At Home in the Woods
Lessons Learned in the Wildland/Urban Interface
________________________

Table of Contents

Introduction 	5
Case Studies
Wildfire Web Site a 'Hit' for Homeowners (Colorado Springs, Colorado)	7
	How the Online Fire Map Works
	How to Put Together a Successful Mitigation Meeting
Community Chips Away at Wildfire Mitigation (Sundance, Utah)	16
	A Community Solution
Fire Inspires 82-year-old to Thin Trees (Routt County, Colorado)	25
Fuel Reduction Protects Mesa Verde National Park (Mesa Verde, Colorado)	27
Fighting the Fuels (Black Hills, South Dakota)	32
	South Dakota Black Hats
Goats Take Bite Out of Fire Risk (Woodland Hills, Utah)	38
	A Wine and (Goat) Cheese Affair
The Little Train that Could (Durango, Colorado)	43
Big Elk Fire Sends Wake-Up Call (Estes Park, Colorado)	48
	Green Badge of Honor
Blazing a Trail to Safety (Bismarck, North Dakota)	52
	Blazing Your Own Trail
Teamwork Fuels a Modern Gold Strike (Virginia City/Nevada City, Montana)	56
'Don't Burn the Rally' (Sturgis, South Dakota)	61
	Partners in Prevention
	On Patrol
A Bolder Boulder (Boulder, Colorado)	73
A Community Unites (Glenwood Springs, Colorado)	82
	Add Flood Insurance to Wildfire Safety Checklist
Evacuees Star in Local Film Remake (Jackson Hole, Wyoming)	88
Counties Give Wildfire a Run for Its Money (Greater Helena Area, Montana)	93
All Signs Point Toward Mitigation (Jefferson County, Colorado)	99
Cooperation Leads to Coordination (Routt County, Colorado)	103
Perspectives
Restoring the Land with Fire	110
How Homes Ignite	117
Living with Fire	122
	How to Be a Recognized Firewise Community
Resource Guide 	126


Introduction
A SIMPLE WOOD-FRAMED HOME sits tucked within a rich green forest. Perched on a hillside, its deck affords a spectacular view of the valley below, as do the large picture windows and glass doors. The shake shingle roof gives the home an old-style authenticity perfect for the rustic landscape. A stack of firewood has been readied for the first chill, and neighbors' houses are just visible through the tree-tops.  
It is a powerful image that continues to draw more and more people into previously unpopulated areas of the country. But while the appeal of living close to nature is obvious, the risks of doing so are less clear.   
In recent years, images of raging wildfires have been impossible to ignore: panicked residents fleeing their homes with only moments to spare, communities shrouded in smoke and ash for days on end, exhausted firefighters putting themselves in harm's way to protect lives and property.  
Yet in the last decade there have not been more fires started or acres burned than usual. Fires have always burned in the wilderness and always will. What has changed is the degree to which people are affected by them. And as populations continue to shift from urban to rural lands, wildfires will likely pose even greater risks in the future.  
FEMA developed this initiative as a way to document some of the best, most innovative fire mitigation practices currently underway in the wildland/urban interface. We visited several states in the interior West and talked to people from all walks of life. What follows are their stories, with a focus on challenges faced, obstacles overcome and lessons learned.  
By showing specific instances where people are working together to pursue meaningful change, our goal is to inspire others to do the same. The individuals featured in these stories share a desire to lessen wildfire threats in their communities, but they also share the knowledge that progress often comes slowly. For every success there is a setback, and for every satisfying end there is a humble beginning.
Still, in countless places and in countless ways, they are making a difference.  
We have not sought to take sides on the more contentious debates or to promote certain practices over others. In telling these stories, we simply hope to provide a starting point for others who might one day take a similar journey.   
While there are no one-size-fits-all prescriptions for wildfire safety, successful mitigation efforts share common elements:  reaching across jurisdictional lines, building community support, accepting personal responsibility, and maintaining sufficient reserves of flexibility, creativity and patience.
There can be little doubt that people will continue to seek out the beauty and tranquility of natural settings in which to live. There can be equally little doubt that fire will one day intrude. It is not a question of if, but when and where.
The good news is that mitigation offers a way for communities to more peacefully coexist with fire?and for residents to be truly at home in the woods.
	? Michael D. Brown

Wildfire Web Site a "hit" for Homeowners
Colorado Springs residents go online to fine fire rating

IT'S A CITY SYNONYMOUS WITH PIKES PEAK, whose breathtaking views inspired a visiting professor of literature by the name of Kathryn Lee Bates to pen the words to "America the Beautiful" nearly a century ago.
Colorado Springs' legendary grandeur has always drawn people attracted to its natural beauty and healthy climate. On a typical June day, a steady stream of vehicles makes its way to the 14,110-foot summit of "America's mountain," where tourists step from their cars to take in this top-of-the- world panorama.
But in June 2002, traffic on the Pikes Peak Highway slowed to a trickle, and the region's purple mountain majesty gave way to a more sinister hue.
A raging forest fire burned just 20 or so miles northwest of town. The Hayman Fire, named after a mining ghost town in the nearby Pike National Forest, would eventually cover 137,000 acres, making it the largest wildfire in the history of the state. A banner headline in the Colorado Springs Gazette proclaimed "Colorado Burning!" Thousands of residents in three counties bordering the national forest would be ordered to evacuate. And while flames never directly threatened city residents, fire had left its calling card.
One year earlier, a vision
It was the kind of sight that Fire Chief Manuel Navarro of the Colorado Springs Fire Department had seen before and one that he anticipated with dread and preparation.
A veteran of the 1991 Oakland Hills Fire in California that killed 25 and destroyed more than 3,300 homes, Navarro came to Colorado in 1994. The state was then experiencing a relatively wet phase. But by 2000, Colorado's woodlands were so dry that wildfires destroyed a record 21,527 acres. In 2001, only moderate fire activity occurred despite tinder-dry conditions and sizzling summer heat.
Chief Navarro sat back in his office chair at CSFD Headquarters and talked about the looming threat of wildfires. Outside, beyond the broad boulevards and busy city streets, the iconic profile of Pikes Peak stood out against a brilliant, almost blinding blue backdrop.
Navarro's eyes took on a faraway look.
"I can tell you unabashedly that it's going to happen. It's not a question of if, but when."
Navarro was concerned about the growing threat in an area the fire department refers to as the "red zone." Also known as the wildland/urban interface, this is an area of mixed use where development encroaches on the forested hills west of town. Nearly 45,000 Colorado Springs homes are located in this high-risk environment.
When asked about the Oakland fires, Navarro passed a finger over his furrowed brow. His raspy voice betrayed a hint of weariness in having to go over the painful events of ten years ago?yet one more time.
"The Oakland fires were interesting in a number of ways," he said. "Twenty years before, that same area was hit, but we were saved by a change in the weather and only 20 homes were lost." 
Navarro paused before adding, "Next time we weren't so lucky.
"The conditions here in the Springs really concern me. In some ways, this is potentially worse than Oakland," he said. "When I came here, I vowed that I would never stand in front of a group as I did in Oakland, and listen to residents one after another say that the fire department never informed them of the wildfire danger."
His vision?some would call it a pipe dream?was to affect nothing short of a wholesale change in the way the local community looks at wildfire threat. It would require deft political skills, formidable powers of public persuasion and sheer doggedness to navigate the "spider web" of competing interests, conflicting authorities and overlapping jurisdictions to get the job done.
"What's needed is nothing less than a paradigm shift in the way people view living with fire, and their responsibilities to protect themselves and others," Navarro said. 
The new chief quickly learned he was starting from scratch. "I saw right away that we had to do something, so we bit the bullet under a tight budget and created a payroll slot for a person to direct our wildfire mitigation effort."
Navarro turned to an old hand who had a reputation for fixing things to become the department's first Wildland Risk Management Officer.
From vision, commitment
Enter Bill Mills.
As a 33-year veteran of the fire service, Mills knows the drill. With his breezy speech and jaunty manner, "Old Fireman Bill," as he sometimes refers to himself, combines the evangelist's fervor when preaching the mitigation gospel with the cynic's cold eye to just how difficult it can be to change human behavior.
Attired in his crisp dress blues, Mills plays the part effortlessly, making the jargon-laden terminology of the fire expert sound like folk wisdom, smart and funny at the same time. Scratch the surface, though, and you'll find Mills' belief in the importance of his mission is bedrock.
Mills likes to joke about his roundabout speaking style. ("I usually have to walk around back to find the barn door.") Ask Navarro, though, and the chief will tell you that Mills is focused, passionate and relentless.
In the summer of 2001, Mills stood on the observation deck of the Will Rogers Memorial, which is perched on the side of Cheyenne Mountain in the shadow of Pikes Peak. From this lofty 8,000-foot viewpoint, he extended his arm over the entire sweep of the city's wildland interface?"my area of concern"?a 64-square-mile expanse that is bigger than Los Angeles if you include jurisdictions where the department has mutual aid agreements.
"What you see here is the scope of what we believe to be the largest ground-level residential risk-assessment ever conducted in this country?more than 44,000 homes and businesses," he said.
North and south, roads snake through foothills, where shingled rooftops peak over the tips of Ponderosa pines. Mills pointed north to a cluster of residences nestled on a tree-topped mesa. He had been working with a homeowners' association to get the neighbors to create defensible space on their property.
Although he was pleased with the progress made with the group so far, he made a droll confession that all of his outreach efforts haven't met with the same success.
"After preaching mitigation to a lot of empty seats in libraries and church basements, the thought occurred to me that my audience was probably at home sitting in front of a computer. That's when it hit me. We'd put the results of our risk assessment
?along with all our other wildfire mitigation information?on the Internet."
The Web site would serve as an accurate and authoritative gauge of the community's exposure to fire danger. Mills thought that by highlighting ratings for every property, he could educate individuals and stimulate action. It would enable people to look up their own address to see how they stack up on a color-coded scale, and take action to get their rating changed. 
"We're practicing emergency management here," he said. "We'll take our best knowledge and science, present it to policymakers and bottom-line types in a user-friendly format and ask, 'Where do you want to be with this?' If they're not committed, then we can put it on the shelf next to plans for grasshopper invasions and such." 
Commitment to a plan
The basic ingredients for creating an interactive Web site were already in place: the daunting door-to-door assessment, which had begun in 1999, was moving toward completion; much of the Geographic Information Systems (GIS) data needed to chart the map could be borrowed from existing information already found in other city departments such as public works and planning; and the fire department already had a GIS specialist who could lend expertise in putting the pieces together.
The challenge lay in committing time, money and resources to complete the survey, and then to design and market the site. Again, Mills was not breaking ground, but merely adding value to his master mitigation plan with the addition of an online fire map. In the end, the interactive map would become the centerpiece of the department's Firewise Web site.
"We had to sell people on the overall project, using science and not just sound bites," he said. "We had a broad vision of how mitigation practices could be implemented throughout the community, through public outreach that included the Web site, through vegetation management, code development, ordinances... but also through partnerships with foresters, environmentalists, wildlife managers and utility companies. We didn't just rush out to buy a chipper so we could start clearing trees.
"This is not a cookbook. Planning and getting buy-in from others is hard. There's no way you can do this without feeling pain. Getting results is the fun part."
In the spirit of partnership, Mills helped others who needed his expertise to further their own goals, and shared in their success. When the U. S. Forest Service looked for worthwhile thinning projects, Mills proposed creating defensible space around the historic Cheyenne Mountain Zoo on the western edge of the city, while lending his public information and mitigation planning skills to the zoo on behalf of the fire department. Later, when the insurance industry worked to get a roofing ordinance passed in the Springs as a protection against rising hail-damage claims, Mills pitched in on the department's behalf?the new materials also carry a high fire-resistant rating. 
"Once you're able to enlist broad support and assemble a team, you become pretty potent," Mills remarked.
On the basis of a comprehensive 48-page plan and solid partnerships, the department was awarded a $129,732 Assistance to Firefighters Grant from the Federal Emergency Management Agency/U.S.
Fire Administration in 2001. Together with $55,600 in matching funds from the 
city of Colorado Springs, Mills was able to hire a full-time Firewise coordinator, Cathy Prudhomme. In addition to being knowledgeable about fire programs, Prudhomme brought excellent community relations skills and public relations savvy to the job. 
At the beginning of 2002, Mills had reason to feel good about the progress of the mitigation plan. He had a strong team and enough financial support to carry him through the coming year. He had gained the support of his chief and city government, and local, state and federal partners were engaged in their own ways of furthering the prevention plan.
Yet two nagging questions remained. First, there was the perennial question of how to get individuals to take responsibility for reducing their fire danger. Would the Web site really make a difference in motivating people? 
A second, more troubling question remained. What would the new fire season bring? And would a damaging wildfire strike before the department had posted its risk map, warning residents of the potentially dangerous situation? From the looks of things, "Old Fireman Bill" had plenty of reason to worry.
June 8, 2002: The Hayman Fire 
As the 2002 wildfire season drew near, Mills was hardly alone in his concern. Extreme springtime fire conditions developing in the wooded foothills outside of town foreshadowed catastrophic summertime conflagrations. Colorado was in the midst of one of its worst droughts in recorded history. Ground vegetation in much of the state had moisture content of 1 percent to 4 percent, and big timber was said to be drier than kiln-treated two-by-fours found in a lumberyard. 
Topping it off, the legacy of a century of effective fire suppression had created forests that, to Mills' trained eye, looked like huge stands of undampened matchsticks ready to ignite. The prospect of a raging wildfire devastating Colorado Springs on Mills' watch made the "old fireman" anxious indeed.
In mid-April, the governor of Colorado warned citizens of the severe fire season ahead. Already the year's fire activity outpaced the acreage consumed in the catastrophic 2000 season. For anyone who was paying attention, the signs were there, but in the minds of people in the fire service, all the warning flags waved ominously red, orange and yellow.
Mills had seen the threat coming far back in winter. He had stepped up work on the Web site for the first quarter of the year, realizing that an active fire season presented an opportunity to encourage homeowners in the wildland/urban interface to take preventative action. When larger fires with names such as Black Mountain, Snaking, Schoonover and Iron Mountain flared in May and June?and the number of homes lost in these fires approached 100?Mills and his team raced to launch the site.
At about 4 p.m. on the afternoon of June 8, a plume of smoke rose northwest of town in the Pike National Forest. Under the watchful eye of the U. S. Forest Service, the fire's flames laid down some during the night. But next morning?an otherwise quiet Sunday morning?the fire simply exploded, sending smoke spiraling upward with a monstrous heat-induced fury until a huge mushroom cloud emerged full-blown above the jagged line of the Rockies. 
In just 24 hours, the Hayman Fire grew to become the largest wildfire in Colorado history. Ultimately, it would take 21 days to contain the blaze, and only after it had destroyed 133 homes, covered 214 square miles, and forced the evacuation of more than 8,000 residents, most of them from the outermost suburbs of Denver to the north.
For weeks, wildfires would dominate the news in Colorado Springs. At first, feathery, ashen fallout floated for miles on waves of superheated winds off the mountainsides. A telltale odor hung in the air. Then dust stole into homes, leaving a whitish layer of film on surfaces everywhere. People were seen walking the downtown streets with handkerchiefs covering their mouths, while others complained of a sick feeling in the pit of their stomachs. The red and orange hues of sunset served as daily reminders that the powerful forces of wildfire were still on the loose.
To Mills' way of thinking, the shroud of smoke that cloaked Colorado Springs for nearly a month was a kind of advertising campaign for the mitigation message. He was determined to capitalize on it.
"In a strange way, it all seemed to come together. The Hayman presented us with a tremendous teaching opportunity. The community would be our outdoor classroom. And the Web site would be our adult education tool," Mills said.
David Blankenship, the department's senior GIS analyst, redoubled his efforts, working 16-hour shifts in an all-out drive to the finish. More and more, Mills and Prudhomme found themselves at their phones. Suddenly there was demand to learn more about fire mitigation.
"People were forced to think about the danger, and they had never been in that position before," said Mills. "This one hit home."
The city's Web-based wildland fire map was launched June 12, just four days after the Hayman first flared. As part of the department's official kick-off, local media and city council members joined the public in looking up their addresses online to find their fire rating. The reception was both exciting and gratifying. It was a big day for Navarro, Mills, Prudhomme and for the rest of the mitigation team.
Next day, the mitigation office buzzed like a pizza parlor on Super Bowl Sunday, with phones ringing off the hook. Residents had looked up their property and were eager for more information or advice. For the next month or so, the site averaged 500 hits a day. More than 100 homeowners took action and came back to the department to get their rating upgraded on the Web site map.
In their phone conversations, e-mails and comments at community meetings, residents were "talking the talk," using terms such as "defensible space," "fuel load" and "risk-
assessment rating." 
The mitigation message was finally sinking in, and Mills savored the moment.
"Listening to them talk mitigation, to me it was sweet music." 
Lessons learned
By December 2002, six months after the Hayman Fire, Mills and Prudhomme could still be found busily at work. The mitigation office was a two-person shop, with GIS specialist Blankenship called in from time to time to update the Web site. Understandably, hits on the site had slowed to a trickle. Still, there were a handful of mitigation projects on the books to keep the work flowing. 
And it was no time to become complacent. The department was concerned about the 2003 fire season, which was shaping up to be every bit as bad as the previous year's. Besides, given the rate of growth and residential turnover in the Springs, they knew there was always a new audience for their message.
When asked about some of the lessons learned from the Web site launch, a few thoughts came to mind.
"One of the smartest things we did was to enlist the media in helping us get the message out. With their interest and support, we were able to save money we thought we'd need to spend on marketing, and put it toward more public outreach," Prudhomme said. "Coverage was so effective that I believe we would have had a good response from the public, Hayman or no Hayman.
"Another pleasant surprise has been the willingness on the part of many individuals to champion the cause," Prudhomme continued. "When people called in to talk about their risk, they often mentioned the danger level for the entire neighborhood. We invited them?you might even say that we browbeat them?to organize a neighborhood meeting, and many times they did. Don't underestimate people's willingness to help."
One of those willing to step forward was Baaron Pittenger, a resident of Broadmoor Bluffs at the base of Cheyenne Mountain. Pittenger attended a neighborhood meeting hosted by Mills after, in his own words, "the Hayman Fire significantly raised my awareness level." 
What he learned at the meeting?information later confirmed by the online fire map?was that his home and all those in the surrounding neighborhood were rated as being in "extreme" risk of wildfire. Previously, Pittenger admitted, he had no idea that he was living in such a high-risk zone.
This realization inspired Pittenger, a former executive with the U.S. Olympic Committee, to do something meaningful for the community. He began organizing a non-profit group to promote fire mitigation and give citizens a voice in how they want to deal with the increasing threat of wildfire to their community.
"Baaron Pittenger is an outstanding example of someone who has taken individual responsibility. Not only that, he's become a strong advocate for community-wide wildfire mitigation," said Prudhomme.
She also remarked on an interesting social phenomenon. It seemed that people who looked up their home parcel also made note of how the rest of the neighborhood rates. 
"Call it pride, or call it social pressure, but most people don't want to be the only 'hot spot' in the neighborhood," she said.
Prudhomme has found that she sometimes has to reassure homeowners that their color code is not going to be used by insurance companies to raise rates, a common concern. She explains that these worries are groundless, since companies base their rates on actual losses, and instead encourages homeowners to take steps to reduce their risk and promote the changes as a positive. 
Mills found a rise in attendance and in the level of awareness at public meetings, which he attributes in large part to the Web site. 
"People are doing their homework. When the fire service speaks at these occasions, we're able to download visuals from the Web site, and give people an accurate picture of how the neighborhood is managing its risk, and we have a much higher level of discussion about what needs to be done," he said.
"I also learned that you can only push people so far before they resist your efforts. They have to come to you. By making our map detailed to the level of the individual homeowner, we gave people a reason to come to us when they were ready to come to us," Mills said.
Mills advised others engaged in the mitigation effort to share their success. In November 2002, the fire department learned that it had received special national recognition from the U.S. Fire Administration for the department's effective use of its 2001 grant. Based in part on the success of the Web site, the city council voted to fund the mitigation team for the coming year. 
"Others may learn from what you were able to achieve, and it gives your program credibility with local officials and the community," he said.
Last, but not least, Mills cited the unwavering support of his department as a major reason for the team's success. "Chief Navarro has always stood behind our efforts, and my immediate boss, Fire Marshall Brett Lacey, has worked with us every step of the way to make sure that wildfire mitigation is an important part of the department's mission."
But challenges lay ahead. With across-the-board cuts in city government, resources were especially tight. In recent weeks, Mills and Prudhomme had begun keeping a list of callers who have taken mitigation action and would like their rating re-evaluated. Due to staff limitations, they will plan to put on a different hat and personally make the inspections at the beginning of the new year. 
According to Mills, it's a constant battle to tilt the odds a little more in favor of community safety, and it's not always easy to know where your effort stands. But he keeps at it.
"You'd be surprised at the number of people who are willing to 'take knife in teeth' and join us in the fight to make the community a better place once you give them a sense of the important role they play in the effort," he said.


