Elwha - Righting a century of wrong

Elwha River recovers after over 100 years under water.

Okay, friends. I'm going to make a couple of statements which, if you give them real thought and maybe a bit of research, you will know are right but which will, unfortunately, mean that some people will stop reading by the end of the paragraph. Actually, since this is a success story, I'd hope that even those who can't handle the truth about homo sapiens would want to finish.

We know that the human animal is far from the brightest bulb in the box. We have the idea that because we can abstract and do other tricks, we're smarter than nature. We all know that this is not true. We don't hold a candle to nature. We talk about wildlife management and forest management and land management, none of which would be necessary if human's hadn't mucked things up in the first place. We are so bad at trying to do what nature does that, if it weren't so sad, I laugh my gluteus maximus off.  The second truth is that we think that the homo sapiens is the most important animal on the planet. This is so far from the truth that it is ludicrous and only a religion could make such a unsubstantiated claim. Actually scientist have to admit that if bugs were to suddenly become extinct, Earth would be in serious do-do (literally) while if homo sapiens were to suddenly become extinct, Earth would start to heal. So humans aren't nearly as important as your basic cockroach or dung beetle. Sorry folks. The only thing at which humans excel are creating weapons of mass destruction and being the most invasive species known, otherwise we're at the bottom of every list. Nevertheless we are so certain of our superiority that we gauge everything in light of human comfort, convenience and survival. Sadly that's where our story begins. Happily it ends with humans making right over one-hundred years of wrong. That's worth celebrating! That's worth you knowing. And so the story of Elwha River.

Moving through the gorge
 where it had been dammed.

The Elwha River is on the Olympic Peninsula in the State of Washington and is currently inside the Olympic National Park. In the early part of the twentieth century - before 1910 - over 70,000 pounds of salmon was caught annually just in this river! To use human measurements - that is a lot of food, a lot of people fishing, which means a lot of tourism, a lot of fishing licenses, a lot hotels, restaurants, etc. Nevertheless, humans, applying their normal myopic and unintelligent ways, decided that they needed to dam the Elwha River to provide cheap electricity. Forget what such a dam would do to nature. Ah, humans' don't generally give a hoot about what happens to nature, but think about what happened to the fishing, which was providing not only food but a great deal of money to the local economy. Well, obviously no one took time to think. Very likely someone, or several someones, was/were seeing dollar signs in their dreams and didn't care what happened to the local economy or nature because they were going to get rich!

Two dams were built on the Elwha River which created Miller Lake. It looked lovely. People came from near and far to see it and use it for recreation. The stream looked healthy. It flowed down to the ocean providing a post card view.

Sadly no one bothered to determine whether what they had done was really environmentally healthy. I mean, who would really want to know that they had destroyed an unreplacable piece to nature's scheme? We're humans, after all, and know everything. (NOT!) The lake was actually doing great harm beneath the beautiful placid surface. The dams blocked over 95% of the salmon's natural habitat, which meant that the salmon vanished. The new river caused erosion both in the canyon and at the mouth of the river. While it was pretty and gave humans a lot of pleasure, the project was an environmental nightmare.

A remnant of the dam.

Now this is where the story get good. I could go on for quite some time about the damage that these dams did to that entire valley and portion of the Olympic peninsula, but I'm really anxious to get to the good part of the story. It isn't that often that I'm able to show what humans did right!

In 2012 and 2014 the dams were removed! Yes, both of the dams on the Elwha River were removed so that the river could return to its natural state . . . so that it could return to what nature intended. I'm sure it wasn't an easy project, and it did do some significant damage to human campgrounds, roads and other structures. However, the Elwha River has returned to its natural course. With the help of humans who were intent upon learning from nature, instead of trying to "manage" nature, plants were returned and the salmon are back. The area which was once slowly dying is now rapidly returning to life.

