Archive for May, 2011

NO MORE

May 26, 2011

We don’t learn enough from our mistakes.

Back in 1949, eight months to the day after I was born, 14 smokejumpers died in the Mann Gulch fire in Montana, when the fire suddenly exploded and beat them up a hill.  Fire always wins races uphill. It was a small fire when the jumpers dropped, but it got out of control.

Act of God? I don’t buy it. Study accidents, as I have, and you soon learn that it is seldom one failure but a concatenation of them, as happened here. We fix flawed systems by redesign, not by telling people to be careful.

The famous 1910 fire that killed 86 people brought a change fire management systems. But not enough. Or the lessons learnt were soon forgotten. Proof? About 700 wildland firefighters have died since. Consider this:

* 1994, Colorado: Storm King Fire, Prineville. Ring any bells? Same thing as in 1948. Fourteen dead, caught on a hillside, when a predicted dry cold front caused the wind to shift. A few outran the fire, 14 Prineville hotshots did not. For what? To keep land from being “scorched”, “destroyed” or other jargon which denies that fire changes, not destroys. It is necessary for nature to clear out old growth to allow new. Many trees need fire, either to open seeds or to allow competing species to die.

Both fires were extensively investigated and books were written, one the father of the other. One hoped the mistakes wouldn’t be repeated.  But they were:

* July 2001, Washington State: The smoldering Thirty Mile Fire on a lazy summer day killed four young people, who even a couple of hours before, had no inkling of death. This fire was unimportant, burning where nothing mattered, with plenty of chances to be extinguished. But a pump failed, there were communication breakdowns, the weather changed, safety shelters were deployed wrong….

We talk about firefighting costs in the millions. As a statistician, I count stuff. I learned years ago what is important and countable must be counted. What is important and not countable must be honored. And we need to know the difference.

Deaths in fires can be counted. Not the potential and pain of the lives lost. But we end up counting the money spent and give it the most attention.

“Acts of God” are due to insufficient knowledge or poorly designed systems. We no longer have “Acts of God” deaths from smallpox, measles, polio, rheumatic heart disease, puerperal fever, or infected hangnails. We no longer have commercial aircraft crashes every month.

Deaths from fire are preventable. The firefighters know the rules. We have excellent weather forecasting, every firefighter knows that property destruction is not worth one human life.

The National Interagency Firefighting Center was founded to coordinate firefighting efforts among states, so high priority fires got the most resources. Many gave up turf and power for the greater good. This is almost unheard of in my experience, and those who created the NIFC were remarkable people.

But their job isn’t complete so long as there are purple ribbons.

(Read, edited and improved by Anindita Sanyal of the Hindustan Times, New Delhi, India)

HUNTER’S MOON

May 7, 2011

Muddy and wet, I reached the end of the portage to Little Saganaga Lake an hour before sunset on a dreary October day.  I pushed the canoe off my shoulders, flipped it over, caught it on my knees and gently lowered it to the ground, pushing the bow into the water.  Wearily, I removed my pack and dropped it in the bow compartment, the sound echoing from the woods across the small bay.  I picked up the wooden paddle, grasped both gunwales, and carefully stepped in, pushing off from the rocky landing.

The rain had finally stopped, but once clear of a nearby point, the cold northwest wind caught me full force, as if to say winter had nearly arrived in northern Minnesota and canoeists were no longer welcome.  For perhaps the tenth time that day, I asked myself aloud why I was out here instead of back in town.  The previous day I had spent in the tent, rain-bound.  After eighteen grueling miles of solo travel through a dozen lakes and as many portages, I was back on schedule but needed to find camp soon, pitch the tent, put on some warm clothes and eat.

The lake, dotted with islands, was undoubtedly pretty in summer, but my mood matched the dark water and low nimbus clouds.  Only with difficulty was I able to keep the canoe on course as I crossed the quartering waves, the splash further chilling my mitten-covered hands.  I was therefore satisfied to land in the lee of a half acre rocky island containing a few groves of cedar and scraggly jack pine.  The campsite would have to do; it was too late and I too tired to continue looking for another one.

I carried the pack thirty feet uphill from the shore to a flat spot, then pulled the canoe up and turned it over, tying the bow to a nearby root.  I unpacked, placing food, tent and personal gear into three piles.  Grabbing a pot, I slid down the gravel bank to the lake to scoop up some water.

I lit the stove and started heating the water as I erected the tent under a small group of cedars.  With a half hour, I had changed into dry clothes, stowed my gear and had a few handfuls of trail mix with hot chocolate.  Marginally warmer, I obtained more water and started preparing my usual macaroni and rice dinner.  As I worked, a change in light heralded sunset, but clouds were too thick to show either color or detail.  The night would again be cold, but I hoped to sleep warm.  Eleven lakes and fifteen miles awaited me the next day.

Eating my rapidly cooling meal, I looked at the gray and rapidly darkening scene, wondering yet again why I had come out here.  At least I was dry and my tent sheltered from the persistent wind.  Had anyone been near to ask, I would have said there was a Hunter’s Moon that evening.  But I hadn’t seen anybody in four days, and seeing the Moon was far from my mind.  Under skies that threatened snow, I retired early, quickly falling asleep in my cedar hollow.

The geese awoke me.

I didn’t know the time, but I immediately recognized the sound.  I hadn’t heard geese since my childhood in upstate New York.  Their honking triggered fond memories when I was a young boy, looking up, fascinated by the formations, wondering how and why they did it and where they were going.  Realizing I still didn’t know those answers made me smile, as I listened to the different calls high over the island, heading south, away from the frozen waters of Ontario and Manitoba.  From the light on the roof of the tent, I realized something else as well.  It was clear.

I unzipped the tent door and slowly crawled outside, stiffly standing, barefoot, on the hard soil.  It was cold, but I was barely aware of the temperature.  I saw a brilliant Hunter’s Moon above the darkly forested south shore, its light rippling towards me across the nearly calm water of a wilderness lake.  Overhead, heading towards the Moon, were scores of geese, honking.  It was magical.  Knowing at last why I had come out here, I watched and listened, silent, until the geese were no longer visible and their calls blended with the light wind that just stirred the trees.

This appeared in the first edition of Firegrate Reviews, put out in 2010 by The Friends of the Boundary Waters