How the Online Fire Map Works

THE ONLINE MAP is located on the Colorado Springs Fire Department's Firewise Web site at http://csfd.springsgov.com. The map provides homeowners with a wildfire risk rating of individual properties and overall scores for their neighborhoods. To find their wildfire risk level, homeowners simply click on the "What Is My Wildfire Hazard Rating?" icon and then click on the search button to enter their street number. 
Abbreviations are not necessary. The search can be easily accomplished by typing in the street number followed by a space and the first letter of the street name. From the list of matching records, homeowners select their address or enter by clicking directly on the city map in the area close to their neighborhood. Specific parcels are located by using the zoom-in feature.
Houses are rated red, orange, yellow or green. Green indicates the lowest hazard rating, and risk increases as the colors progressively get closer to red. 
Information to assist homeowners reduce their wildfire risk is available by clicking on the "Improve Your Hazard Rating" icon from any page. Vegetation management techniques are also provided on the site. 
When recommended mitigation improvements are completed, homeowners may schedule a new evaluation. On the Firewise homepage listed above, homeowners can click on "Contact Us" or "Receive a New Rating" to find out how their ratings can be upgraded on the map.


How to Put Together a Successful Mitigation Meeting
MILLS AND PRUDHOMME offer the following useful tips for people who would like to organize a meeting in their community:
4	When hosting or sponsoring a meeting, your presentation can be limited to distributing informational flyers or hand-outs, or as ambitious as asking others to "champion" the effort to reduce the wildfire risk. 
4	Consider holding the meeting when other major events won't present a conflict, and as close to the last publicized fire as possible. Snow has an amazing ability to redirect people's focus.
4	Hold the meeting at a central location and at a convenient time. Locations can range from an individual's home, driveway or cul-de-sac, to churches, schools, and fire station community rooms. Take a poll among those who would like to attend to figure out the best times. Use a facility that can provide or accommodate food and beverage.
4	Send invitations or call every homeowners' association in your wildland/urban interface with an offer to inform homeowners of methods to reduce their wildfire risk. 
4	Prior to the meeting, get an idea of who will be represented and prepare to give information that is relevant and useful. Discuss both short- and long-range goals.
Short-range project goals may include: cleaning needles and debris from gutters, mowing grasses away from the house, displaying an address sign, and pruning trees and shrubs away from home foundations. 
Long-range goals may include: developing defensible space, re-roofing the home with noncombustible roofing material; and in some instances, developing community water supplies (usually cisterns or dry hydrants) and community fuel breaks (larger fuel treatment areas that protect multiple structures). 
4	Explain that efforts to make individual homes safer from wildfires make a great start, but for mitigation to be really effective, it requires a neighborhood endeavor. Briefly explain how wildfire mitigation is most effective when adjacent property owners put forth the same effort. Encourage other homeowners to host or sponsor a neighborhood or community meeting.
4	Use of case studies often allows people to examine the fire problem from various perspectives. The firefighter's viewpoint alone is usually insufficient. Always invite the local fire chief to present the realities of the department's fire protection capabilities. Consider having additional speakers attend such as local and state forest service representatives, county emergency management personnel, and county or municipal planning representatives.
4	Identify representatives from other departments and organizations who are the appropriate entity to address specific local problems. Individuals often want to deviate from fire and fire safety to discuss topics such as forest health and agency policy arenas. It's a good idea to have knowledgeable people from related areas on hand to lend their expertise.
4	Challenge attendees to hold neighborhood work days and share rental costs for dumpsters and chippers to remove unwanted trees, brush, and debris generated during clean-up activities. If you make people aware of how actions will directly benefit them, they will often be motivated to organize a group effort.
4	Meetings should be linked to future plans and actions. Even if the initial meeting is only informational, it is always beneficial to have follow-up meetings scheduled. For additional gatherings, develop community-sponsored events such as slash pickup, pile burning (a controversial practice that has limited applicability), and community-based public awareness efforts to reduce costs to the individual homeowner.
4	For those who would like additional support, the Colorado State Forest Service can help organize local Firewise workshops in Colorado. Outside of Colorado, please contact the national Firewise group by logging onto www.firewise.org.


