, to hunker down. I have heard that deer and bears often head into gullies during fires. But, in fact, the gullies burn hard and fast. Fire rips through gullies like smoke up a stovepipe, so much so that firefighters sometimes call the gullies chimneys.
There is jack pine, too, and ponderosa pine, and eucalyptus, each adapted to fire but in different ways. The cones of the jack pine only open in response to fire, and they open slowly, after the fire has passed, dropping their seeds onto the naked soil left behind by a hot burn. The seeds survive temperatures of one thousand degrees. The ponderosa pine survives fire by virtue of its thick bark. The eucalyptus, imported to California from Australia, full of flammable sap, reputed to explode if sufficiently preheated and ignited, possesses epicormic buds—growth sites hidden beneath the protective cover of bark, ready to sprout if the outer skin of the tree is damaged by fire.
Climate experts expect most of the United States to become hotter and drier. They expect less rain in summer, and less snowpack in winter.
The mountain pine beetle and the spruce beetle attack and kill conifers. The spruce budworm eats their needles. The beetles and the budworms are heat limited. Cold weather kills them, and warm weather speeds growth and breeding. As the climate warms, the beetles and budworms become more abundant.
In a warming world, they attack and kill entire forests, leaving standing dead wood over thousands of acres. On the one hand, this means an abundance of dry firewood, leaving some climate experts expecting more fires. On the other hand, when pine and spruce die, their needles disappear. Without needles, there is less fuel. Some climate experts expect fewer fires.
The chaparral, with its occasional Coulter pine or eucalyptus, with its dense shrubs covered by tiny leaves full of resinous oils and its accumulation of dead branches and twigs, is the most flammable plant community in North America. Chaparral fires have been compared to gasoline fires, with entire hillsides igniting in an instant to become a sheet of flame blasted by wind and whipping along the ground and reaching three and four and five times higher than the height of the shrubs themselves.
The mapper and I drive farther along the ridge and stop again near La Cumbre Peak. Fifteen months after the Tea Fire, the Jesusita Fire tore through here, taking an area ten times the size of New York’s Central Park. Eighteen thousand people were evacuated. Cal Fire, the largest fire department in California, posted the following message: “Wildland brush fire driven by slope, erratic winds and single digit humidity’s are causing significant runs with extreme fire behavior.”
A Santa Barbara County Fire Department captain reported that the fire was “moving very, very rapidly.” He called it what it obviously was: an uncontrolled wildfire.
Flames overran a Ventura fire engine and its five-man crew. Plastic on the inside of their fire engine melted. Afterward the men were evacuated with first-, second-, and third-degree burns.
Before it was over, flames caught more firefighters. The Jesusita fire injured thirty firefighters but, amazingly, killed none.
Within two weeks the Jesusita fire was completely contained. This does not mean the fire was out but that it was surrounded, subdued, and to some degree under control. The small task of mopping up remained. The fire burned across thousands of acres, but the first hot flush crossing the landscape left behind unburned fuel. That unburned fuel smoldered and flamed erratically, in small patches, smoke coming off
At another stop, we look at spiny ceanothus, Ceanothus spinosus . It is wetter here, along the edge of a gully. It occurs to me that a wetter area would be a good place to avoid fire, to hide, to hunker down. I have heard that deer and bears often head into gullies during fires. But, in fact, the gullies burn hard and fast. Fire rips through gullies like smoke up a stovepipe, so much so that firefighters sometimes call the gullies chimneys.
There is jack pine, too, and ponderosa pine, and eucalyptus, each adapted to fire but in different ways. The cones of the jack pine only open in response to fire, and they open slowly, after the fire has passed, dropping their seeds onto the naked soil left behind by a hot burn. The seeds survive temperatures of one thousand degrees. The ponderosa pine survives fire by virtue of its thick bark. The eucalyptus, imported to California from Australia, full of flammable sap, reputed to explode if sufficiently preheated and ignited, possesses epicormic buds—growth sites hidden beneath the protective cover of bark, ready to sprout if the outer skin of the tree is damaged by fire.
Climate experts expect most of the United States to become hotter and drier. They expect less rain in summer, and less snowpack in winter.
The mountain pine beetle and the spruce beetle attack and kill conifers. The spruce budworm eats their needles. The beetles and the budworms are heat limited. Cold weather kills them, and warm weather speeds growth and breeding. As the climate warms, the beetles and budworms become more abundant.
In a warming world, they attack and kill entire forests, leaving standing dead wood over thousands of acres. On the one hand, this means an abundance of dry firewood, leaving some climate experts expecting more fires. On the other hand, when pine and spruce die, their needles disappear. Without needles, there is less fuel. Some climate experts expect fewer fires.
The chaparral, with its occasional Coulter pine or eucalyptus, with its dense shrubs covered by tiny leaves full of resinous oils and its accumulation of dead branches and twigs, is the most flammable plant community in North America. Chaparral fires have been compared to gasoline fires, with entire hillsides igniting in an instant to become a sheet of flame blasted by wind and whipping along the ground and reaching three and four and five times higher than the height of the shrubs themselves.
The mapper and I drive farther along the ridge and stop again near La Cumbre Peak. Fifteen months after the Tea Fire, the Jesusita Fire tore through here, taking an area ten times the size of New York’s Central Park. Eighteen thousand people were evacuated. Cal Fire, the largest fire department in California, posted the following message: “Wildland brush fire driven by slope, erratic winds and single digit humidity’s are causing significant runs with extreme fire behavior.”
A Santa Barbara County Fire Department captain reported that the fire was “moving very, very rapidly.” He called it what it obviously was: an uncontrolled wildfire.
Flames overran a Ventura fire engine and its five-man crew. Plastic on the inside of their fire engine melted. Afterward the men were evacuated with first-, second-, and third-degree burns.
Before it was over, flames caught more firefighters. The Jesusita fire injured thirty firefighters but, amazingly, killed none.
Within two weeks the Jesusita fire was completely contained. This does not mean the fire was out but that it was surrounded, subdued, and to some degree under control. The small task of mopping up remained. The fire burned across thousands of acres, but the first hot flush crossing the landscape left behind unburned fuel. That unburned fuel smoldered and flamed erratically, in small patches, smoke coming off
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