A Story of Fires... to be continued

By editor

Wisdom, Beaverhead County, Montana

On July 8, 1806, William Clark rode through the narrow valley carved by Trail Creek, nestled within the Big Hole region of what is now southwestern Montana. In his journal, he recorded an observation both simple and profound: "on each side of those glades the timber is small and great proportions of it killed by the fires." This was no casual note on the landscape’s condition. Clark was witnessing a forest shaped by fire, a force wielded deliberately and skillfully by the Indigenous peoples who had traversed and tended this land for centuries.

The vegetation Clark described was not the dense, impenetrable forest that many imagine when thinking of the northern Rockies. Instead, it was an environment where open stands of young Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii), lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta), and Engelmann spruce (Picea engelmannii) grew amid grassy meadows. These glades were punctuated by the blackened remains of trees killed by low-intensity fires, fires that crept quietly across the forest floor, consuming duff and underbrush while sparing the mature canopy trees. The very structure of the forest bore the imprint of fire’s frequent touch.

The fires Clark saw bore the marks of the management practiced by the Shoshone and other Native peoples who used this corridor as a main thoroughfare between the Bitterroot and Big Hole valleys. For generations, they kindled carefully controlled blazes, timed to clear undergrowth and encourage the growth of grasses and shrubs favored by game animals such as elk (Cervus canadensis), mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus), and the occasional bison (Bison bison) that wandered these valleys. Anthropological studies now confirm that fire was a tool, not a threat, used to sculpt the landscape for travel and sustenance. One forest ecologist studying fire scars in the Trail Creek area found that minor fires occurred every 30 to 40 years, a rhythm set by Indigenous stewardship rather than lightning strikes alone.

These fires were low in intensity but high in ecological function. They cleared the litter and smaller vegetation that could otherwise become fuel for more destructive conflagrations. By thinning the forest floor, they maintained open corridors that allowed large groups of people and horses to travel more easily through the rugged terrain. The landscape Clark encountered was the product of millennia of such interventions.

Yet, this pattern of fire use changed dramatically in the early 20th century. The establishment of the United States Forest Service in 1905 ushered in a new era--one that saw fire as the enemy to be extinguished at all costs. The policy of fire suppression began in earnest, driven by the belief that all fires were destructive and that the forest should be preserved in a static state free of burning. For nearly a century, every fire in the Trail Creek area was stamped out swiftly, regardless of size or intensity.

This century of fire exclusion altered the forest profoundly. The open glades filled with dense stands of trees, many now over 130 years old. Dead wood accumulated as weakened trees succumbed to insects such as the mountain pine beetle (Dendroctonus ponderosae) and diseases including root rot fungi. The underbrush thickened, creating what foresters call “ladder fuels”--vegetation that allows fire to climb from the forest floor into the canopy. These conditions set the stage for a very different kind of fire than the one Clark recorded.

Since the year 2000, the Trail Creek area has seen a series of high-intensity wildfires that have burned thousands of acres. These are crown fires, moving rapidly through the canopy and scorching everything in their path. Rather than the low, ground-level fires that once cleared undergrowth and maintained the forest’s open character, these modern blazes leap from treetop to treetop, fueled by the dense, dry vegetation that has accumulated over decades.

The contrast between the forest Clark knew and the present-day landscape is stark. The old-growth stands of the early 19th century were interspersed with fire-killed glades. Today’s forest is denser, older, and far more vulnerable to catastrophic fire. The effects of drought, intensified by climate change, compound the risk. The soil dries, the trees become stressed, and the insects spread more rapidly.

I am reminded of a passage from the journals of Theodore Roosevelt, who, during his presidency in the early 1900s, grappled with the challenges of forest management. He wrote, "The nation behaves well if it treats the natural resources as assets which it must turn over to the next generation increased and not impaired in value." Yet, the policy of fire suppression, though well-intentioned, has led to a landscape that is more prone to destruction than renewal.

This story of fire in Trail Creek is not merely about flames and forests. It is a narrative of human intervention, ecological balance, and the consequences of shifting perspectives. The Indigenous peoples’ fires were a form of landscape engineering, a practice of stewardship that maintained a dynamic equilibrium. The suppression era sought to freeze that system, inadvertently setting the stage for the very devastation it aimed to prevent.

Today, forest managers and ecologists are working to restore some measure of that balance through prescribed burns and mechanical thinning. These efforts seek to reduce the fuel loads and reintroduce the beneficial effects of fire in a controlled manner. Such practices acknowledge a truth that Clark seemed to understand over two centuries ago: fire is an elemental force that can nurture as well as destroy.

As I stand beside Trail Creek, watching the wind stir the tall grasses and listening to the call of a Clark’s nutcracker (Nucifraga columbiana), I consider the long arc of time that has shaped this landscape. The pines and firs, the meadows and streams, the wildlife and people--each has played a role in the ongoing story. The fires of the past, present, and future will continue to write new chapters.

The inscription on the historic marker here reads simply: "to be continued." Indeed, the story of fire in this place is far from finished. It unfolds with every season, every spark, and every act of stewardship. As the forest grows and burns, Trail Creek remains a living laboratory for understanding the complex interplay between humans and the natural world.

See also

• A Story of Fires... to be continued at Wisdom, Beaverhead County (U.S. Forest Service)
• Big Hole National Battlefield Monument at Wisdom, Beaverhead County