Community Chips Away at Wildfire Mitigation
Sundance changes culture along with landscape

THIS IS A STORY ABOUT A COMMUNITY in the wildland/urban interface that took a long look at its wildfire risk and decided to do something about it. But where such a story usually begins with a wake-up call in the form of a catastrophic fire, in Sundance, Utah, the process began with a simple meeting.  
In August 1998, a handful of residents came together with state and local fire managers in a community fire forum. Joining them were fire experts from across the United States, as well as a facilitator to keep the discussions on track.
One of the meeting participants was Jack Cohen, a scientist with the U.S. Forest Service in Missoula, Montana, who has continued to consult with the community. He saw right away that Sundance faced significant challenges.
"I conducted a quick assessment of the community and identified a number of ignition factors needing mitigation," he said. 
The experts walked the attendees through a process designed to establish a long-term fire mitigation plan, and every-one was left with a lengthy list of things to do. The daylong meeting went well, but as one participant later recalled, "That's always the easy part. Then what do you do?"
In Sundance they kept meeting, once a month, and soon they were joined by representatives from the Utah Division of Forestry, Fire and State Lands and other agencies. Eight months later, after sharing a draft with area stakeholders, the group emerged with the North Fork Wildfire Plan, which continues to guide Sundance on its journey toward sustainable, communitywide wildfire mitigation. 
'A mixture of old and new'
Sundance sits in the north fork of Provo Canyon, about 45 miles south of Salt Lake City. Towering above Sundance is 12,000-foot Mount Timpanogos. Surrounding the town are forests where aspen, conifer and oakbrush vie for supremacy and an occasional meadow opens to a view of the mountains. During the winter, snow covers the area and it becomes a popular ski destination.
Like many resort communities, Sundance has a mix of full- and part-time inhabitants, though the number of residential water hook-ups, 350, is far greater than the number of full-time adult residents, 70. Still, there are 11 different homeowner associations, and Sundance remains unincorporated under the jurisdiction of the North Fork Special Service District. 
Alpine Loop Road runs through the heart of Sundance and connects to the side roads that twist high into the canyon where small cottages and multi-million dollar homes sit artfully concealed. Follow Alpine Loop Road to the crestline and Sundance gives way to U.S. Forest Service land.
Actor and director Robert Redford bought much of what today comprises Sundance in 1969 and his Sundance Resort rests at the base of the canyon, welcoming visitors. Across the street is the volunteer fire department that was built on land he donated. Redford has described Sundance as "a mixture of old and new, lush and spare, sophisticated and primitive," and he continues to make a home there.
An occasional fire down in the valley will send smoke up the canyon toward Sundance, giving residents a scare, but the community itself hasn't had a major burn in more than a century. While a wildfire didn't drive people to participate in the August 1998 meeting, other factors did. 
'A long, slow process'
Kathy Hammons attended the meeting and was the first chair of the ad hoc committee that formed in its aftermath. She credited the people who moved to Sundance from other at-risk communities for bringing a new perspective. 
"I was raised in California where wildfires are common and a firefighting infrastructure is taken for granted," Hammons said. "The population in Utah is just starting to sprawl into the more fire-prone areas, and many new people coming in understood that we were in a pretty bad situation."
At the time of the meeting, residents had also recently been warned by state foresters that Sundance and the other communities along Utah's Wasatch Front were extremely vulnerable to fire. Against this backdrop, and with the support of Redford and other community leaders, a fire forum was put together.    
Over the years Sundance had built one of the best volunteer fire departments in the state while also working to mitigate its fire risks. For example, residents have long performed "bridge watch," which involves stopping cars on busy holiday weekends to pass out fire-safety literature. And in the early 1990s, strict ordinances went into effect throughout Utah County, which includes Sundance, calling for wildfire-oriented building and defensible space on any new construction.   
But it wasn't until the fire forum that a coordinated, comprehensive approach to wildfire mitigation began to emerge and some longstanding paradigms began to change.
"It has been a long, slow process," said Tom Wroe, Utah County fire marshal since 1987 and 34-year veteran of firefighting. "The dynamics of this community are different than in other parts of the country. People buy land here and move here because they want to get away. It's a place they come to for solitude. It's a great place to play. 
"But there is a lot of work that needs to be done when you buy a mountain property."   
Two of the biggest challenges facing the fire forum were finding a way to involve part-time residents in the community effort and overcoming resistance from those opposed to changing the natural look of the area. So as the participants left that first meeting, there was a high degree of motivation, a mountain of work?and a few surprises.
"We started by forming an ad hoc committee, and we thought we would have to put this whole thing together and shop it," Hammons said. "But it went the other way. The agency representatives wanted to come to the table with us, and that just shocked us. We had no idea that they would want to be part of this."
Hammons also discovered that the mere act of planning produced results. "What we found through the planning process is that once you sit down and start, you are immediately forming committees that are action-oriented. So even though it might take awhile to finish the plan, the committees will still be moving forward."
'It started clicking'
Today the North Fork Fire and Safety Advisory Council is the focal point of the community's wildfire mitigation efforts, anchored by a wildfire plan that continues to evolve. Stew Olsen, a lifelong resident of Sundance and a member of the family that originally settled the canyon, was chair of the North Fork Special Service District Board for several years and saw the council go through distinct phases.
A major change occurred when the original ad hoc committee became an advisory council under the special service district board. "Even early on it was clear that the district had to be involved on an active level, since it is the only government in Sundance," Olsen said. "And since the district is also in charge of the volunteer fire department, it was an opportunity to join the government and community together."
A second change occurred in 2002. For the first time, the board voted?unanimously?to begin assessing for specific fire mitigation activities, such as removing excess fuels, educating the public and developing evacuation plans. The board even voted to buy a chipper. And Olsen said there was no real opposition. "People don't like to pay for things, but when they see houses starting to burn..."
The assessments have provided something else, too. There is now paid clerical support for the advisory council and committee members?all volunteers?who do much of the day-to-day work.
From the beginning, the ad hoc committee proved adept at generating outside financial support for its activities.
"We brought in a $28,000 grant the first year and put it into a demonstration project that showed a lot of people what we could do," Hammons said. "The next year we received $190,000 under the National Fire Plan to continue our work." The required 50-50 match for the grants was paid through sweat-equity.
As of February 2002, in-kind donations of labor, services, supplies and equipment amounted to more than $250,000. For example, in 2000, 2001 and 2002, Brigham Young University?which operates the Aspen Grove Family Camp in the canyon?brought in hundreds of volunteers to spend half a day clearing out dangerous fire fuels. Each visit netted the community some $35,000 as an in-kind donation. 
 "When I first started it was always, 'But we don't have any money...'" Hammons said. "Now people are seeing that they can bring in money just by cleaning out their property or changing their roof?by doing what will make them safer anyway. All of a sudden, it started clicking that we could do this."
To Wroe, it is important for communities to realize what can be accomplished without regard to financial circumstances.  
"There has never been the emphasis that you must have a big wallet," said the county fire marshal. "Any community can pull its people together, organize and come up with a plan."
Jim Shell works for the U.S. Forest Service and recently took over managing the programs that deliver National Fire Plan dollars to states. Prior to relocating to Washington, D.C., Shell spent 12 years with the forest service in Ogden, Utah. From there, he watched and encouraged Sundance as it worked to address the hazards facing the community.
"Sundance has had strong leadership," he said. "I know they benefited from the support of the National Fire Plan, but they were already on a good course of action. Sundance has been working at this for quite awhile, and it was one of the first communities in Utah to see the need.
"Support from the National Fire Plan may not always be there. Our hope is that a couple years of funding can help people figure out how to work together?that would be the big gain of this effort. Success comes from people who realize they have a need or a problem and then carry the ball."
'One bite at a time'
A look at the wildfire projects undertaken in Sundance since 1998 reflects the depth and breadth of the commitment. Some of the projects include: annual evacuation meetings with emergency responders; collaborative re-roofing projects; free mobile chipping; annual clean-up days; fuel reductions along major ingress/egress routes; individual property assessments by wildfire experts; installation of non-flammable street signs; purchase of emergency sirens; and publication of a monthly newsletter, called Fireline. 
Equally impressive is the number of people who have pitched in to make a difference. More than 100 individuals have been recognized by the advisory council for their contributions?ranging from monetary donations and volunteer committee assignments to property cleanup and communitywide assistance.
To firefighting professionals like Kenny Johnson, who is the safety officer for the Sundance Resort and assistant fire chief of the volunteer fire department, one of the most important elements of the effort is that it has been initiated and led by the community itself.
"We are there as a professional resource, to provide information regarding fire suppression and what needs to be done as far as fuel reduction and awareness," he said. "But we try not to say, 'You have to do this.' If it comes to people from their neighbors or their community, I think it is more effective. The paid professionals can speak all they want, but if the community is not involved it won't matter."
Both Johnson and Wroe regularly attend meetings of the fire advisory council to offer input and support.
It can also be beneficial to focus on the small steps that add up to meaningful change. "In the beginning, start small," Johnson said. "Send out a newsletter and raise the level of awareness. Then take on larger projects and issues. It will snowball from there." Wroe said he thinks of it as an "elephant dinner?just take one bite at a time." 
Hammons said it is just as important to be patient. "What we have learned is that people do a little bit every year," she said. "Giving them stages has worked very well here. The key is getting everyone to participate to the level they can at that particular time. And then letting it take as much time as it needs to take, but to keep it moving." For example, it took Sundance three years to agree on a plan for installing street signs.
While connecting part-time residents to the community continues to be a challenge, there are signs of progress?such as the lack of opposition to the assessments, which could be an indication that residents have come to rely on the services provided by the district board and advisory council.
"This is the first thing in Sundance that has been able to bring the different groups together," Hammons said. "Wildfire crosses all denominators." 
Hammons has seen the culture change in other ways, too. "About 10 years ago, a homeowner installed a metal roof and the roof was above the tree line, so everyone could see it," she said. "The community was absolutely appalled. Now it is a great example of visionary thinking. We've shown that it is possible to have very different roofing and landscaping looks and still meet safety standards."
When Sundance homeowner David Heaps re-landscaped he had two goals?lessen fire danger by clearing dangerous foliage away from the house while maintaining core aesthetic qualities.
"We wanted to push the natural stuff back a little but we didn't want to encroach on it too much, because the natural habitat is why we're here," he said. "I think it's obvious that if everybody does their part, the whole becomes stronger." He also installed rock barriers, put in fire retardant vegetation and added a sprinkler system. 
Julie Mack, who heads the North Fork Preservation Association, said that wildfire mitigation and environmentalism should not be seen as mutually exclusive. "We are practicing forestry ecology," she said. "Since we are at such high risk for fire, thinning the forest and improving the health of the ecosystem makes it safer for homeowners and makes it better for the environment."  
'Standing in Mother Nature's shoes'
In many ways, the work in Sundance is a never-ending job that is only just beginning. Maintaining what has already been done is a huge project in itself, as is the ongoing effort to reach homeowners who have yet to embrace mitigation. And there are remaining concerns?such as planning for a large-scale evacuation. On a summer day, more than 7,000 people could be in the canyon, with limited egress.
Sundance could also be tested as early organizers and supporters give way to other volunteers. Hammons now spends much of her time helping other communities in Utah prepare for wildfire, and Olsen stepped down as chair of the special service district board at the end of 2002, though he remains on the board. But Hammons is confident that the wildfire plan adopted after the August 1998 meeting will ensure longevity and sustainability and that the torch will continue to be passed.
"That's why you anchor to planning ?
whoever comes and goes, the plan is still there," she said. "By developing the plan in true collaboration with the community and agency partners, you've always got people who want to maintain it."
From Wroe's perspective, that is an obligation all residents assume when they choose to live in the wildland/urban 
interface. 
"Fire is a natural phenomenon that cleans out the area, allowing the life cycle to start again," he said. "We don't need fire if folks are willing to look at the responsibilities they have. They are standing in Mother Nature's shoes now, and they need to assume that awesome responsibility."


