Robin Boles

They say smell is memory’s trigger, and I would agree. Yesterday, when I stepped outside, the smell of stagnant, smoke-saturated air instantly transported me back to my childhood out west.

Growing up where the Sierras meet the Cascades in Northern California, wildfires were a part of life. We didn’t welcome them, but we knew to expect them.

Most summers, fires burned somewhere in the mountains. I remember lying in my yard watching processions of bombers fly over and drop pink clouds of borate over the plumes of smoke; smoke that hung in the air for days, sometimes weeks. Swaths of land would bear the scars of the disaster for years or decades to follow, but I never feared that my entire community might be consumed.

If I were growing up there today, I would likely feel different.

In July 2021, a downed tree came into contact with PG&E power lines in the Feather River Canyon igniting what would become the Dixie Fire. The Feather River is a premier trout fishing river that runs through Chester, Calif., the town where I grew up. In that way it is my Kinnikinnic.

Over the next 104 days, the Dixie Fire burned 963,309 acres, more than 1,500 square miles. California’s largest wildfire (at that time), it crossed five counties, destroyed most of the neighboring town of Greenville, and encircled my hometown. Chester residents were evacuated for 20 days; the fire held at bay by their fortuitous location along the western shore of Lake Almanor and the grit and determination of the firefighters who stayed behind to back-burn, doze the line, and tirelessly patrol for spot-fires.

Try to conceive of this: Forced to leave your home with little preparation and waiting nearly two weeks to find out if everything you and your entire community left behind remains. All the while, watching neighboring towns succumb to the flames.

Try to picture this: 1,500 square miles scorched. Consumed. The equivalent of Pierce, Pepin, and St. Croix counties combined. Imagine driving from one end to the other, the entirety of it a burnt landscape.

Science points to several factors contributing to today's larger, more destructive fires, with climate change and human influence playing major roles. Longer periods of drought, higher average temperatures, dense forests that have accumulated decades of fuel, and expanding human development all combine to create conditions where fires burn hotter, faster, and are much more difficult to contain.

When I first moved to Wisconsin over 30 years ago, wildfire felt like it had become a thing of my past. Years went by when I barely gave it a moment of thought.

Yet, wildfire is increasingly becoming part of the conversation here too. This is the fourth summer in a row that smoke from Canadian wildfires has drifted across the Midwest, producing unhealthy and hazardous air quality conditions.

Shorter winters and less snow pack increase the drought conditions most favorable for wildfire; these shifts in the climate will only fuel more fires in Canada’s vast stretches of wilderness. According to the Canadian Climate Institute, “The last three fire seasons have been among the 10 worst on record.” 

Air currents and jet streams don’t recognize national borders, and I expect we’ll continue to suffer from air quality issues during Canada’s lengthening fire season. 

Air quality is one thing and a big concern to be sure. But the trend toward predominantly dry, windy weather exacerbates the potential for wildfire in places usually less prone to fire danger. And while wildfire doesn’t typically fall on our list of natural disaster concerns, Wisconsin is not without its own risk.

In 1871, The Peshtigo Fire consumed approximately 1.2 million acres in northeastern Wisconsin and parts of Door County within a single day. Recognized as the deadliest wildfire in US history, the disaster could have been avoided. Fires lit for the unsustainable practice of slash-and-burn agriculture and fueled by severe winds and extended drought conditions raged across the countryside consuming fields, forests, and towns without discrimination. The actual loss of life was estimated at 1,200 to 2,500 but is unknown because so many local records burned in the fire.

Obviously, farming practices have changed from the slash-and-burn techniques of yesteryear, and Wisconsin's forests differ significantly from those that are annually plagued by wildfire to our north and in the west. Climate, terrain, and vegetation all affect how wildfire behaves. But there is one similarity we should heed: dead trees.

Since its arrival in Wisconsin, the Emerald Ash Borer has killed millions of ash trees across the state. If you have driven rural roads or walked through local woodlots, then you’ve likely seen their gray skeletons standing among otherwise healthy trees. Those standing dead trees don't just disappear. Over time, they dry out, drop their branches, and eventually fall, adding significant amounts of dead wood to the forest floor.

That dead wood becomes fuel.

As openings appear in the forest canopy, more sunlight reaches the ground encouraging grasses, brush, and invasive plants to grow. During dry periods, those flora can ignite much more easily than a healthy, shaded forest.

Wisconsin is not California, and I’m not proposing that what happens out there will happen here, but sustainability and resilience require us to recognize that our climate and environment tomorrow will not look like it did yesterday; we must pay attention and respond to those changes today, before they become a crisis.

Healthy forests don't happen by accident. They require stewardship. Removing hazardous dead trees, diversifying the species we plant, controlling invasive plants, reducing excessive fuel masses, and supporting responsible forest management all help build resilience. These are practical actions with myriad benefits like improving wildlife habitat, strengthening forest health, and reducing future risks.

Wildfire may not ever define life in Wisconsin the way it has in other parts of the country. I certainly hope it doesn't. But with climate change, landscapes will also change bringing new susceptibilities and challenges. Living sustainably invites us to notice those changes, not to live in fear of them, but to prepare wisely. By doing so, we not only care for the places we call home, but we might also leave healthier ecosystems for the generations that follow.

The smoke is nature’s signal; will we receive the message?