Today I was up where the upper dam was located. There were a great number of cars filled with people driving a road that is barely wide enough for two cars to pass so that they might see what humans might call a miracle. It really wasn't a miracle, unless you want to call humans finally admitting that we'd screwed up and have tried to make amends a miracle. But I was so happy to see not only the return of the rule of nature but to see that people were there to witness it. Hopefully they also learned. There are a number of exhibits that truthfully explain the damage we did and the efforts to rectify what we had done. People were reading them. I certainly hope they were absorbing what they were reading.

It is hard to tell you how witnessing this lifted me up. Most of the time I am quite embarrassed and ashamed of my species, but this wasn't one of those times. This was a time when homo sapiens - humans - showed that we can admit that we've been wrong and do our best to give control of the earth back to Unci Maka (grandmother Earth) where it belongs. When you spend most of your life being ashamed of what you're species has done to this planet, Elwha River is a wonderful experience.

Elwha River proves that we can accept that we were arrogant, thoughtless and totally stupid without it bring an end to our species. Just a bruise to our fragile ego. It proves that we can realize and accept that ONLY nature - Unci Maka - can properly manage life on this planet. Nature, Unci Maka, that mysterious force or whatever it may be, was successfully managing life on planet earth long before the narcissistic humans ever arrived. As one person explained it ... if from the beginning of earth to today was a football field, humans first showed up on Earth 1/8th of an inch from the inzone. That means we've only been here 0.000035% of the Earth's existence. Doesn't exactly qualify us as experts.

Elwha River is just one great example of how we can return planet Earth to its rightful, and only successful, manager . . . nature. Humans are still enjoying the area. Hopefully they will soon be able to provide their own food by catching salmon from the river. This is our only hope as a species. This is our only hope for this planet. We must stop being the destructive, invasive species and do our best to become a productive part of nature, returning the control of planet Earth to its only successful manager ... nature.  

Season's End

The air is crisp and dry. The sun, which has been covered and filtered by the smoke of forest fire for over a month, sits lower and lower in the southern sky but is shinning brightly which, when combined with a gentle breeze, gives a sense of life and well-being to the forest around us.

It is September 19th and another campground season at Glacier National Park in northwestern Montana is coming to an end. The aspens, larch and what few deciduous trees we have are beginning to turn and shed their leaves. The berry patches, which dominate the undergrowth around us, are beginning to turn brown with only the Snowberry still having fruit. Only the chipmunks eat the Snowberry, so we have seen few bears. A doe with two of this years fawns routinely passes Nitsitapiisinni (Blackfeet for 'our way of life'), our twenty-foot camper-trailer home, munching on grasses, bushes and small trees.

Walking down the narrow ribbon of asphalt that constitutes the road through the deserted campground, the only sounds are those of nature around us. The creaking of the tall lodgepole pines is sometimes accompanied by the sound of a small rodent scurrying through the thicket, and occasionally a Raven will call or greet you as you pass. The campsites are vacant with the only sign of the tremendous number of people who had passed through this campground being some charred wood in the fire pit or a tree branch leaning up against a picnic table that had once been used as a make-shift walking stick by a young camper who was told she couldn't take it home.

You can't help but think of the people whom you have encountered over the seasons - those who lifted you up and those who caused you grief. There were the two women from some Atlantic coast state who came just to find the Varied Thrush. We had told them they were all over the area. They were so excited. There were the unbelievable number of campers who rented a U-haul trailer for their camping equipment. We always wondered what they left home. Then there were also those who forgot something. We keep a collection of things from can openers to sleeping bags and blankets for them to borrow. We met full-timers, like ourselves, who loved to swap information about places to visit. Families and young couples determined to go from Florida to Alaska or visit every National Park were always fun. One time we had a French family - Mom, Dad and two small children - who were riding bicycles from the east coast to west. There was also a couple in their late 60's who started their bicycle trip on the Delaware coast and were heading toward Alaska. And we can't forget all of the singles traveling the country in cars, vans and tents. There seem to be a lot more single women than single men on the road.