A Community Solution
Dynamic duo spark grassroots wildfire planning

ON A SUMMER DAY, thousands of visitors will make the short drive from Salt Lake City to Big Cottonwood Canyon to enjoy the rugged beauty of the mountains. The 17-mile stretch of Utah Highway 190 runs through the heart of the canyon and climbs east through thick stands of fir, aspen, spruce and pine, with Big Cottonwood Creek meandering alongside. 
As one of approximately 500 people who live in Big Cottonwood Canyon year-round, Barbara Cameron has grown accustomed to the many summer visitors who come to the suburban canyon to picnic, camp, hike and bike. But she has had trouble getting used to another change that summer brings?fear of wildfire.
"Every July, August and September things get so tense up here you can feel it crackling in the air," Cameron said. "We worry about fire until the first snow comes, then there is a collective sigh, even from the trees."
Like many people who live in the wildland/urban interface, Cameron didn't know that she could do anything more than spend the summer fearing the worst while hoping for the best?until she attended a Community Solutions wildfire preparation workshop conducted by Kathy Hammons and Janet Johnson.
Hammons and Johnson formed Community Solutions in July 2001 as a way to share their wildfire safety expertise. Hammons has a background in education and was involved in building the community wildfire plan in Sundance, Utah; Johnson worked for the U.S. Forest Service and later helped develop a statewide initiative called Utah Living with Fire.
"After Janet and I worked together to make Sundance the first community model for Utah Living with Fire, the state office of Forestry, Fire and State Lands gave us some seed money to see if we could develop a model that would fit other communities," Hammons explained.
Since the first training session in October 2001, the state of Utah has contracted with Hammons and Johnson to bring Community Solutions to six additional sites, and so far more than 35 Utah communities have been through the workshops.
Cameron and six of her neighbors from Big Cottonwood Canyon attended a two-day session in October 2001, and they were joined by residents of other nearby communities. "The training was a wake-up call," she said. "We have a lot of independent-minded people up here, but the wildfire issue galvanized the whole canyon."
To Hammons and Johnson, finding the right people to attend the workshop is a critical part of the equation. In addition to agency representatives and firefighting professionals, they also want local "spark plugs" like Cameron who can help change a community's culture. 
"We start the process by identifying and training a local technical support person who can invite a good mix of community and agency people," Hammons said. "During the workshop we look at the tools needed to build a sustainable community wildfire program. The local support person is there afterward to help the communities establish wildfire councils and complete their plans."
Based on a combination of research, feedback from communities and work with a facilitator who helped Sundance during its initial fire forum, Hammons and Johnson isolated six basic elements of wildfire planning that form the core of the Community Solutions curriculum: fuel reduction, facilities and equipment, education, emergency response, regulative issues, and evaluation and maintenance. 
"We ask everyone, 'What do you wish you would have done before you smelled the smoke?' and everything parks within those six areas," Hammons said. "We have done this enough now where we know that if a community develops a plan that addresses those six areas it will be in pretty good shape."
In Utah, there is an added incentive for communities to attend the training and develop a community wildfire plan: mitigation funding. According to Larry LeForte, a fire management officer for the Utah Department of Natural Resources, the state uses the training as a way to identify communities where funding from the National Fire Plan will have the most impact. 
"We can write a grant specifically for a community based on what is submitted in its fire plan," LeForte said. "We don't have the resources to write community fire plans for everybody, and having them write their own and identify their own problems gives them ownership. We've found that it's very difficult to get anything accomplished unless the community buys in."
After the training the first item of business for the group from Big Cottonwood Canyon was to complete its wildfire plan, and it was then that Cameron recalled thinking, "We can do this." Since then, the Big Cottonwood Canyon Wildfire Committee has continued to meet monthly?even during winter?and the community has made significant strides. 
One particularly notable success was the development of a map that for the first time provides emergency responders from Salt Lake County with specific addresses and locations of Big Cottonwood Canyon residents. The map is currently being refined to include a Geographic Information Systems (GIS) component and will offer additional emergency response information, such as road conditions, road slopes, turn-around areas, electric shut-off sites and residential contact numbers. 
In addition to community fuel reduction projects and the distribution of a newsletter during fire season, the wildfire committee has also been working with the county on planning and zoning issues that affect the canyon. Said Cameron: "For the first time, we feel like we have some input into our own defense." 
Both Johnson and Hammons hope a feeling of empowerment is the greatest legacy of the training. "When people leave the room, I think the first thing they feel is that they can do something, rather than that helpless feeling of 'we don't even know where to start,'" Johnson said. "Then it snowballs and they want to do more and more as they realize it really is working."
One of the ways that Hammons and Johnson empower communities is by demonstrating creative approaches to funding wildfire safety initiatives. By focusing on resources rather than money, communities are shown how to supplement direct grant assistance by generating in-kind support like volunteer labor, donated materials and equipment, cash contributions and community partnerships. 
In the 10 months after its training, Big Cottonwood Canyon reported more than $82,000 in in-kind donations, in addition to a $1,200 grant from the Firewise Communities/USA project for an ArcView software program, which was used to develop the new map. Big Cottonwood Canyon has also applied for a National Fire Plan grant based on its in-kind donations. 
Another benefit of the workshops comes from bringing community members together in a forum that promotes communication and support and highlights the power of working as a team. At a training in Brian Head, Utah, in August 2002, residents and agency representatives alike were heartened by the many new faces in the room and hopeful that it signaled an emerging commitment to wildfire mitigation. 
"We've all been doing what we can for our own properties, but until this meeting we hadn't come together as a whole to make the community more defensible," said Peg Simons, a Brian Head homeowner. "I think we will finally be able to take the motivation and put it into motion."
Brian Head Fire Captain Dave Stolrow was equally optimistic. "I feel like the load is now being shared and that a lot more is going to be accomplished in a shorter period of time," he said. "We're going to have more backing from the community?and if residents develop the plan and are part of it and understand why it's necessary, it's going to be one hundred times more effective."
As they do with all the communities that attend the Community Solutions workshops, Hammons and Johnson will track the program outcomes in Brian Head to measure progress in what promises to be a long journey?and Brian Head has already taken its first step by working to build a fully functional wildfire council.
But the one outcome that is perhaps hardest to measure might be the most important of all. "The primary goal is to change the culture of the communities so they no longer think of this as somebody else's responsibility," Hammons said.
To both Hammons and Johnson, that is the ultimate community solution.


Fire Inspires 82-year-old to Thin Trees

AS THE 2002 FIRE SEASON HEATED UP, Christie Kinney's thoughts immediately turned to her land. Then this plucky octogenarian rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
A resident of the forested Elk Ridge subdivision in Routt County, Colorado, Kinney started raking up loose vegetation near her house, a cleanup that she performs with ritual regularity each spring. But when the Hinman Fire spread near her home, she kicked into high gear?thinning, limbing and even serving as a public advocate for defensible space.
Keeping her home protected from wildfire was harder for Kinney than it is for some. At 82, she has suffered some of the usual infirmities of age. But as an outdoor enthusiast all her life, this old farm girl sounds almost defiant in saying, "I can still run that limb saw."
Efforts motivate others
Kinney said her yard?which covers more than two acres and is steeply sloped in areas?became "brushy" after the death of her husband, Harold, in 1989. 
Born in 1920 on a farm in Kansas, Kinney married her high school sweetheart in 1939 and they started their married life on a farm near Topeka. In 1958, they moved with their son and daughter to Longmont, Colorado. Harold spent most of his career helping to make solar observatories as a machinist and tool and die maker in Boulder for the firm now called Ball Aerospace & Technologies Corp.
About 10 years before his retirement, they began to look for a new place to live. They had taken camping trips to Routt County since 1960 and fell in love with the mountain landscape. In 1970 they bought the lot where they built their home.
In pioneering fashion, the Kinneys had a well drilled and installed a septic tank and water lines, then built their log home with their own hands, putting up the garage first so they could live there while they worked on the house. They started with an asphalt shingle roof, switching to metal when they could get the color they wanted and moved into their new home in the early spring of 1980 with snow still on the ground.
"I love it here,"  said Kinney, describing her efforts to keep the fire threat down by clearing her property of ground fuels. "That's the reason I worked so hard last summer." 
When her husband was alive, she said, he was on the fire board and they worked together to keep the land clear of underbrush. He would fell trees, then she would limb them and load them in a trailer pulled by a tractor. 
But after his death, her work to reduce the fuel load consisted mainly of annual raking of leaves, twigs and pine needles. That's how she started in the spring of 2002. 
Watching the Hinman Fire from her home provided Kinney with all the motivation she needed to do more. "That's when I started really thinking about it and thinking we should do something around here," she said. With two children, seven grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren, she enlisted help from her family, as well as other area residents.
Her daughter from Grand Junction, Colorado, visits each year for a spring cleaning, but in 2002 Kinney asked her to pitch in with yard work instead of doing household chores. They raked even farther from the house than usual, collecting more than 30 bags of leaves. Later, she recuited her son and daughter-in-law to rake even more.
Meanwhile, State Forester Terry Wattles paid her a visit. He sharpened some of her husband's old tools, identified some vegetation and recommended someone to help with its removal.  
A contractor cut down more than 30 trees identified by Wattles, while Kinney put her freshly sharpened shears to work on juniper bushes. "I had always avoided them because they're so sticky and make me itch so badly," she said. "Those juniper bushes just really burn hot, I guess."  
Kinney remembers the time when Chuck Vale spotted "me and my little limb saw" high in a tree, working to trim some branches. Vale?Routt County's director of emergency management?admired her determination and self-sufficiency while privately fearing for her safety. He graciously offered to lend a hand.
Vale thought that Kinney's actions could serve as an example for all. He said the problem with mitigation is getting people motivated, and he thought Kinney's story might help motivate others. At his request, she contacted local media to tell the story of her efforts to create defensible space. Articles followed in local and statewide newspapers.
"It can't always be the government saying we need to do this and that," Vale said.  
Kinney's efforts did help to get others interested in the mitigation cause. Eventually, more than 25 of her neighbors created significant defensible space in their yards, too.
Childhood memories of fire
Kinney said she never liked the prairie grassland fires near her home when she was growing up. "Being a youngster, it scared me," she recalled. 
The alarm would come over the telephone, which was a party line. 
"With the old switchboards, it was possible for the operator at the central office to open up all the party lines at once out in the county in order to give out an emergency message," she recalled. She remembered the set-up because her grandfather had operated the central phone office in the 1920s before they had electricity. The switchboard had battery-operated lights.
After the call came, her father would hurry to get his wagon with the water tank. She estimated that the big metal tanks used to water the cows held about 500 gallons. Her father would put gunnysacks in the tank so they could soak as he drove the Model T or horse and wagon, usually taking about 30 to 40 minutes to get to the fire. He would have to go through fenced pastures opening gates along the way.  Once there, he and the other men would beat the fire out with the soaked gunnysacks. 
The women would get together and make sandwiches to bring to the men. "I got to go with them one time," she said.
More work to be done
After all her work, Kinney is pleased with her landscape. "I think it looks beautiful," she said. "I miss the trees, but it's better than the alternative of having too many trees and having them burn."
Next spring, she plans to put her propane tank underground and to take out one healthy tree that could cause problems because of its proximity to the house and other trees. She also hopes her son-in-law will take out some trees that beetles have killed. And she wants to terrace one area so that it will not be so steep. 
"I'll shovel it myself if I have to," she said.


