I spent my summers in the arms of giants. Standing on an ancient carpet of moss and ferns, their red-tinted vessels reached heights beyond what strained eyes could fathom, forming the backdrop of an idyllic childhood. For three months each year, my family—accompanied by my brother, cousin, and occasionally a friend—embarked on a four-hour journey to the land of giants north of Klamath, California, where we joined our grandparents at their temporary RV abode.
The journey unfolded like a familiar ritual: a mundane first three hours, punctuated by the California border's agricultural inspection station, and later, a tunnel where cars toot a call-and-reply “shave and a haircut.” Then we emerge into the otherworldly landscape of my dreams. Thick groves of trees untouched by clear-cut logging. The car hugs precarious ledges between mountains and the untamed Smith River, on one of those roads where you're certain the tires are inches from the edge. Rapids scour sandstone boulders below. The water twists and dives into expansive, crystal-clear pools. I spot one perfect swimming hole, and then another. The mountains open up to the forest. Larger and larger tree trunks speckle the landscape until we are entirely enveloped by the massive bodies. We made it.
Decades later, on the fateful evening of August 15, 2023, Six Rivers National Forest succumbed to a relentless assault. Approximately 150 lightning strikes sparked wildfires, birthing 27 confirmed blazes—12 of which engulfed the Gasquet Ranger District in Del Norte County. The Smith River Complex, a confluence of ten fires, wrought havoc: U.S. Highway 199 closed, and Crescent City plunged into darkness. The Forest Service said an unusually dry summer, extreme weather conditions, and rugged terrain made the fires difficult to suppress.
My brother, trapped amid the chaos, calls me with real-time updates from the disaster unfolding around him. “We just got our power back on after two weeks. Look at the size of these generators!” Pacific Power had de-energized its transmission lines, and van-sized commercial generators were brought in to power Crescent City. “The road still isn’t open, so it looks like we’re trapped here still.” I’m comforted that he is no stranger to roughing it. He married into a resourceful family. His wife is a member of the Yurok Tribe, and her family has included us in their traditions—especially around fishing the ocean, as well as the Klamath and Smith Rivers.
With electricity out, household wells no longer pump water. There is no water to drink or cook with. No water to flush toilets. No electricity to power refrigerators or cook food. The stores’ supply of propane and ice runs out.
On August 23rd, having already scorched more than 52,500 acres in California, the blaze hops the border into southern Oregon. Still, 0% contained, nearly 1,500 firefighters have now joined the battle. By September 6th—nearly a month after it started—the highway finally reopens. The blaze has consumed 85,429 acres and is only 19% contained. Despite four days of rainfall, fire officials say it is far from being extinguished. Three and a half more weeks go by. September comes to an end, and the fire is finally contained. In total, the Smith River Complex scorched 95,107 acres of pristine forest. Hundreds of ancient giants remain standing in a blackened, smoldering landscape. Some will live, and others will not.
Like most forest fires over the past couple of years, the Smith River Complex fire burned hotter than wildfires in the past. This is the obvious result of climate change and the removal of Indigenous stewards of the land. Industrial forestry practices create excessive undergrowth. Combined with drier, hotter weather, the tinder creates infernos that essentially melt the soil and damage the root structures below. The soil left behind becomes hydrophobic, and water can’t absorb into the earth. Flash floods and landslides alter watersheds, washing dirt and debris into the rivers. Drinking water gets contaminated, and the muddy mess chokes out fish and other marine creatures.
In the heart of Portland—six hours away but emotionally tethered to the unfolding tragedy—I ponder the thought that the landscape of my childhood might not be there next summer. In a Zoom meeting, a coworker mentioned they might go to the Redwoods soon. I jokingly tell them they might not want to put it at the top of their list. And then I realize they have no idea what I’m talking about. Folks here haven’t heard anything about the fire. I wonder: is this the new normal? We live in a world so desensitized to natural disasters that a blaze among the Redwood Forest Woody Guthrie sang about doesn’t even make it into the collective consciousness.
