Legacy of Fire: The Ghost of Trees

The only forests are the ones that have burned, the ones that are burning, and the ones that haven’t burned yet. – Far Out Guides Comment, Tahoe Rim Trail

Introduction

This fire starts in a canyon, ten miles southwest of Donner Pass, on a day with high winds and even higher temperatures. There is no rain in the forecast — there rarely is. Ground personnel say the likely cause is an abandoned campfire, discovered by a hiker. The rugged terrain makes the blaze near impossible to put out, even with air and ground resources deployed. Thirteen teen backpackers are evacuated from the forest, and the weekend brings storms which are full of lightning and no rain.

And then the fire stalls. The firefighters manage to keep it in the canyon. I refresh Inciweb each day and watch the containment percentage creep up. The news sources reassure Independence Day travelers that the Royal Fire is not a threat to Tahoe City, despite describing the area around it as a tinderbox. Please, they seem to say. Please come and enjoy your vacation even as the world is burning.

Our First Day Out

On our first day out, I encounter the largest juniper I have ever seen. I run my hands up and down the trunk, the wood like hardened, ancient sinew underneath my fingers. I cannot imagine how long this tree has lived on this ridgeline, but by its girth — the trunk is large enough that it would take several people holding hands to encircle it — I would estimate hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

Behind me Big Mama Tahoe, as Sundae and I have taken to calling the lake, glistens in the distance. The deep blue waters look frigid, and even though there is barely any snow on the surrounding ridgelines, the landscape has a glacial feel, as if we are walking on the shores of a polar sea. It is the first day of our thruhike on the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT), a 165 mile circumnavigational journey that will take us around North America’s largest alpine lake. The water seems like a gift. So do the small whorled leaves that crown the juniper, so high above me. I live in the Sonoran Desert, a place of needles, and a landscape shaped by drying winds. The mountains and ridgelines here and the fact that you can look at all that water, makes this place seem soft, welcoming, and watery in comparison. Even though I know how dry it is. The Royal Fire was a warning that this journey might not have been. I still cannot believe that we are here.

The first days come with all of the physical reminders that we haven’t backpacked in some time. The altitude tugs at our lungs. We can feel our packs shifting into place along our hipbones, as our gaits adjust to the weight. I cannot remember how big my tent footprint is, so I often select a site, get halfway set up, and have to move and repitch.

Campsite selection is tricky. The ground is often rocky and the nights bring wind. And then there are the trees.

Sundae, my hiking companion, is a hammocker at heart. Though she sleeps in a tent on our high altitude trips, her hammocker’s intuition, as I call it, hasn’t left her. Every night she scrutinizes our campsites, unhappy about the large number of standing dead trees, their dehydrated branches and leaves the same rust red as dried blood. She paces out how far a tree is likely to reach if it falls, and then we do a series of calculations together to see if we can sleep there without a risk of being crushed. Sometimes there is. Sometimes there isn’t. On nights there isn’t, I go to sleep wondering if there is a patron saint of tree branches, who can hold the forest upright for a little while longer. The sunrise the next day feels like more of a blessing than usual.

“I don’t understand how anyone would mark this as a safe campsite,” Sundae says as we pack up. “Aren’t people paying attention?”

Though we never camp in designated burn areas, there are so many standing dead trees along the trail that it is nearly impossible to avoid camping near one. Oftentimes we have to just settle for no widowmakers, but this caveat would do nothing in case of a lightning strike. Sundae is from Florida and is terrified of lightning. I am from Colorado and my relationship with fire is a more grim, if practical one. I am used to places I know burning.