Fuel Reduction Protects Mesa Verde National Park
CLOSE TO THE FOUR CORNERS REGION of southwestern Colorado, an 8,000-foot-high mesa is home to Pueblo ancestral dwellings that have lined the canyon alcoves for more than 800 years.
From a distance, the largest stone complex, Cliff Palace, resembles a ruined fortress of towers, ramparts and windows lodged inside a massive oval cavern. Considered a masterpiece of architectural ingenuity with its plazas, 150 rooms and 21 ceremonial areas, Cliff Palace continues to evoke a mystical and mystifying aura for the 650,000 annual visitors to Mesa Verde National Park. 
The park, until recently, was also home to the oldest and largest pi-on-juniper forest in the nation, with some of the trees dating back 500 years. That was before lightning strikes in 1996 and 2000 started several catastrophic fires that torched 30,000 acres and threatened the existence of Cliff Palace and dozens of other dwelling sites. 
When a lightning bolt struck again in late July 2002, in the midst of the worst drought in 100 years, the park's historic headquarters, museum and staff accommodations faced the same fate as the incinerated pi-on-junipers.
But rather than wait for the expected showdown, Mesa Verde had begun a fuel reduction project 10 years earlier that would pay big dividends.
Catastrophic fire long overdue
"This was the fire we've feared for more than 30 years," said Tim Oliverius, who was Mesa Verde National Park's fire rehabilitation manager from 1990 to 2001.
With only one route leading in and out of the park, the wooded area alongside the road could have turned deadly if the park hadn't been evacuated in time. As it was, the scruffy pi-on-juniper forest became a skeletal graveyard of charred trees.
According to Oliverius, it was inevitable that 100 years of fire suppression would create a catastrophic firestorm. The park puts out dozens of fires a year, many of them started by lightning strikes. Since the 1930s, more than 800 fires have started, with most confined to less than an acre. The scorched pi-on-juniper trees were now a "decadent forest," meaning it housed a lot of downed wood?15 to 18 tons of dead fuels per acre. 
"With that kind of suppression and dead fuel, the forest was long overdue to burn. It probably reached its peak 50 years ago," Oliverius said. 
When Oliverius joined the park staff, he spearheaded an aggressive response to the looming threat. He started building a buffer of defensible space in 1992 with a fuel reduction plan that would manually thin out 159 acres around the park's 70 structures and a dozen cliff dwellings, including Cliff Palace. 
The goal of the long-term fuel reduction project was to create a 20-foot space between each mature fuel tree crown area. By doing this in advance of a fire, the strategy was designed to lower fire intensity and allow flames to drop to the ground where they are much easier to control. All of the recorded large fires in the park's history have been high-intensity crown fires.
By creating a 12-acre safety zone near the headquarters area, park managers would ensure firefighter, employee and visitor safety in the event of a road closure or fire evacuation. The safety zone would also provide firefighters with an area they could retreat to during dangerous activity. 
While at the time pi-on-junipers made up only half the trees in the park, they were associated with 94 percent of the fires. "Pi-on-junipers burn with such intense heat that firefighters can't make frontal attacks on them in a windstorm," Oliverius said.
Out of 52,000 acres, Oliverius's plan called for thinning only 159 acres around staff housing, the most famous cliff dwellings and the park's administrative buildings. Yet his proposal sparked statewide concern, with the most vocal opposition coming from coworkers who wanted to save the pi-on-junipers.
"I wouldn't say they hated me, but I definitely wasn't well liked," Oliverius admitted, adding that he had initially thought the strongest resistance to the program would come from outside the park.
Even though Oliverius had support from the park superintendent, staff that lived in the housing area with Oliverius enjoyed the lavish though highly flammable pi-on-junipers, particularly the privacy and shading they provided for the picturesque cottages. The park's defensible space plan recommended the mechanical removal of 170 trees within the housing area.   
"When you talk about cutting down a tree, that's when the emotions come out," said Larry Wiese, superintendent of Mesa Verde National Park. "As a national park our mandate is clear. We're about protecting and preserving the nation's resources. When you talk about taking out resources, that's where the emotional side of people takes over, and you lose the intellectual side of what we're trying to do."
Some of the park staff were so upset that a petition was circulated to stop the removal of the trees. Oliverius understood his coworkers' perspective.
"You don't see pi-on-junipers like we have here. This is world-class. There was a loud outcry," he said. In order to reconcile differing opinions on how much to reduce the vegetation, numerous meetings were held and compromises reached. One of those compromises involved sparing trees that maintained "aesthetics and unique characteristics"?like rare or record trees.
The only environmental group to support the reduction project was the National Parks and Conservation Association.
According to Oliverius, "The group did not physically sign off on the plan, but its regional representative came to the park and verbally endorsed the fuel reduction plan after reviewing the fuel reduction work on site and evaluating the purpose and necessity of the project."
Some other environmental organizations, however, opposed the plan, and once the news media caught wind of the fuel reduction program they tended to side with environmentalists on the controversial debate. In 1995, The Denver Post challenged the legality of the program, criticizing Oliverius' plan as "poorly thought-out" and writing that the project "looks like hell."
Indeed, after the fuel reduction was completed around the housing area, the once lush grove that surrounded the row of charming cottages resembled a minimalist landscape. 
Oliverius stressed that the crowning space between treetops was only 20 feet, as opposed to the 40 feet that many mitigation specialists were advising was necessary to ensure 100 percent fire protection. More trees could have been taken out, but the park responded to public and staff input. 
It took the catastrophic fires in 1996 and 2000 to begin convincing park staff and environmental organizations that the fuel reduction plan was a sound idea. Those fires burned more than half of Mesa Verde's acreage, though they stayed clear of the park's major structures and cliff dwellings. 
The park continued with the tedious and labor-intensive mechanical reduction of trees. Crews had to do most of the thinning with chainsaws as opposed to prescribed burnings in order to preserve prehistoric sites that may be buried under the forests. 
"Toward the end of our project in 2001, it was costing $4,000 an acre," said Oliverius. "It all had to be done by hand. We didn't use any machinery except chainsaws. Everything had to be carried out of the woods, put in a truck, hauled in one area and burned in the winter time."
The replacement of the cottages' wood-shake roofs was another battle for the ranger, since the park cottages where the staff lived were on the National Register of Historic Places.  
"Historical architects at first refused to agree with the asphalt roofs, saying that an asphalt roof would breach the integrity of the structure," Oliverius recalled. "We were able to obtain asphalt imitation wood-shake style shingles and got those roofs put on in the nick of time."
Fuel reduction makes difference
In July 2002, the plan paid off.
"Because of where it was situated, the fire came blowing right through the park, the worst place we could have had a fire," said Scott McDermid, who served as a task force leader fighting the Long Mesa Fire. "In the remote part of the park flame lengths were 100 feet high. As soon as the fire hit the staff housing area, the flames dropped to 15 feet, and they continued to drop.
"The reduction area made all the difference. Had that not been there, we would have lost every building. There would have been no safety zone, no place to make a stand and all the fire crews would have had to leave." 
Oliverius said that more than 60 structures, including staff housing and the museum, were spared. "What stopped the blaze was that it went from 40 tons per acre of fuel to 15 tons per acre," he explained.
The initial cost for the 159-acre project was estimated at $250,000 but eventually grew to $400,000, which was still a bargain to Oliverius. 
"If we hadn't done the fuel reduction project we would have lost all the structures, which are worth more than $12 million, and almost all of them are on the National Register of Historic Places," he said. The cost of losing the cliff dwellings would have been incalculable. 
The Long Mesa Fire had in fact nicked at the top of the Spruce Tree House cliff dwelling located near the park's headquarters and scorched the canyon below it. Red slurry dusted the sandstone surrounding one of the park's most visited cliff sites.
"The fire would have done damage to the dwellings if it had gotten to them," said Superintendent Wiese. "There is wood built into the dwellings and there is also the problem of erosion."
Wiese knew the park's reduction program was a success, just based on the fact the buildings were still standing after the fire was contained. But he wasn't prepared for the overwhelming visual confirmation from a helicopter as he assessed the damage.
"Every place we thinned, there was green and everywhere we hadn't thinned it was black," he said. "So when you look at the burned area from the air, you saw islands of green in a black ocean."
Wiese said his staff is now working on a fire management plan for the entire mesa.
"Only 40 to 50 percent of the park has burned," he explained. "There are plenty of acres left, including 100,000 acres of land adjacent to the park on the mesa that belongs to the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe. We're going to solicit public input and ideas from people on the boundaries of the park. It's important that we continue the fuel reduction program or face another catastrophic fire."
As for Oliverius, he became acting fire management officer at Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. When asked why he stayed with his fuel reduction plan in the face of such considerable opposition, he was typically no-nonsense.
"It was staring me right in the face," he said. "There are a lot of gray areas, but this was a black and white issue. It wasn't going to go away."
He also took away from the experience a number of important lessons, including the values of patience and persistence.
"The project at times was frustrating and didn't go as fast as expected," Oliverius said. "We had success in small increments. Sometimes we only cleared six or eight acres a year, and never more than 20 acres in a year. I just learned to measure our success in small increments and to not let it get me down.
"You're never going to change everyone's opinion. But you have to proceed in what you believe is right."
One tourist, visiting the park after it reopened in August 2002, described the wildfire's devastation as "sad." Oliverius had a different point of view.
"I don't think of the fire as 'sad,'" he said. "It's actually kind of exciting. Coming back in future years, we can watch the forest recover. It's nature's way of rejuvenating the land." 


Fighting the Fuels
State Efforts Target Fire Risk in the Black Hills

JEFF GIES IS IN A RACE AGAINST FIRE. And the clock is ticking. 
Gies is a wildland/urban interface specialist with the South Dakota Wildland Fire Suppression Division, a state agency charged with wildland fire suppression, training, education and prevention. 
It's his job to help minimize the impact and spread of fire in the state's wildland areas?ideally before they're stricken by fire. 
Little by little, Gies is doing just that. His newest tool is a special fuels reduction program the state launched in 2002 to better protect at-risk homes and properties in the scenic, forested Black Hills.  
The idea of the program is to reduce the fire danger on targeted properties by clearing the forest floor of downed branches and trees, and by removing some standing trees. 
In doing so, the fire intensity and rate of spread in forested areas can be cut dramatically, Gies said. The overall health of the forest can be improved. Lives and property can be saved. 
Dealing with danger 
The job of protecting the state's Black Hills is not his alone. At least 80 percent of the area?which spans more than 1.5 million acres of land in western South Dakota?makes up the Black Hills National Forest. 
U.S. Forest Service officials there have been on the offensive for some time to minimize or eliminate high-risk fire areas through a variety of projects.  
But there are places outside of the forest boundaries that badly needed attention as well. And people are living in them. 
That's what makes Gies uneasy. He is responsible for those areas, many of which are at an increased risk because forest conditions are ripe to feed a fire. 
"In the last few years, we were starting to see the indicators of an increased wildfire problem," Gies said. "We were having above-average temperatures and below-average moisture. In many places, the tree health is poor and the fuel buildup is high." 
And there have been fires. From 2000 to 2002 alone, wildfires in the Black Hills burned more than 130,000 acres of both private woodlands and federal forest.  
State wildland fire officials knew they had a problem. They just didn't have a way to fix it.  
Forming a battle plan 
In early 2002, that began to change. 
South Dakota Wildland Fire Suppression Division Coordinator Joe Lowe learned that grants were available through the National Fire Plan to do fuels reduction in wildland areas at no cost to landowners. That money, Lowe figured, could augment a similar state effort begun in 2001 to reduce the fuel load on private property. 
The National Fire Plan is funded by the U.S. Forest Service to manage the impact of wildfires on communities and the environment. 
So Lowe and Gies met with federal forest service officials to form a plan. 
"We looked at areas that are at high risk for wildfire in coordination with the forest service," said Gies. "One of the parameters of this program is that the areas we treat have to be adjacent to a planned or ongoing U.S. Forest Service fuels treatment project. That qualifier helped us narrow down the projects we would try to do."
Lowe and Gies developed three project areas throughout the Black Hills?all on private property and all at high risk because the trees had suffered severe storm damage and/or bug kill, primarily from mountain pine beetles. 
The state submitted grant requests for each project and by May 2002 all three requests, totaling $420,000, were approved. 
Finding the help 
With the funding in place, state wildland fire officials began to look at various labor options to actually get the work done. Tree thinning and debris clearing are labor intensive, Gies said, and the agency didn't have the manpower or the time to do it themselves. 
But Lowe had an idea. Some months earlier, a man who wanted to reorganize the Black Hats?an American Indian wildland firefighting team that was prominent from the mid-1960s to the late-1980s?had visited him. The team disbanded in 1988. 
Lowe had long thought there was a need for another "hand crew" in the Black Hills but didn't have the money to make it happen. Hand crews fight fire literally by hand, using a variety of tools to both extinguish flames and to create breaks in the landscape that will stop the spread of fire. 
At this point, only one permanent hand crew was available for the entire Black Hills?a U.S. Forest Service Hot Shot crew based near Custer in the southern Hills. Although additional crews can be quickly assembled from federal and state agencies if needed, Lowe wanted another permanent, full-time team. 
So he decided to create a new Black Hats crew?one that would work primarily to remove dead and downed trees in the target areas, but also would be available to fight the early stages of wildfires. 
Within 45 days, a 20-person crew had been hired and trained.
Gies launched them immediately. Fire season was already under way and three-year drought conditions were raising the fire danger. 
Attacking the problem 
He focused the crew on the biggest project first?a recreational area known as Gordon Gulch, just east of Hill City and in the heart of the Black Hills National Forest.  
The 140-acre area?privately owned by one family?is dotted with 40 vacation cabins available for lease. The national forest borders three sides of it. And it was littered with downed trees after severe ice and snowstorms pounded the area in April 2000. 
"We were worried about this area because of the risk to all these properties," Gies said. "Also, it was a good project for the crew to get some experience on before they got into smaller, individual properties." 
From June to mid-October 2002, the crew moved and piled tons of downed tree debris and thinned out some standing trees to improve the area's chances of surviving a wildfire. And in between all that, they fought wildfires. 
The result is just what Gies was looking for. 
"This property now will have a very good chance of withstanding a severe wildfire," Gies said. "Before this project, it would not have. There was so much fuel there and a fire would have burned with such intensity, that it would have destroyed the trees and potentially many of the cabins. The heat load in there would have been tremendous." 
Cabin tenants reportedly were happy with the work as well. 
"We were pleasantly surprised by the reaction of all the people who have cabins up there," Gies added. "A lot of them went on and on about how happy they were that we were cleaning up the area. It's been a huge concern for them. Some of them even went out and put ribbons on trees [to be removed] close to their cabins because they were afraid of the fire threat." 
Catastrophe awaits 
Gordon Gulch wasn't the only area where a fire could be catastrophic, Gies said. There's another big risk, high in the northern Black Hills, just west of the town of Sturgis. It's known as Beaver Park. 
In this area, mountain pine beetles had attacked an estimated 6,000 to 7,000 acres of pine trees, leaving the majority of them brown, dry and dead. The infestation was still spreading. 
"If a wildfire ever got into Beaver Park and we still had acres and acres of dead trees, we could get a real firestorm in there," Gies said.
Until the Black Hills Fire Prevention Agreement was signed into federal law in August 2002, legal challenges had prevented the U.S. Forest Service from thinning dead trees in Beaver Park. The agreement represents the combined efforts of key environmentalists, land-use groups and government officials, and paved the way for work to begin in late 2002.
Gies' problem was that approximately 150 homes were scattered throughout the woods adjacent to the area that includes the dead tree stand. That puts people and property at high risk in the event of a fire.
So he conducted a risk assessment on every property in the area looking for the worst-case scenarios. At the same time, he created a detailed map showing the locations of the homes for firefighters to use if the area were to start burning. 
Lowe and Gies targeted 10 properties for the fuels reduction program. Gies contacted homeowners to determine their willingness to participate. All agreed to the voluntary program. More properties will be treated if money is available. 
Making a difference 
Dan Nelson's 16-acre property high in the Hills was one of those targeted for treatment. Nelson had an abundance of downed tree limbs from past storms and dense woods of thin trees that were growing too close together. 
The fire load was huge and Nelson knew it. He'd seen wildfires in the Hills over the years, including two major ones in the summer of 2002, each within about five miles of his property. Combined, the fires burned about 15,000 acres. One nearly burned the town of Deadwood. 
"They asked if I was interested in having this thinned and I couldn't believe it," Nelson said. "I didn't even have to think about whether to say 'yes.'"
Twice before, Nelson had done his own work to clean up the woods around his house, once thinning approximately 4 acres of land by himself. It took one person a full day to cut and pile 10 to 12 trees, he says. 
"As soon as we bought the property, we removed what we thought was needed," Nelson said. "Then after the fires last summer, I started clearing more. But it's physically impossible for one person to do it." 
Within one week, a 10-person crew had removed the downed timber and several small trees to create better spacing so that a fire wouldn't be able to burn as hot or spread as fast. The debris was gathered into more than 150 piles that will later be hauled away or burned, conditions permitting. 
Nelson is thrilled with the results. 
"I am so impressed with the way it looks," Nelson said. "This crew is very good. I'm not as worried about fire now as before, not only because of this but because of what the forest service has done also."
Gies' third project began in early 2003 just south of the city of Spearfish.
Known as the Griggs Project, the treatment area encompasses a subdivision of more than 200 homes, bordered on two sides by the national forest. Steep slopes, dense overgrowth and downed timber put the subdivision at risk, Gies says.
Federal forest service efforts to reduce the fire load already are under way. The state's project will complement those efforts, Gies added.
"Our goal is to create a fuel break by treating as much of the perimeter of this subdivision as we can," he said.
That work augments other local efforts underway as well, including fire risk assessment, creating residential defensible space and organizing into a "Firewise" community. Firewise is a national program that encourages individuals and communities in the wildland/urban interface to embrace fire-safe practices. 
Protecting the future 
When completed, Gies said, the state's fuels reduction projects are going to make a difference the next time fire strikes. Already, the program has exceeded his initial expectations.
"I am not only amazed, but I am really pleased at how all this came together in a short period of time and what we've been able to accomplish with these high-hazard areas," Gies said. "The areas that we have treated are going to have a good chance of surviving now. It will pay off in a big way, not only for their homes and structures but for their timber too." 
To Gies, the use of government funds to help individual homeowners represents a public-private partnership with far-reaching benefits. 
"This is a severe problem," he says. "It's landowners with storm damage and bug damage. There is no way they could handle this by themselves on their properties unless they hired it out and most don't have the resources for that.
"I think we [government] have a responsibility to a degree to identify the threat, as we have, and come up with plans for emergencies, both in treatment and mitigation," Gies adds. "If we have the ability to reduce the threat to them and to our emergency personnel who ultimately have to deal with it, 
I feel we are doing the right thing."
It's been estimated that it could take as long as 100 years to do the fuel-reduction work needed in the expansive Black Hills. Still, that doesn't discourage Gies. 
"This fuel situation in the Black Hills and the rest of the country is a project that will take a long time to get even close to catching up with," Gies said. "It's like mowing the grass on your lawn. The timber is going to continue to come back. The undergrowth will come back. The issues with storm damage don't ever go away. 
"If, through these projects, we can get some of the worst problem areas cleaned up and at the same time, get the public educated about the problem, it will show the successes of these types of projects. Hopefully, it will help." 