There was never a dull moment when all your sites were taken by 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning and you were trying to help folks find a place for the night. Walking the loops could take hours with all of the questions in the morning about trails and places to visit and all of the adventures they wanted to share as they began returning in the late afternoon. There is something refreshing hearing stories about animals you know well and trails you've hiked many times told by excited visitors seeing them for the first time.

Now all those campers are memories, ghosts of campers past who sit in the empty campsites as we walk by. The silence of the forest is wonderful and serene, and as I look around I am reminded of walking the loops late at night. That and morning rounds are my favorite. The campers are almost all asleep. Campfires are out and the only light, other than that of the moon, are flashlights and lanterns inside the occasional tent.

It has been a good season. We made lots of new friends and were reunited with many friends from seasons past. We have seen new rangers mature and watched old ranger retire. The rest of us talk about what we will do in the off-season and look forward to seeing each other again next year. We enjoyed a phenomenal spring, had another record breaking summer and survived a heartbreaking natural disaster.

With our home securely attached to the hitch of our big red half-ton heavy we move slowly toward the west gate for the last time in 2017. We pass through the village of West Glacier, which is now little more than a ghost town, and pull onto US-2 heading west. Farewell, Glacier National Park, until we come home again.

Our Sweet Avalanche

Through out this entire ordeal of forest fire and evacuations one place is always on our minds. Pamela and I don't speak of it very often because the subject usually ends up with one or both of us in tears. Memories are bitter sweet because we don't know what condition it is in. Fears and concerns are real every time we look at a fire update. That place is our campground, Avalanche.

We have known Avalanche ever since we came to Glacier National Park. Our good friend, Jane, had been the Campground Host (CGH) there for several years. We always thought it would be neat to work at Avalanche to see what we thought, but we didn't want to risk losing our place at Sprague Creek. We finally got our chance this years and quickly fell in love.

Avalanche isn't really a place for first-timer CGH or for CGHs who have a problem living fairly well off-the-grid for months and being so isolated that there are many times that you just have to make do on your own. It is sixteen miles into the park from the west gate. Pamela and I spend about 70-80% of our time living off-the-grid when we're not at Glacier and we each have over 5,000 hours of experience in the park. Pamela's forte is the natural sciences and my avocation is wildlife, so we really enjoy those few days in early May when there are still patches of snow on the ground, before we open the campground and our closest neighbors are those living in the government housing outside the west entrance gate, making us the only humans within most of the 1,500 square mile park. Being really alone with our trees and rocks and animals is the highlight of every year.

Avalanche is nestled in the mountains about five miles beyond
the end of the lake.

The CGH site at Avalanche does have water and we dump into a make-shift cover over the septic system. Our water actually comes from a spring flowing from the side of Mount Cannon which we see from our campsite. It is wonderful water and the man in charge of maintaining the totally gravity fed system really hates that he is required by law to put a minimal amount of chemicals in the water. Mount Cannon is an 8,700 foot filter. There is no electricity, nor is there telephone, internet, TV or public radio. Our boss' boss' boss was gracious enough to get us a satelite phone this year. Between the trees, mountains and latitude it didn't work, but we appreciated the effort. We have a full one meter antenna on our handheld park radio. It works most of the time. That is our only link to the outside world. We are totally self-contained. We have two 160 watt photovoltic panels on the roof that, even being under the trees, daily recharged our two 224 amp hour AMG batteries. That more than fills our electrical needs. We don't like, or need, air conditioning and only occasionally use a microwave when it is available. Of course we don't waste our energy on a microwave. We do have a flat screen television and blueray DVD payer which we occasionally use to watch movies. Pamela would like a hair dryer but we make do. So as you can see, Avalanche was a great match for us.