The redwood’s resistance to fire owes much to its thick bark—but the unspoken hero is the high level of moisture brought in from sea fog and rain. As each “unusually” dry winter and summer heat wave bakes the land, the water stored in the forest starts to dry up, leaving less for the redwoods to draw on. The big question is this: will redwoods that stood tall through seasonal wildfires for hundreds of years be able to withstand the extreme heat of the fires we have now?
A combination of factors is to blame for the loss of healthy forests along the West Coast: a century of firefighting, elimination of Indigenous burning, logging of large fire-resistant trees, and other management practices that allowed small trees, undergrowth, and deadwood to choke forests. Drought has killed hundreds of millions of conifers or made them susceptible to disease and pests—and more likely to go up in flames. A changing climate has brought more intense, larger, and less predictable fires. The Redwoods have long ago retreated from their former glory. There are few acres of old growth left. About a quarter of the original redwood range has been lost to land conversion. The remaining 1.5 million acres is a new, previously logged forest. Some communities have begun transplanting the trees into wetter areas of Washington, Canada, and even Japan in hopes of keeping the species alive. And while that could be considered a good last resort for the species, the people of California fight hard to keep the forest alive.
As the Yurok Tribe grapples with the aftermath in Del Norte County, questions linger about their collaboration with the U.S. Forest Service to restore fire-ravaged lands. In the sacred groves of the redwoods, a delicate dance between tradition, resilience, and environmental stewardship unfolds—reminding us of the interconnectedness between humanity and the towering guardians of the land.
During the last decade, the Tribe has regained approximately 70,000 acres of forested land in Yurok's ancestral territory. On one parcel, the Tribe created a 15,000-acre Old Growth Forest and Salmon Sanctuary in the Blue Creek watershed to enhance fish runs and permanently protect one of the most biologically diverse ecosystems in the West. A new bill has been introduced—the Yurok Lands Act—that will redraw the reservation boundary to include recovered lands, which roughly parallel the current reservation border between Blue Creek and Weitchpec.
Further south in California, in July of 2020, Save the Redwoods League procured and returned 523 acres of forest to the InterTribal Sinkyone Wilderness Council, a group of 10 tribes that have been connected to the land for thousands of years. Tc’ih-Léh-Dûñ is the name of the newly Tribal Protected Area. Actions like this reaffirm the inherited responsibility tribes have to maintain and revitalize relationships and the health of the lands and waters.
Redwood National Park is located in the Yurok Reservation in Del Norte County. Yurok traditional stories teach that the redwood trees are sacred living beings. While they did use them in building homes and canoes, they also respect redwood trees because they stand as guardians over sacred places. It takes around seven years for one carver to build a redwood canoe—a cultural mainstay among these fishing people. This tradition remains vital for families today. Many Yurok people believe that losing the salmon would mean losing their culture.
The U.S. Forest Service states that they intend to work with the Tribe to restore the forests affected in the Smith River Complex Fire. Some treatment considerations are focused on stabilizing waterways and suppressing invasive plant species. There are plans for wood additions to Diamond Creek, as well as the removal and upsizing of certain culverts, removing wood from burnt bridges, and soil stabilization planting.
I’ve been invited to my first “Fish Camp” next summer—a weeklong campout with my family on the Yurok Reservation. Days are spent casting nets into the river, fishing for salmon, and teaching the next generation how to do the same. Evenings are spent cooking fish over campfires and enjoying the company of friends and family, as they’ve done for hundreds of years. With the fishing season already getting shorter as scorching summer heat thins the waters and lowers the salmon numbers, I hope the fire doesn’t devastate them.
But hope does remain. I feel comforted in seeing people pulling together to restore the redwoods and return to traditional knowledge of forest management. As long as we all keep pushing forward and hold close to these last remaining and precious ecosystems, maybe I will get to spend many more summers in the arms of the giants.