South Dakota Black Hats
Good Guys Defend the Forest

IN THE MOVIES, the good guys always wear white. Not so in South Dakota. There, they wear black?hats, that is. 
Those "good guys" are the South Dakota Black Hats, a crew of specially trained men and women who defend the state's forests from the effects of wildfire.  
Their defense is twofold. They clean up the forests to minimize the impact of wildfire. And, when a fire breaks out, they attack it?hard and fast?in an effort to quickly control the blaze. 
The crew is named after a highly-skilled American Indian wildland firefighting team called the Black Hats, which originated in the mid-1960s on South Dakota's Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. 
The original Black Hats?a name they gave themselves?traveled the country fighting wildfires. They were considered to be among the best in the business before disbanding in 1988. 
Black Hats reborn 
The new Black Hats were organized in June 2002 by the South Dakota Wildland Fire Suppression Division to fill a critical void in the state's wildfire prevention and response activities. 
Specifically, the state needed work crews to carry out three large fuel-reduction projects it was managing on private land in the forested Black Hills. In addition, another permanent hand crew was needed to provide the initial attack on new wildfires. 
Neither is a job for the faint of heart. During fuels reduction work, crew members begin their day at 6:30 a.m. with a 30-minute briefing to review the day's goals before heading to the project site.  
For the next eight hours, save for a 30-minute lunch break, crew members carry out the day's objectives, which can range from cutting and piling downed timber and brush to removing standing trees that are dead or deemed to have low survivability. 
The tree debris is then gathered into several teepee-shaped piles that can later be burned or hauled away. 
When the daily site work is done, the crew then heads to a fitness center for two hours of physical conditioning, which includes running two miles, weight lifting and strength training. 
During wildfire season, approximately April 1 to October 31, crew members are on-call 24 hours a day and must maintain a 45-minute response capability to their headquarters in Rapid City. 
The rules are tough. The demands are high. And the work is grueling. But that's because people's lives and homes are at stake when wildfires are raging. The crew has to be ready. 
Looking at a leader 
Dulcie Running Hawk, 34, is a squad boss with the Black Hats. That makes her responsible for the day-to-day work and safety of four other crew members?whether they're clearing downed debris or fighting fire. 
"When we're on a fire, it's my responsibility as a squad boss to make sure these four people make it home every night," said Running Hawk. 
Safety is paramount on the fuels projects as well, Running Hawk said. That means watching for hazardous site conditions, and ensuring that safety procedures are being followed, and workers are properly rested and hydrated. 
Running Hawk has been with the Black Hats since its inception. In a sense, it's a destiny for her because fire has long been a part of her life. 
When she was young, her father worked as a seasonal wildland firefighter and later headed a 20-person firefighting crew from the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian Reservation in west-central South Dakota. 
At 17, she joined his crew. For the next three years, Running Hawk learned the trade and honed her skills as a wildland firefighter. It was hard, physical work. It was even harder working for her father. She wanted to quit more times than she can remember. 
"It was quite interesting working with my father," she said. "He had to be harder on me because I was his daughter. There were so many days when I would come back and complain to my mom about how hard firefighting was. When I talked about quitting, she said, 'It's up to you.'"
Running Hawk stuck with it until she met and married her husband at age 20. They immediately moved to Germany where he was stationed in the U.S. Army for nearly four years. 
In 1991, the couple returned to the United States and settled in Rapid City. By then, she was the mother of four children. 
In January 2002, fire intervened in her life again. Running Hawk had been working at the Federal Beef Plant in Rapid City when it was heavily damaged by fire. Shortly thereafter, the business closed. 
Running Hawk began searching for work and a means to support her family. That's when she heard about the state's efforts to assemble a fuels mitigation/wildland firefighting crew. She knew it was something she could do. 
In short order, she and 19 others were hired and trained. Most were inexperienced at firefighting. A few had professional tree-
cutting experience. All brought diversity to the team which, unlike the original Black Hats, is not entirely American Indian. 
Fire in the Hills 
The crew had barely gotten its feet wet when a large wildfire broke out in the Black Hills near the town of Deadwood. 
Running Hawk was there. Suddenly, everything she'd learned 17 years before came flooding back. It was exciting, nerve-wracking and exhausting all at the same time, she said. 
"Being out on a fire is very scary," Running Hawk said. "You don't know what the fire is going to do. The fire can change. A lot can happen. You have to know where your safety zones are, what the weather is doing, what kind of terrain you are working with.
"But I like the excitement of being a firefighter. You know you are out there saving lives and property. Afterward, when the fire is put out, you know you did a good job and your crew did a good job. I like that feeling."
Work on the fuels-reduction project is just as rewarding, she said, because the home-owners have been both appreciative of their efforts and happy with the results. 
"When you are on fuels, you are also doing it to protect the houses in case of a fire breaking out in that area," said Running Hawk. "When we're done with our job, we know that a house has a better chance of being safe from a wildfire." 


Goats Take Bite Out of Fire Risk
"Fuel-reduction specialists" demonstrate effectiveness

KATHY VOTH WAS ON DUTY as a public affairs officer for the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) when the tragedy at Colorado's Storm King Mountain occurred in 1994. As the terrible human toll of that July day mounted, Voth began to think about ways to lessen the risks faced by firefighters, a process that continued even as she was helping to plan the memorials for the 14 firefighters who died. 
"Part of my job was to help create a memorial trail and to work with the families on the biographies of the firefighters," she said. "It was a painful time, and I started to think that there really had to be a better way for us to manage fire than to put our firefighters in danger." 
One of the purposes of the Storm King Mountain Memorial Trail is to help people understand what happened there, and to allow for reflection on how future tragedies can be prevented. Voth carried that challenge with her to Utah, where she relocated with BLM in 1997.
Something clicked one day as she talked with a colleague about goats. Voth had a pet goat at home, and she knew from experience that goats would eat almost anything. Why not, then, teach them to eat the often-unappetizing fire fuels that make life so dangerous for those who fight fire?
Today, Belly Girl, Complainer, Thumb-biter and some 75 other goats constitute a cadre of Utah-based fuel reduction specialists eating their way to happiness. At the same time, the goats are demonstrating their effectiveness in lessening hazardous ladder fuels like oakbrush that can carry a fire.  
The Utah goats are part of a study being conducted by Utah State University, Utah National Guard and BLM. The effort is being funded by the Joint Fire Science Program, which is a consortium of federal agencies that share firefighting responsibilities. The goal of the study is to provide communities, agencies and goat producers with comprehensive information about using goats to reduce fire fuels.  
Voth started out with the idea that the goats would primarily be employed by federal agencies like BLM, but as she worked through the process it turned out that communities were interested too. After a demonstration project at Utah's Camp Williams, in the summer of 2002 Voth moved 15 members of the herd to Woodland Hills, a Utah community that faces extreme fire dangers. 
"The cost of doing the work mechanically is horrendous, and you still have to process all the fuel," said Assistant Fire Chief Jeff Anderson, who campaigned for the goats to be brought to Woodland Hills. "I think the goats do a better job. They trample the duff with their feet and break it down, and they're willing to eat the aftergrowth." 
Sean Hammond, a recent Utah State graduate who works with Voth, explained the process. "Vegetation is a living thing, and it needs to be trained. Goats will eat the growth points, and if you consistently graze that down over a three-to-five year period it will stop resprouting because the reserves in the root system will be depleted."
At Camp Williams, goats had been used since 1996, but it took a wildfire in July 2001 to fully demonstrate their effectiveness. Lt. Colonel Bob Dunton, an environmental officer with the Utah National Guard, is responsible for fire management at the military facility. Although from the beginning he saw goats as a biological control that made sense, not everyone shared his view.
"There was some skepticism from Camp Williams staff when the project was first introduced," he said. "Not everyone took it seriously, and they didn't see what role the goats could play in wildfire management."
That changed after a large wildfire started on-post as a result of a training exercise. Dunton, with 10 years' experience in wildland firefighting, five as a smoke-jumper, saw flame lengths drop from 15 feet to two feet as they approached the goat treatment sites. Nearby, in an area where a hand crew had worked, the results were not nearly as dramatic. 
Dunton said that there is now broad-based support for the use of goats at Camp Williams, but he added that such an undertaking does require effort. 
"It is not an easy project," Dunton said. "You have to move the animals, keep them fenced, care for them and otherwise meet their life needs," which include providing water and, as a dietary supplement, salt.
There also might be issues for land managers who find that an area treated by goats loses aesthetic value. But for Dunton, who is currently working to secure funding to bring goats back to Camp Williams, the benefits outweigh the potential problems. 
"Fire suppression costs are high, and if a fire migrates off our boundaries the issue is even bigger than suppression," he said. "If a fire were to move off-post into neighboring areas the possible legal ramifications would be extreme."  
According to Voth, goats are most effective in shrub-dominated environments. 
"We've experimented with pine trees, and the goats will knock the bark off and eat the lower branches. But that leaves a lot of standing dead timber, which is good fuel. So where the goats work best is reducing the amount of vegetation in the understory, particularly in areas where people are living in the wildland/urban interface."
As a targeted fuel treatment, goats can provide an attractive alternative to prescribed burns, for which the proper temperature, wind and humidity are necessary. And unlike hand crews, goats do not produce slash piles that have to be burned later. There is also a cost factor?based on Voth's "goat calculator," it would cost $31,000 for 200 goats to clear one square mile, compared to $132,000 for a hand crew.   
One of the roadblocks that Anderson initially encountered in Woodland Hills was local ordinances that prohibited the use of male goats and the construction of electric fencing, which is necessary to keep the goats in and predators out. Both he and Voth appeared at a city council meeting and ultimately persuaded council members to relax the fence ordinance; it was also agreed that male goats would not be used.
Voth admitted that some amount of education is always in order. "People have traditionally heard all these things about goats, like they are hard to manage, they can get out of any fence, they eat anything. So it is really going to take some ongoing demonstrations to help people become comfortable with how it works.
"It's like driving a car. The first time is kind of scary, but after a while it's no big deal."
Another issue is what to do with the goats during the winter. Unlike California, where fuel-eating goats can work year-round, Rocky Mountain states can only use the goats until the weather turns in early fall. Since a certain amount of training is necessary to teach the goats that something like oakbrush can be food, continuity is beneficial.  
"You could sell the goats for meat each year, but then you have to get new animals," Voth said. "You don't want to get rid of them at the end of the season because they've just learned how to be useful, and they're also able to teach the next generation." 
Voth, who was recently assigned to a BLM office in Fort Collins, Colorado, to coordinate the goat program full-time, is working to complete a handbook that will guide those interested in using goats as part of a comprehensive fire fuel reduction strategy, addressing critical issues such as where to put the goats and how to manage and care for the animals. (One hint: Do not have a breeding pair of goats out on the range.)
If nothing else, Voth hopes the handbook will help communities, agencies and goat producers know what questions to ask. She is also looking for new demonstration sites. (For those interested, Voth can be contacted at (970) 295-5718; her e-mail address is kvoth@cc.usu.edu.)
As for Anderson, he intends to bring in goats of his own now that Voth's herd has left. 
"They never complain, they're friendly, and they're up by six working," he said. "It's a solution that benefits everybody."


