Of Floods, Fires, and Community
'The whole earth seems to slide like sand...'
Dear readers,
I’m making piles of school books and lists of supplies — pencils, crayons, backpacks, and such. I keep reminding myself, “It’s only the beginning of August. There’s still time before school starts.” But it’s funny how the end of a season can so easily become absorbed in the nearness of the next.
In Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, then, I’m happy that we’ve only just begun the summer chapters. Chapter 9, “Flood,” speaks of the whirling mysteries and overwhelming weather patterns of summer months. The chapter is soaking with humidity, flood waters, and rain. It reminds me of Virginia, even though I’m in the Mountain West now—a region not of summer floods, but of summer wildfires.
Reading Dillard’s chapter made me think of similarities between the two. The devastation both cause. The fear that emanates from both. The ways that both force communities to band together, to care for each other. Wildfires in the West are natural, and often crucial to growth. But they are also the source of destruction, loss, and pain. They leave scars on the landscape that we struggle, at times, to understand. What processes of land conservation and regeneration might prevent their overwhelming spread? How do we care for what remains?
This past week, we hiked through an area devastated by wildfires last year. The soil was black, and as fine as powder. Every step prompted a soft cloud of chalky gray to swirl around us. Most trees were charred and hollow. Compared to the forest farther down, this space looked like a different world. But huckleberries and wildflowers were growing back. You could see new growth everywhere. The world created by wildfire, like the world created by flood, can be tragic and strange. But it is also—thankfully—hopeful. “Even in the patches where fires burn most intensely,” a group of scientists wrote in a 2018 letter to Congress, “the resulting wildlife habitats are among the most biologically diverse in the West.”
As we walked through the fire-scarred landscape, I was entranced by this pine. Wildfire had exposed the tree’s trunk, and the pattern and swelling of the wood immediately caught my eye. Upon closer inspection, the wood grain gleamed satin-smooth.
For many decades, folks in the West have assumed that removal of these dead trees is the best policy for future wildfire prevention. There’s growing evidence, however, that these dead trees are integral to the forest’s future health. They prevent soil erosion. They provide shade and habitat for baby trees and new plant life. They serve as a food source for a host of wildlife. “Downed trees can help retain moisture, add nutrients to the soil, and become ‘nurse trees,’ out of which new saplings grow,” Tara Lohan writes.
We feel the impacts of disastrous events—and their growing frequency—in our communities. How do we band together and protect the places we love? How do we steward and care for places broken in their aftermath? Both these questions came to mind as I read this chapter. Dillard’s considerations of children poking a turtle and adults standing in pouring rain are more amusing than urgent. But reading in 2023, thinking about hurricane devastation, tornadoes, and wildfires, the images of devastation these pages call to mind are pronounced and troubling.
This week, read Chapter 9: “Flood” (pages 149–160 in my book).
Consider, as you read: how have you seen your community respond to natural disasters? How might you be a part of the work of rebuilding, renewal, or conservation?
How do unexpected weather events—both mild and great—prompt you to see the world differently? What do they reveal (or perhaps make new)?
This week’s outdoor challenge: spend at least 3 hours outside. In that time, notice the before-and-after patterns in your landscape. What’s changed over time (if you’ve lived in this place long enough to notice those changes)? What changes have brought greater health? Which are saddening, and might require new patterns of regeneration? Which are neutral?
The changes you notice might be far less substantial, more seasonal: how has your garden changed over the course of the year? Which trees, on your daily walk, look different now than they did a few months ago? What birds or bugs are you noticing more this week than last week?
(On that final note: I’ve seen hummingbirds, in various locations throughout Boise, almost every single day this week. What a gift that’s been!)