Avalanche is an eighty-seven site campground divided into two loops - loop A having 53 sites and loop B having 34. A rather wide barrier of trees divides us from the Going-to-the-Sun Road on the north-west side. McDonald Creek flows just beyond the road which we can hear rushing toward the lake on spring nights. Beyond the creek is McPartland Mtn. It is one of a line of mountains that forms the northeastern side of this leg of the McDonald valley. On our north-east side we have the popular and magnificent Trail of Cedars and Avalanche Lake Trails which runs along the base of the majestic Mount Cannon and the beautiful Avalanche Creek. It too can be heard at night pounding and carving rocks like an ancient ritual. From the campground we can also see Bearhat Mountain which is just southeast of Mount Cannon. On our east southeast side in Mount Brown with its beautiful trail through the last of the temperate rain forest consisting predominantly of 4-500 year old cedars and hemlocks. Once these gigantic trees are gone they will never come back. With climate change there is just not enough moisture to grow a rain forest. The fact that this is an ancient rain forest is helping it to withstand the raging forest fire. The marvelous trees are what gives Avalanche its unique character which draws people back again and again.

McPartland Mountain

We had never paid any attention to the camping patterns of Avalanche before we worked there. I had assumed that recreation vehicles and trailers were the predominant mode of camping, and I was wrong. Our average throughout the season was about 70-75 tent campers and 10-15 RVs. (Oh, just FYI. If it has wheels it is considered an RV, therefore a person in a van or sleeping in their car is considered an RV.)

The most popular area in the campground is between site 61, the CGH site, and site 75. These are in a beautiful and open area under a heavy canopy of cedars. Because of the size and age of the trees very little grows under them. The canopy is so dense that we have seen times that it rained for over an hour before the forest floor actually got wet.

After we were forced to evacuate Avalanche we spent two nights in the Apgar Campground and then went to take care of a loop at the Fish Creek Campground. We had helped out at Fish Creek for a couple of weeks a few years ago, so we knew the campground well. Opening it didn't turn out to be a very good idea. With the growing smoke from the fire there were no campers. The only reason I tell the story is that Fish Creek was a reservation campground that had closed for the season. We were re-opening one of their loops for first-come camping. The woman in charge of Fish Creek was very concerned that nothing happen to her campground. She asked me to take a picture of locking the gate so that she would know things were as they should be when we closed it. That was our feeling toward Avalanche. When the evacuation order came we made sure that we were the ones that checked it out and ultimately locked the gate.

Mount Cannon

Pamela and I listen carefully to the fire reports and have spent many evenings at the foot of Lake McDonald watching Glacier burn. We don't need to say anything to each other. We know that we are both looking at that spot at the foot of Mount Cannon sixteen miles away and wondering if it is okay. We know that, because of the historic and environmental importance of the area, fire teams have installed a system called 'Rain for Rent' to wet and protect Avalanche Campground and the Trail of Cedars. That makes us feel better, but it doesn't take away our concern. Each day we study the topographic maps with overlay from the flyover the night before. We know that each of us is studying that small point near the top of the closure . . . . Avalanche.

We have been eating smoke for over a month. We have doggedly stayed and worked wherever the park needs us. Most of this is because we are dedicated members of the team, but a lot of it is because we don't want to leave before we know the fate of our sweet Avalanche.

We will return to Avalanche next season no matter what happens. If nothing else we will be able to watch new life nestled among our dear friends Cannon, Bearhat, Brown and McPartland. We hope beyond hope that the wonderful rainforest will still be there. If not, we will be there to carry on its memory.

Avalanche, we may not be able to see you before we must leave, but we live in the hopes that it will rain and snow enough before we go that we can leave you with some confidence that you are tucked into a blanket of snow, safe until the spring.   

