My Thoughts on Forest Fires

I am a news junkie. For most of my adult life, I have had 24-hours news playing in the background. I seldom actually sit and watch it, but it is on. I come by it naturally as my mother, Florence Littauer, was the same—though for her it was news magazines. She subscribed to both TIME and Newsweek for as long as I can remember. She frequently used clippings from them in her speeches.

However, over the past several weeks, I couldn’t watch. The nonstop coverage of the California wildfires was just too much for me.

For most of my pre-teen and teen years, through Jr. high and high school, my family lived in the foothills of Southern California. More specifically, San Bernardino. Our home was the very last one in the development. It had fabulous views and looked out over olive trees to an undeveloped mountain that changed colors as the sun set. Living there felt like paradise. I loved riding my motorcycle to the end of our driveway and onto the fire trails at the end of the cul-de-sac. I spent hours touring the surrounding terrain. These trails had been put in to aid the fire fighters when, and if, one of Southern California’s frequent fires broke out.

And they did. There were several times in the years that we lived there that we had to evacuate as we watched the fire come down the mountainside across from us. We had a redwood deck beside our pool. It hung out over the sloped land beside the pool. The overhang of that deck was singed from the flames. I can clearly hear the firefighters telling my parents: “If we can save your house, we can save the neighborhood.”

When the fires came, we gathered up our prized possessions—which in my case included my pet mice—and loaded up into the car. My mother drove us to someone’s house where we would be safe. Meanwhile, my father stayed behind. Men from the church joined him. I can still picture driving away seeing my father and the other men on the roof with garden hoses.

One such time was the fall of 1973. My father was at the house when the firefighters wanted him to leave. He claimed: “the Lord won’t let my house burn.” The story was featured on the front page of the San Bernardino Sun-Telegram with the headline: “‘The Lord Won’t Let My House Burn.’ It didn’t.” That year our family’s Christmas letter included a copy of that article and a picture of me with my mice. (While I can see that “letter” clearly in my mind, I searched for it today and cannot get my hands on it. I know I have it somewhere.) (Please note: I am not in any way suggesting that those whose homes burn in any fire, don’t have enough faith. This was just our story. The thing about faith is that we can’t fully explain it—which is what makes it faith, not science.)

During the time we lived there, the firefighters’ predictions were accurate. They were able to save our house, and the neighborhood survived. Last September, my husband and I were visiting my sister, Lauren Briggs, who still lives in the general area. (Interestingly, she lives in a neighborhood with lovely views and flammable brush behind her house.) Chuck had never seen the house my parents built and I wanted to show it to him. It was still standing. But many others in the neighborhood had burned down.

Living in that area, we did have family friends who lost their homes to forest fires. Fire is very real to me.

In the early 90’s, my first husband and I moved to New Mexico. I lived there for about 20 years—the second half of which we lived in the mountains outside of Albuquerque. We had lovely views but were always aware that fire was a very real danger. The home we lived in was built out of solid block and had a metal roof. It was designed to be fireproof. Forest fires never came near our house, but I remember worrying as we saw smoke fill the air from a fire some miles away.

For years, I’ve lived knowing what I would grab if we had to evacuate.

With this background, you can understand why I couldn’t watch, nonstop, the recent California wildfires. It hit too close to home. Though, I heard the stories and followed the devastation. I was shocked to see entire neighborhoods destroyed. These were not people who lived on the edge of a forest. They lived in urban communities. This should not have happened. But it did.

There will be many discussions about what went wrong. There will be lots of finger pointing. And none of that will bring back people’s homes. But every time these fire storms happen, I am reminded about an experience I had learning about forest management. With President Trump’s visit to Southern California a few days ago, a spotlight was, once again, placed on forest management. As a result, I want to share the following with you. I realize this is a bit off-topic for The Best-Life Project, here it is anyway.

I spent a decade doing energy advocacy, 2006-2016. During that time. I wrote an op-ed a week that was published in newspapers in the oil-rich regions of New Mexico and Texas as well as in conservative news sites such as Townhall.com. I also wrote a book called Energy Freedom. I was sure I had written about this particular experience before. I quote it often. But I’ve searched and cannot find it anywhere. So, I believe, this is the first time I’ve written this.

As a part of my work in New Mexico’s oil patch, I had the opportunity to get to know Congressman Steve Pearce. He was aware of my writing skills and asked me to help him write his biography. While I did not end up being involved in the final writing and publication, I did spend an informative week in 2010 travelling the state with him and his State Director.

During that trip, he was scheduled to meet with the President of the Mescalero Apache Tribe. Of course, I couldn’t be part of that meeting. Congressman Pearce arranged for me to meet with the tribe’s forester. She taught me the importance of forest management.

While the numbers I am quoting may not be 100% accurate, as they are from my memory, they are conceptually correct.  

She told me that on the state and federal lands, they manage for habitat preservation—which in New Mexico meant the spotted owl (an issue I’d written about frequently). But on the Mescalero lands, they managed for the health of the forest. She explained that in New Mexico, the average rainfall is enough to support about 50 trees per acre. But, because the state and federal governments did not allow any logging, the forests were overgrown with about 250 trees per acre. As a result, the trees were unhealthy; they were unable to fight off disease or pests. New Mexico’s forests were infested with bark beetles. In contrast, on the Mescalero lands, they managed for the health of the forest—keeping them thinned to a number (50) that allowed them to be healthy. If they found a spotted owl habitat, they kept an area surrounding it undisturbed.

This management meant that when an inevitable forest fire started, it blazed through the state and federal lands as an extremely hot “crown fire.” But when it hit the Mescalero lands, it “laid down” and became a manageable grass fire.

We could see the difference as we drove through the mountains of New Mexico.

Like all of us, I am devastated by the apocalyptic loss of life and property in Southern California. But as the conversations over cause happen throughout the next many weeks and months, I hope that this time, with this President, something will finally change in our country; that they will manage the land in a way that protects the people who live there.

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Marita has spent the majority of her adult life working with women—helping them improve relationships, achieve their speaking and writing dreams, and being the best version of themselves they can possibly be. The author of 20 books, this Living Our Best Life Project is her newest effort—through which she hopes to challenge women to be fulfilled where they are.