A Wine and (Goat) Cheese Affair

IN ONE COMMUNITY goats have already become a much beloved part of the landscape.
Laguna Beach is a small town of 24,000 residents in Southern California with sandy beaches, picturesque canyons and coastal hills. In October 1993, a devastating firestorm swept across 14,000 brush-covered acres and engulfed much of the town, damaging or destroying 441 homes. 
For the last seven years, a small army of goats has been on regular patrol in Laguna Beach, eating the dense vegetation that can fuel a fire. 
"The community understands based on the 1993 fire why it is necessary to reduce the fuel levels," said Mike Phillips, an environmental specialist with the city who helps coordinate the goat program. "The goats are a cost- effective means of doing that. And there is an added benefit?people really like them."
Phillips said it is not uncommon to see buses and cars come by to visit the goats when they are working downtown behind City Hall. There are also wine-and-cheese parties at local homes when the goats are stationed nearby. 
Laguna Beach first started using goats in the early 1990s. City Manager Ken Frank brought the idea with him from Northern California when he moved south. After the fire, Laguna Beach received a hazard mitigation grant from the state of California and FEMA to expand the program. 
Frank, who lost his home in the 1993 fire, said the value of the goats was clear even in the midst of that destructive blaze. 
"The fire was moving toward our North Laguna neighborhoods, and before the flames reached the houses you could see them diminish when they hit the fuel breaks. Where we had the fuel breaks in North Laguna we didn't lose a single house."
But according to Frank, goats are not a panacea. 
"Even where we saved the houses in North Laguna, firefighters were putting water on roofs. And heavy winds did push the fire across a 150-foot fuel break that the goats had created," he said. "Goats are more effective and efficient than most other fuel reduction programs, but they are not a substitute for firefighters." 
In Laguna Beach, goats are one piece of the community's overall wildfire mitigation strategy and their use is strongly supported by the local fire department, which implemented the goat program and continues to oversee it.  
Today an average of 500 goats work year-round and cover approximately 1,445 acres annually. Fuel reduction is split between public lands around the town perimeter and strategically located private lots. The goats work a circuit and re-treat areas on a regular basis, costing the city general fund $198,000 per year. Paying for the goats has not been an issue?Phillips said it is one of the most popular municipal programs. 
The city's agreement with the goat contractor establishes a specified amount of land to be treated; it is up to the contractor to determine how many goats will be necessary to achieve the goal. For example, heavy rains might mean more goats are needed to keep up with the increased vegetation. 
The contractor also handles all of the logistical arrangements associated with the goats, such as erecting the 200-foot by 300-foot pens in which they work. An on-site herder is responsible for their day-to-day care. 
To determine the cost-effectiveness of the goat program, Laguna Beach conducted a field test. A 10-person hand crew and 550 goats were each put on a one-acre lot. The hand crew took 7.5 hours to clear the acre while the goats took less than seven hours. The crew cost the city $1,125 (based on $15 per hour per person), compared to the $542.46 per-day cost of the goats?a savings of $582.54.
"And the test was somewhat skewed because we used relatively flat terrain," Phillips said. "It would have been much more difficult for the hand crew had we put them on steeper hillsides." The city still uses hand crews on individual lots in the interior of the town. 
Frank and Phillips had a few suggestions for other communities that might consider a goat program:

4	Address environmental impacts. Before introducing goats hire an environmental consultant to walk the area and identify sensitive plant species to be protected. 
Also be aware of existing environmental regulations.  
4	Be sensitive to community concerns. Talk to residents before putting 500 goats on a hillside ? in Laguna Beach there were questions about the goats' effect on water quality. 
4	Consider the long-term commitment. Goats may not be as cost-effective if they are on shorter, te-mporary assignments or if they work on smaller areas. 

So far, there has not been a major wildfire in Laguna Beach since 1993, but even after small fires the city gets calls from residents asking when the goats can come.


The Little Train that Could
Despite Wildfire Threat, Railroad Stays on Track

CONDUCTOR DAVE MARTINEZ of the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad stands on the open platform of a century-old passenger car and looks down the length of the train. 
It's boarding time. Families, checking their tickets, are flocking to bright, golden-yellow coach cars. Once on board, passengers scurry to find their seats, pulling on jackets in anticipation of the high-altitude chill. Hard-core rail fans, camcorders in hand, dash to the locomotive for last-minute close-ups of steam and smoke. 
As the final authority on the train, Martinez must see that passengers are safely aboard, supplies are properly stored and the departure time is observed before the train can move onto the line.
Engineer Monty Caudle looks down the right side of the train from his seat in a vintage steam locomotive  and waits for the conductor's signal.
Martinez shouts, "All aboard" and waves. Caudle nudges the throttle forward. The train's whistle blows... longŠlongŠshortŠlong. The signal is always the same as the engine approaches its first public crossing. But each engineer has a distinctive hand on the whistle cord, and everyone in the yard knows who's driving No. 482 today.
There is both a mystique and a dogged determination to the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. It's the vintage steam locomotives, the adventure of riding through southwestern Colorado's breathtaking vistas and the taste of the West's gold-rush era that beckon visitors from around the world. 
But in the summer of 2002, Colorado's wildfires brought the railroad to the precipice of disaster by threatening its very existence. 
Warning signs 
Since 1882, when the railroad?then known as the Denver & Rio Grande?began hauling gold and silver from ore mines, coal-fired steam locomotives have powered the train. It runs on rails that are just three feet wide, hence the name "narrow gauge," which enables the train to navigate steep hills and tight, mountain turns. 
But those coal-fired engines blow out burning cinders that can, and often do, start spot fires. 
Steep grades along the route from the railroad's base in Durango to its northern terminus in the town of Silverton, about 45 miles away, enhance the chance that a fire will start because the locomotives are literally "pouring on the coals" to make the climbs.  
"Being a coal-fired steam engine, we create ash and sparks," says Allen C. Harper, president of the Durango & Silverton (D&SNGRR). "As a result, we've always had spark arrestors on the stacks of the train to catch sparks that come up through the chimney. We have always taken precautions to make sure that following every train, there was a cart with a two-man crew that would look for any sparks that came out, or look for fires and call for assistance." 
Routinely, the railroad takes advantage of winter precipitation to perform preventive wildfire maintenance on its rights of way, which extend about 50 feet on either side of the track, officials say. 
The maintenance includes setting controlled fires in high-risk areas to eliminate overgrown ground cover, cutting back brush and, if necessary, removing volatile pine trees growing too close to the tracks. 
Normally, the work takes place in the mid-to-late spring months, says Evan Buchanan, director of train operations. 
But by January 2002, suspicions were already growing among weather, fire and forestry specialists that the winter's dry conditions could trigger a serious wildfire season. If that prediction held true, D&SNGRR officials reasoned, it could only increase the railroad's ever-present fire risk. 
So instead of waiting for spring, D&SNGRR maintenance crews immediately began routine wildfire mitigation work. 
What usually takes a month or so lasted nearly five, railroad officials say, because the crews did even more work than usual as a hedge against the wildfire forecasts. In all, about 15 miles of the highest-risk railroad right of way were treated. By May, railroad officials also began meeting with the local fire authority and with federal forest service staff to determine if extra precautions were needed. 
A different type of spark arrestor was installed on each steam engine smoke stack to help reduce the size and frequency of escaping cinders, a recommendation made the previous fall by the U.S. Forest Service. 
The two-person carts started hauling an attached "water wagon," which carries 300 gallons of water, a pump and 400 feet of fire hose. The water supply trailed a few minutes behind each train to quickly douse any spot fires. 
Railroad maintenance crews were trained by the federal forest service in wildland firefighting techniques. 
Train dispatchers began keeping a closer eye on weather and fire forecasts, and began documenting the predictions and trends. 
The railroad purchased a diesel engine that could be used as a stopgap measure to keep the train running if the fire danger grew too high. 
By this time, D&SNGRR officials were cautiously optimistic they were ready to meet the wildfire threat. They would soon find out that what they'd done still wasn't enough. 
Danger and decisions
June 2002. The Missionary Ridge Fire roared to life. The fire forced the evacuation of about 2,300 homes and burned dangerously close to Durango.  
By the time the fire was out 40 days later, it had claimed about 73,000 acres, 56 homes, 27 outbuildings and dealt a severe blow to the local economy through lost tourism revenue and, ultimately, jobs. 
"When things started getting bad and we saw the Missionary Ridge Fire, we knew then that we were going to have trouble," Harper said. "We started taking more and more precautions. We talked to the federal forest service daily. They went out of their way to cooperate." 
The railroad added special sprayers to the steam engine smoke stacks to mist the exhaust and cinders passing through the spark arrestors. 
A boxcar carrying 1,000 gallons of water was added to each of the four trains that run during the summer tourist season. The boxcar, which sits behind the locomotive and coal tender car and ahead of the passenger coaches, also had firefighting equipment on board to quickly suppress any fires. 
By now, the Missionary Ridge Fire had been burning for nearly two weeks and another new wildfire, also near Durango, had begun. Fears in the community were rising, and despite the railroad's efforts to adapt to the fire danger, pressure was mounting on Harper. 
Some Durango residents called Harper and asked him to shut down the train because they were afraid it would cause fires and they could lose their homes, he says. Others supported the idea of keeping the train running. 
Local businesses, some conflicted by the situation, called too. To lose the train operation, they argued, would deal a serious economic blow to the community and their trade. But so would a fire in their town?
a concern that also reportedly had local officials considering legal action to force the railroad to temporarily cease operations. 
Business owners in Silverton, a town of 400 that depends on the train for tourist trade, wanted the railroad to keep running. According to news accounts, some businesses were predicting they would have to close if the train stopped bringing them customers. 
For the railroad itself, the jobs of about 250 D&SNGRR employees were at stake, too. 
Harper found himself in an agonizing squeeze play, so he got on the train and went for a ride. That's when he knew what he had to do.  
"I was coming down Hermosa Hill and you could see the Missionary Ridge Fire on one side and then we went by a spot fire on the right of way and I said 'we have struggled long enough,'" Harper recalled. "We made the decision to shut it down for the first time in the history of the railroad." 
Steaming ahead 
Though Harper was down, he wasn't about to be out. Determined to get back up and running, railroad officials quickly devised a new plan to get the trains back on track. 
One day later, they were operational again in a scaled-back capacity. The normal 45-mile route was broken down into three segments that enabled passengers to still make the whole trip to Silverton using a combination of steam-powered train, diesel-powered train, railbus and a motor coach bus. 
The steam engines were put back on the line?running only in the flat areas with ready highway access so that emergency vehicles could quickly get to a fire if one started. Passengers could ride just the steam segment or disembark at a small station and board a train pulled by a diesel engine for the second leg of the route. 
The diesel, which does not emit as many burning cinders as the steam locomotive, would then make a five-mile, round-trip excursion along the High Line where the track runs along the edge of a cliff, affording a breathtaking view of the Animas River 400 feet below.
At yet another small station, passengers then could get on a bus and ride to Silverton for shopping and lunch before heading back down to Durango. Or, they could take a railbus for a 12-mile side excursion through the high country. Passengers paid just $20 for each leg?one-third of the normal $60 ticket price for the whole ride. 
Mindful of the worsening fire danger, the railroad purchased two old tank cars and in three days rebuilt them and added custom firefighting features. 
Each car, which can carry 7,000 gallons of water, was equipped with water cannons that could shoot a large volume of water up to 250 feet away. The cars ran ahead of the passenger trains to wet down the right of way to minimize the chance of a fire starting from a wayward spark or ember. 
Financial peril 
Though Harper kept the railroad running?even through another four-day shutdown caused by a late-summer wildfire near the tracks?it was far from being financially on track for the season. 
An estimated 35,000 pre-sold tickets, worth about $1 million, had to be 
refunded. Harper had to release 100 seasonal employees as he struggled to make enough money to keep his 84 full-time staff working. 
"The big picture is that the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad is a national treasure and it needs to be protected and guarded," Harper said. "Those 80 year-round people are family and I have to take care of them. I couldn't just send them all home. You can't reassemble the people who keep this railroad going. We have a great railroad and it deserves to be saved."
Overall, Harper estimates that he lost about $4.5 million in revenues. He spent another $500,000 on extra gear, equipment and overtime needed for the wildfire efforts. And as of spring 2003, the cost of the wildfire mitigation measures had totaled about $740,000.  
"The train does 80 percent of its revenue in 100 days," Harper said. "The wildfires wiped out 40 of those 100 days. It was devastating for everybody."
The economic losses spilled over into the community as well. Business for local companies reportedly was down more 30 percent. Local governments saw a drop in sales tax revenue from the railroad's losses. 
In the early fall of 2002, with the fire risk still present, railroad officials continued wildfire mitigation efforts, hiring a local company known as Fire Ready to do more clearing and brush removal along the right of way. 
Harper also bought four more old diesel
engines that, when refurbished, can be used in the future to temporarily replace the steam engines in the event of an extreme fire emergency.  
Through the winter, railroad crews cut firebreaks in high-risk areas and continued clearing more brush. In late spring, the annual weed-reduction program along the tracks was completed for the year. 
Future of promise 
Despite the hardships, railroad officials see promise in the future of the historic Durango & Silverton, a railroad that has survived other devastating natural and economic disasters through the years. 
The 2002 wildfires taught them that it takes more than a deep passion for rare, steam-locomotive trains and an iron will to survive disaster. It takes knowledge, preparedness and adaptability. 
"We went through a learning curve last year," says Paul Schranck, D&SNGRR general manager. "Most of this stuff we implemented we hadn't done before. But we all have a high stake in this railroad and we wanted it to work. We talked and came up with ideas. Now, we have fine-tuned these things so that we know it works well.
"Fire is something you have to constantly be aware of," Schranck added. "You have to stay a week ahead of it. If you think you need something, have it out there. Don't wait for something to happen." 
Harper agreed. 
"The biggest thing I learned was to be better prepared," he says, "and we are. We are smarter. Now, I've got the diesels. I'll be able to run two full trains every day, even if the drought comes again. Our railroad is ready. My people are ready. Nothing will shut me down this year. I'll keep rolling."
No. 482 follows the twists and turns of the Animas River north to Silverton. Inside the engine, fireman Mike Nichols stokes the firebox with another 20-pound shovelful of coal to keep the iron giant steadily chugging along. 
Just past Sultan Mountain, a deep ravine tightly cradles the tracks. Suddenly, the rugged terrain opens into a flat meadow where several creeks join the Animas River. 
This is Silverton, once the end of the line for the railroad in its boom mining days. It is bound on all sides by the mountains?age-old keepers of the precious ore that gave life to this picturesque town. 
No. 482 pulls right into the middle of town. A feast of historic Victorian buildings, now home to quaint shops and eateries, beckons passengers. For a few hours, visitors stroll down wooden boardwalks and explore the rich lode of commerce before the three-and-a-half-hour trip back to Durango. 
Back on board, Caudle eases the throttle forward and the train steams toward home. 
As the Durango Depot comes into view, the train slows to a hissing, steamy crawl. End of the line for this trip.