Glacier Burning - 3 - the Screaming Silence of Waiting

No alarms needed. I awakened early. It was barely light outside. I had stayed up after midnight waiting and hoping for rain as I watched the ridge to our north east for the errie red glow of fire. There had been only one scare during the late evening. It was after 10 pm when there was a knock at the door. It was a good friend who also happens to be a Law Enforcement Ranger. My first reaction was that she was here to give us the evacuation order. No. She had a pizza box in her hand. Her story was that she had been given pizza to share with "folks working hard in the park." It was definitely an emotional boost. I had the feeling, when she said that she had other pizza in her squad car to deliver, that this was really our LE friend's doing. No matter who, it made a tremendous impact. Someone out there was sensitive to our plight.

As I was putting on my boots this morning to do rounds I saw our boss parked nearby. She lives near Flatlead Lake, south of here, and was in the park early. The normal fall staff attrition leaves her with one VUA ranger who was already getting things together for a trip to the east side of the park. She had no more news. We talked about weather and hopes, hope and weather. All we could do was wait. Each of us would, from time to time look up at the grey sky and the tall, silent lodgepole pines. The silence screamed. It was an almost hysterical scream of fear and anticipation, where the mouth is open but there is no sound. Like us the trees were waiting. But they were so still, so silent, creating a sense of tension that made the three observers nervous and concerned. What was going on up on the mountain that we didn't know? The trees knew but weren't telling.

Inside each of us we really knew for what they waited. We knew what they feared. It was the calm before the storm. But what kind of storm? Rainstorm or firestorm?

We have two loops containing 99 campsites open. Twenty-one sites had been occupied last night. I walked the deserted loops to pull tags. That's the early morning process of removing all of the registration tags that had expired. There were only two tents and one RV remaining, and all three of them were right next to us. I couldn't help think of the forest young drawing close to their mothers for comfort and protection. That is, indeed, part of our job. Campers asking us repeatedly if we were going to be sure to warn them. It must take some courage to trust us, total strangers, with their safety. As I walked I imagined, or maybe I fantasized, that it was beginning to rain. I would stop. All of my senses were on high alert, but there was nothing. There was no rain. When I would do this I would glance over my shoulder at the mountain barely visible through the trees and haze. Just beyond that ridge was the fire. Was it coming? Who would get here first, the fire or the rain? I looked again down the empty campground road. At least, if the worst comes, we don't have hundreds of people as we did before.

But I don't want to give in! My defiant screams, like those of the trees around me, are silent. To have this happen twice in ten days is almost intolerable. Nevertheless I know the truth. I am helpless in face of a burning inferno. My only hope is the rain and the skills of the brave women and men who have placed themselves between the fire and me.

Pamela checks the weather every few minutes. Like all of us, she is desperate for hope. The radio cracks. It is dispatch with the morning report. From the sounds of it the fire didn't get as much wind as we expected last night so there was not as much growth as anticipated. That was good news. We have a stand off. The fire hides behind the ridge above us. We know it's there. We wait, but perhaps not patiently, for every nerve, every emotion, screams for relief. We wait to learn our fate. We await our fate. We wait.  

Glacier Burning - 2 - The Longest Hours

To date, September 13th, it has been ten days since we evacuated Avalanche Campground in Glacier National Park, Montana, because of the Sprague Creek Fire. Since that time we have been in four different camp sites in two different campgrounds in the park. We finally seemed to have landed at Apgar C121, one of the two Apgar host sites. The other hosts are the couple who evacuated Sprague Creek Campground the same day we evacuated Avalanche. We have two of the five loops of this 200+ site camp group open, with each couple responsible for one loop. We were expecting a school group that we were going to put in the group site loop. The devastating forest fire continued to burn but was making little headway. The number of campers was increasing, rain and snow were forecast for tonight and we were actually beginning to feel half-way normal. Then it happened.

We were in Columbia Falls doing laundry when we heard the news - an evacuation warning had been issued for Apgar and West Glacier. Our hearts sank. Pamela immediately called our ranger office. One of our VUA rangers and the chief Law Enforcement ranger for the west side of the park were already in our campground handing out the notices. We finished the laundry and returned to Apgar as quickly as possible.

It is hard to explain the emotions of going through this twice in ten days. We're not afraid. We're not worried that we will die in the fire or that we will lose Sinni (our camper trailer home). We're in the enviable position of being able to hook our home to the back of our truck and drive off. The emotions relate to the fact that an evacuation warning means that something on the fire line has firefighters worried. Eradic winds, winds from the wrong direction, high winds, or a sudden change in the fire's behavior. If the evacuation order is given it means that things are going very wrong. The last time this happened we spent the evening of the evacuation watching the fire almost double and begin to peak up over the ridge near us. The last time the order was given it meant two campgrounds and a handful of cottages along the north side of the lake. If the order is given for this evacuation it would mean one campground, two entire villages, the park headquarters along with all support services and government housing. We were at the point that we were almost able to hope that, with the coming of rain and snow, this fire could be kept to less than 15,000 acres. We wanted to hope or maybe even believe that it would end without destroying any more of the rainforest. This evacuation warning instantly dashed those hopes.

The emotions with which we contend are dealing with the unknown and the painful anticipation of the inevitable. Almost everyone has been hit by something - anything from a ball to a paddle to a fist to a vehicle - and experienced that sickening and painful anticipation before impact. You remember how the time from the point you realized the impact was coming to the actual impact was an eternity, an eternity of that emotional pain because you knew that there was no hope, no rescue, no escape. From the first evacuation warning to the predicted rain was twelve hours. Can the firefighters hold out until the rain and snow began? Would the winds blow the fire over the ridge forcing evacuation before any help could arrive? There's no sign of rain or snow on the NOAA weather radar. Is it coming? Have our hopes been dashed? Will the evacuation order be given?

We have worked constantly since we returned from doing the laundry at about 1:30 pm. It is now 8:52 pm and we will be up well into the night. In those seven plus hours we have gone through the campground multiple times making sure that we have talked to all of the campers who have elected to stay. They must know that we might awaken them at any time and say they have two hours to get out. The rain and snow is supposed to start around midnight. What is happening on the fire line? Are we going to make it? Sinni's big back window faces the Belton Hills and Snyder Ridge. I keep looking up worried that I'll see the red glow from our site. If we see red, all hope is gone. But as time ticks away should hope grow stronger? And so we wait.

Some natural disasters strike without warning and are over almost before one has a chance to figure out what is happening. Earthquakes and tornadoes fall into this group. Some natural disasters come rumbling in almost on schedule, like a hurricane. Fires are not like any of those. Fire is menacing.    You can see it coming but have no idea which way it will go or how fast. Fire does not hit one thing and not another. It totally consumes everything in its path.  Unlike any other natural disaster which may last from seconds to minutes to hours to maybe days, a fire can go on for months. 

This is very much our lives in Montana right now. The smoke was so thick in the valley today that we couldn't see the mountains. The fire is destroying peoples' homes and businesses. Many are being evacuated with only the hope that everything they own in life will not be consumed. People are dying. As of September 9th sixty-six firefighters have lost their lives this year, and the end is not in sight. I have no idea how many civilians have died directly or indirectly from the fire.

Tonight will be another extremely long night. As we did ten days ago, we will remain vigilant until the morning in case we have to get our campers up and move them out. We will wait and watch for the rain and snow we were promised. We will keep watching the ridge northeast of us lest the flames come before the rain. It will be a long night of waiting, wanting to hope but fearing to hope, anxious for the nightmare to end so that we can finally rest and the healing begin.

Pamela and Russ

Sept. 13th., 2017 21:39

www.followsinni.com

Glacier burning

First big expansion - the day we were evacuated
from Avalanche at the base of that mountain.

 My daughter-in-law posted one of those Face Book questionnaires a day or so ago. One of the questions was 'when was the last time you cried?' That's easy. Last Sunday morning after we finished evacuating Avalanche and took one last look at our beloved cedars and hemlocks as we locked the gate, not knowing if we would ever see them again.