Big Elk Fire Sends Wake-Up Call

WHEN VOLUNTEER HOLLY COYLE offered Estes Park, Colorado homeowners information about how to protect their homes from wildfire in this mountain community, she was surprised to learn that some people actually christen their plants.
"I can't cut down Mother Juniper," one elderly woman told her.
For Coyle and her five-member team, changing perspectives became the major challenge in the summer of 2002.
"A lot of people know about defensible space," said Coyle, an environmental sciences and forestry major in school. "But that doesn't mean they want to cut down a tree in their yard or even know how much they should cut back."
Coyle is a member of the Student Conservation Association (SCA) Fire Education Corps?a national program made up of college-aged volunteers specially trained to teach people how to create defensible space around their homes and, when possible, to help them do the work.
And when homeowners are resistant to cutting vegetation away from their homes, volunteers like Coyle are taught to come up with creative solutions.
"Instead of slashing the tree, we treated 'Mother Juniper' as if it was an individual structure?creating a 30-foot defensible space around it," she said. The team placed rock barriers around the tree and swept up pine needles that had accumulated beneath it.
When SCA members do an evaluation, they begin by looking at the home's risks and vulnerabilities.
"We go over a checklist with the homeowner that covers things such as clearing out heavy fuels 30 to 100 feet from the home, fire truck access, and what type of roofing the homeowner has," said Jenna Messmer, an SCA public information intern.
Then they provide homeowners with suggestions about how to reduce those risks. Most involve some kind of action?such as cleaning up dead pine needles or removing dead vegetation next to the home. Suggestions can include structural changes as well, such as installing a non-flammable roof.
Though the program is free and voluntary, not everyone readily embraces suggested changes. In the case of one community, it took a fire close to home to get residents' attention.
Lessons by fire
In July 2002, the situation in Estes Park and vicinity changed dramatically when the 4,000-acre Big Elk Fire erupted 10 miles southeast of town.
As local officials evacuated the Little Valley and Big Elk Meadows subdivisions, firefighters from the Big Elk and Estes Park volunteer fire departments quickly assessed structures and surrounding landscapes to determine whether or not each home could survive the fire.
According to Estes Park Fire Chief Scott Dorman, homes with defensible space around them earned green flags posted prominently in driveways. Red flags were given to those properties without defensible space.
Jerry Guthrie, chief of the Big Elk Meadows Volunteer Fire Department, said the purpose of this type of sweep is to make sure firefighters don't waste valuable time and resources trying to save a house that is fundamentally indefensible.
Guthrie and his colleagues were not shy in telling residents why their homes were given red flags. The bad news left many in a state of shock.
Not one house was lost in the Big Elk Fire. But the fact that 70 percent of the homes in the subdivisions were tagged with red flags indicated to Dorman that mitigation measures were badly needed.
As the flames died down, residents streamed through the Estes Park Volunteer Fire Station wanting to find out what they could do to keep from getting red-flagged the next time. The SCA team was ready to help.
According to Coyle, the Estes Park community mantra became, "We don't want our home to burn. We don't want a red tag on our home. We want you to come out and we'll do anything you say for us to do."
SCA's phone rang off the hook, and Dorman's department?working closely with SCA?attended homeowners' meetings giving defensible space presentations throughout the summer. By the end of August, the SCA team had evaluated 164 homes.
The evaluation
Estes Park homeowner Bob Clark was one of those who called. 
"We had the Big Elk Fire right behind us, just four or five miles over the ridge," Clark said. 
Like many homeowners, Clark didn't know how much he should cut back and he was concerned about his roof.
"I thought they'd jump all over the fact that I have a cedar roof," he confessed when Coyle and Messmer visited his home. Clark told them he was thinking of replacing it with one made out of asphalt.
"Metal is actually best," Messmer quickly explained. "It lasts longer and it's even more fire resistant than asphalt."
Messmer and her team carefully went through a checklist of short- and long-term improvements Clark could make to create defensible space, such as cutting branches away from woodpiles or clearing pine needles from the gutter and from under porches. Long-term projects included thinning out a grove of small trees.
As part of the evaluation, Clark's street address was entered into a computerized mapping system that would tell Estes Park firefighters which homes had been evaluated. Once recommended improvements were made, an SCA volunteer would enter the new information into the system.
"You build your home in an area like Estes Park and you want to keep the trees because they are one of the reasons you moved up here in the first place," Clark said. "SCA helps you find the small things you can do to protect your home and keep the aesthetics."
Bringing in a team
Scott Sticha, the Rocky Mountain National Park fire mitigation officer in Estes Park, served as community coordinator for the SCA program in 2002.
"The Big Elk Fire was a wake-up call to this community," Sticha said. "The message about defensible space was so important. I never would have been able to do that kind of outreach without SCA."
Bringing an SCA team into a community can be costly. For a five-member team fully trained in wildland/urban interface concepts, with two vehicles, technology, housing and stipends, a community is looking at $85,000 for one summer.
"This may sound like a lot for a community to spend, but if you compare that to the millions of tax dollars spent daily fighting wildland fires, we're a very cost effective group," said Jody Handly, SCA fire education corps program director.
"Some communities may not have the financial resources, but they can provide housing, vehicles, office space or other amenities," Handly said. "The real qualification is need and the willingness to work with us."
Agencies that have supported teams in the past include the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Bureau of Land Management, National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, Idaho Department of Lands, Idaho Resource Conservation and Development Councils, Anchorage Fire Department and Colorado State Forest Service. Funding for the Estes Park effort was provided by the U.S. Department of Interior.
She said grant monies are often available to fund an SCA team. She works with community coordinators to help find ways to pay for a team, either by securing grants or finding a partner willing to share costs.
"I don't turn communities away for not having the money," Handly said. "We work with them to try and locate supporting partners."
Communities interested in sponsoring an SCA team in their area can apply online with the Fire Education Corps at www.thesca.org.


Green Badge of Honor

UP IN COLORADO'S LITTLE VALLEY AND BIG ELK MEADOWS SUBDIVISIONS, residents kept green ribbons tied to trees in front of their houses for months as proof that their homes had passed the brutal triage that took place during the Big Elk Fire in July 2002.
"The green ribbon was like a badge of honor for people whose property was deemed defendable," said Estes Park Fire Chief Scott Dorman. "When we go through a neighborhood threatened by wildland fire, we make rapid decisions on whether we think a house is defendable or not."
Justin Dombrowski, wildland fire management officer for Boulder, Colorado, explained the firefighters' perspective. 
"Basically, firefighters scout for a place to take a stand against the fire," he said. "When you talk about firefighters taking a stand, you can't take any chances. Firefighters look for fire-resistant home construction and spatial openings around a house where they can survive in that spot. We have to look at access and what kind of safety zones are available."
Despite Dorman's years of preaching defensible space to the community, and much to the dismay of many residents, 70 percent of the homes in Little Valley and Big Elk Meadows earned red flags during the triage. A red flag meant the home was not deemed defendable and that the fire department would not devote any resources to defend it.  
During the triage, firefighters looked for several things to determine whether the house would get a red or green flag. The distance of the vegetation from the home, the composition of the roof and the slope of the property all were major factors in deciding whether it could be saved.
"We also looked at the density of the vegetation, the structure of the house and whether there was accessibility for fire trucks," Dorman said. 
When there is a gentle slope to the property, there can be a distance of 30 feet between vegetation and the house. The steeper the slope, the further away the vegetation needs to be. Other considerations include water availability and the kind of fire that is moving toward the property. All of these variables must be calculated within seconds as fire crews make their rapid assessments. 
If a property fails just one of the criteria, it 
is usually red flagged. "Sometimes a special hazard also qualifies a home for a red flag," said Dorman. In one case, a property was red flagged during the Big Elk Fire because it had 18 fifty-five-gallon barrels of lacquer stored there.
Although not a single house burned in the Big Elk Fire, for days and weeks following the blaze residents streamed through the Estes Park Volunteer Fire Station to find out what they could do to keep from earning a red flag next time. "We've given a lot of advice to residents on what makes a good defensible space," Dorman said. 
As time passes, Dorman is concerned that Estes Park residents may again grow indifferent to wildfire mitigation. That's why he and his crew were hard at work preaching the mitigation message even before the last green ribbon was taken down. 


Blazing a Trail to Safety

FOR YEARS, Paul Blumhardt has worried about fire in the woods.  
That's because nearly 650 homes border the edges of those woods, full of closely grown trees, downed limbs and high-standing grasse