Montanans, like so many people in the Pacific Northwest and Rocky Mountains, are accustomed to 'fire season'. It's like tornado season for the mid-west or hurricane season for those along the Atlantic or Gulf coast. You can become so accustomed to the dangers associated with these seasons that you become almost jaded. This being only our fifth fire season Pamela and I aren't there yet, but earlier this season we had several long-time and life-long Montanans say "Oh, it's just fire season." They have changed their tune. It isn't just another fire season. It is the fire season from hell. So far we have broken about every record possible to break: (i) longest dry period - 52 consecutive days without rain. (ii) Least rain - only 0.23" since June 16th. (iii) hottest summer in history. (iv) most fires, biggest fires, and most acres burned. Those last figures just keeps growing. To date the northwest has lost around 9,375 square miles. That is an area greater than the States of Connecticut, Delaware and Rhode Island put together. And that doesn't count the Canadian fires which are gigantic and a story unto themselves. 

Smoke is both your enemy and your friend. It can be deadly to people with pulmonary problems and do damage to the lungs of young children. It retards fire because it reduces oxygen. Of course, it reduces oxygen for all air breathing reptiles and mammals. The smoke was so dense when I drove past the lake today I couldn't see the lake. It was less than twenty yards away. For days you haven't needed any filtered glasses to look at the sun. It is nothing more than a large orange disk in the sky. Ash looks like a really light snow or a very bad case of dandruff. The Nat'l Park Service has issued employees respirator masks and we do rounds that we once walked in vehicles. 

Our fire, called the Sprague Creek fire, started on August 10th. We had a night of lightening without rain and had 50 reported lightening strikes inside the park. It started, and continues to burn, in an area that is so rugged that you can't get people in to fight it. All you can do it drop water and chemicals and soak down surrounding areas. We lost an historic 1913 chalet - Sperry Chalet. The firefighters who made a valiant effort to save the chalet had to be dropped into the area by helicopter and climb out through a high mountain pass.

Mt. Brown is on the north side of the fire. For a while it provided a formidable barrier - steep, rocky terrain with little vegetation. That didn't stop the fire. It went up Mt Brown in about six hours.  We learned from a fire behavior specialist that fires can cross what appear to be barren land by following roots and interspersed grass. To the east is Edwards Mtn, and a collection of lakes and glaciers. That's where we lost the chalet. The southern flank was originally Sprague Creek drainage area. In one night the fire burned through that, over a ridge and into an area called the Lincoln and Walton drainage. The fire could follow the Lincoln Creek trail right down to US 2. On the west and northwest are the last of the temperate rain forest and an historic lodge called McDonald Lake Lodge. The fire is currently nibbling at these magnificent 4-500 year old trees and has been progressing toward the lodge. I did learn that the giant cedars and hemlock, because they are a rain forest, are more difficult for the fire to ignite and burn. This weekend we are to have another weather front move through. With it will come high winds and lightening. The last two times that a front went through the fire doubled in size each time. We're at around 13-14,000 acres now.

We live about sixteen miles into the wilderness nestled between four great mountains.  Our water comes from a spring on the side of Mt Canon. It is a completely gravity system and the best water you've ever tasted.  We have no electricity. We have 480 watts of the new photovoltic (solar) system and two 224 amp hour 6 volt batteries, which is much more than sufficient for our needs. Of course, despite the size and power of our batteries we don't have A/C. You generally don't need A/C in Montana. There is no telephone, television, internet or wifi.  The park got us a satellite phone this year but between the mountains, forest and latitude it never worked. We have a special radio with a full meter antenna so that we can communicate with park dispatch. That's our link to the outside world.  We never go to work without bear spray and a radio.  We spent our first 3+ years in a 35 year old 16 foot trailer we called Willy. Last July we got a new 20 foot trailer that we call Nitsitapiisinni - Blackfeet for 'our way of life'.  Our transportation is our 2013 Dodge Ram half-ton heavy.  For us it is a wonderful life, but it isn't for everyone.

A Sunny Day 

Our home from May 1st to October 1st is Glacier National Park, in the northwestern corner of Montana. This year we were taking care of the Avalanche campground. We fell in love with it immediately. Set in the last of the temperate rain forest among giant cedars and hemlock we look from our home up at magnificent mountains all around us. The campground has 87 sites. The average occupancy is 350 people with 75 sites being tent campers and 12 sites having RVs. (Of course anything with wheels is to be recorded as an RV. That means people sleeping in their cars are recorded as RV.)  It is a mile around the campground. We average walking it three to four times a day and biking four to six times a day. We get lots of exercise. We are frequently visited by black bears and both mule and white-tail deer. Nearby, but not in the campground, we have grizzly bears, elk, moose, pine martens, and a host of marvelous animals. Birdwatchers come to stay at Avalanche because of the tremendous variety of  birds - varied thrush, swallows,  two types of owls, three types of woodpeckers just to name a few. 

Then the lightening struck on August 10th. and our lives have been turned upside down. At first there were hopes that it would burn itself out, taking only a few acres. But we hadn't had a good rain since June 16th.  We had rain one day after the 10th. It rained for over an hour but the ground under the heavy forest canopy never got wet. It got hotter, windier, and drier. We knew that we were in trouble when the fire service would drive through the campground at least once a day. By the 17th we had an evacuation plan. Thursday, August 31st was one of the worst days.  Local authorities thought that it would take a long time for the fire to advance up the south side of Mount Brown. It did it in about six hours. It was downhill from then on. Every time there was wind the fire doubled until it is now just shy of 14,000 acres. There have been nine fires inside the park. Three of them are still burning and dangerous.

On Saturday, Sept 2nd we were told to close Avalanche at noon on Sunday Sept 3rd.  We finished our own personal evacuation plan. Later that day they gave those who own land inside the park 'evacuation warnings.' Sunday morning we got up early and removed all of the tags and notices. People were getting up and moving out, but there are always some who poke. When people would ask why they had to leave and what's the hurry my favorite line was "see that mountain right there?" I would point in the direction of Mt. Brown. "No," was always the reply. "That's why we need you to leave . . . . now."  At 10 am the official evacuation notice was issued.  We hustled out the last few campers, did a very basic shut-down,  had Sinni outside the gate and the gate closed when our boss' boss' boss showed up to do the closing.  We locked the gate, took one last look and headed south down Going-to-the-Sun Road toward Apgar.  As I passed our beloved cedar and hemlock forest it was all I could do to maintain my composure enough to drive, but drive I must. Time for tears ... time for heartache and grief would have to wait.  That night we stood at the south end of Lake McDonald with two Law Enforcement Ranger friends, four fellow CGHs, and hundreds of others watching Glacier burn. The fire again doubled in size that night and we watched it come over the ridge.

All of us in the northwest United States and western Canada do feel very sad about those who have and are suffering due to the hurricanes. We are not heartless.  Nevertheless people do need to realize that we too are suffering.  The most recent death count I read on Harvey was 70 (as of 9/9/2017). The number of deaths of firefighters alone (not counting civilian casualties) was 66 just in the US.  To give you an idea of the size of the US and Canadian fires, it is basically equivalent to the country of Switzerland or the entire States of Delaware, Connecticut and Massachusetts.

For those of us who live in and love these mountains and forests, the fires of 2017 is heartbreaking and isn't over yet.  Many of the 89 fires in the US are in areas that will not get snow, nevertheless the heavy snow necessary to suffocate a fire.  Two of the governors of the four states with the most fires report that Washington D.C. rejected our pleas for help.  To see our states burn is devastating. To be rejected by our national government and ignored by the rest of the country is cruel and painful beyond belief.