Planet of Fire

Prescribed fire is one of the most important tools available to land managers today. Although much of the 20th century was a period of fire suppression, the deliberate ignition of dry vegetation has been taking place across our local landscapes for thousands of years. Long before there were ecologists to carry the flame, indigenous people lit the landscape on a regular basis. Ever since the last glaciers retreated from the area, our plant communities evolved in the presence of periodic fire. Most of the plant communities that occur in our region are considered to be fire-dependent communities, that is, they replicate themselves and exhibit stability over time as long as landscape fire is part of the ecological equation; in the absence of fire, these communities change into something else—usually they degrade.

Prescribed fire rejuvenates a prairie.

Prescribed fire rejuvenates a prairie.

So, among the techniques employed in ecological restoration, the application of prescribed fire restores a natural process previously withheld from the land. Stephen J. Pyne of Arizona State University has written widely on the subject of fire (relative to ecology), and while ecologists often characterize fire as a disturbance (like an ice storm or a bison wallow), Pyne asserts, “It makes more sense to imagine fire as a catalyst.”

Pyne sees fire as a contextual reaction, taking its character from its fuel and environment. Fine-textured fuels—like dry grasses—flash and burn fast, while coarse fuels—like fallen trees—require higher levels of heat for ignition and burn more slowly. A wind-driven prairie fire will race up a dry hill, while a slow, low woodland fire will creep through leaf litter, leaving unburned fuel in its wake. In any case, landscape fire feeds upon (consumes) plant matter. And fires have burned across the earth ever since there have been plants that dry out to serve as a flammable fuel source. Pyne has referred to the earth as a planet of fire.

Prescribed fire in a woodland is characterized by low flames and leaves a patchy mosaic of burned areas.

Prescribed fire in a woodland is characterized by low flames and leaves a patchy mosaic of burned areas.

Fire is one of the elements responsible for humans’ rise to keystone species status. No species other than humans wields fire; no other ecological force shapes the landscape the way fire can. To quote a recent report from the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service (USFWS):  “There is no ecological equivalent to fire. No other type of natural or man-made action yields the same benefits.”

The benefits of fire, naturally, vary according to the ecosystem or ecoregion affected. Locally, fire removes dead plant material (duff) and supports the rapid growth of plants in spring, the bare soil blackened by fire readily accepting the warming rays of the sun. The fresh green shoots may attract grazers, which may attract predators, thus fueling the nutrient cycle across trophic levels in the ecosystem. Fire hastens the recycling of nutrients back into the soil. Fire kills or injures individual woody plants, with seedlings and saplings among the most susceptible (mature trees, especially our fire-adapted species such as oaks being far less likely to be harmed). Although there are exceptions, and depending upon the timing of the burn, prescribed fire tends to favor the establishment of native plants, selectively deterring invasive species. Burning reduces the buildup of fuels and lessens the likelihood and severity of wildfire.

Since 2003, USFWS has been employing prescribed fire in the management of their lands. At Necedah National Wildlife Refuge in central Wisconsin, habitat improvements ascribed to prescribed fire have resulted in dramatic increases in the local population of Red-headed Woodpeckers, a signature species of Midwestern oak savannas. According to USFWS, “Oak savannas survive and flourish only with the help of occasional grass fires.” Such fires throughout the Midwest favor native warm-season grasses at the expense of nonnative cool-season grasses.

So in the early spring—and again in the fall—you may see smoke on the horizon, lifting toward the heavens; you may visit your favorite natural areas to find them briefly blackened below your feet. Know that it is a good thing. After all, it’s only natural: we live on a planet of fire.

A Restorationist's View of Conservation

Piles of brush (honeysuckle:  Lonicera maackii) accumulate where the forest floor is opened to receive sunlight.

Piles of brush (honeysuckle:  Lonicera maackii) accumulate where the forest floor is opened to receive sunlight.

One of the finest ways of nurturing a sense of place, developing a direct connection to the land, is the practice of ecological restoration. As stewards—caretakers—we manage the vegetation of the site, which fosters a certain intimacy with the environment. Working the land for the purpose of healing, of restoring the vibrancy of the living systems at hand, connects us to the spirit of the specific locality. And yet, ecological restoration is a fairly recent phenomenon, a current expression of the conservation movement.

The conservation of natural areas has taken on different forms over the past century. From early efforts toward preservation of scenic beauties, to the calculated extraction of utilitarian resources, to active efforts to restore natural processes in historical landscapes, conservation has proven to be a multifaceted endeavor. Where once the preservationist presumed it to be sufficient to protect an area from development or despoilment, today’s restorationist seeks to manage natural areas for native biodiversity and ecosystem services.

Why the shift? Like many movements, restoration arose as a collective response to perceived threats. Planners, practitioners, and researchers alike recognize that natural areas, left unmanaged, quickly degrade in the face of stressors such as invasive species, altered hydrology, and fire suppression. Natural functions are diminished; ecological relationships are strained; species are lost. Due to the many challenges that stress the systems that sustain them, natural areas require our intervention. To allow nature to take its course no longer serves to preserve the historical character of our native natural communities. So we intervene, we intercede on behalf of native species and the ecosystems in which they live. We remove invasive species, restore habitat, and enhance the diversity of native species present in the system.

Such work may feed the human spirit, even while enriching the natural area being restored. Many people find quiet joy and great satisfaction in participating in restoration workdays. Good exercise in fresh air, coupled with the knowledge that we are making a positive difference in the world, combine to bring about a legitimate sense of well being.

If you have not yet experienced a restoration workday—or if you have and you are ready for another taste—I encourage you to join us here at Severson Dells to help restore our natural communities. We gather twice a month, on the second Saturday and the fourth Monday, 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 noon, with our inaugural workday slated for Monday, October 23, 2017. Respond via e-mail (gregr@seversondells.org) or phone (815-335-2915) to let me know to expect you. Dress for the weather and be prepared to get dirty. Bring a water bottle and work gloves if you can. And perhaps bring a willingness to be open to that natural connection to the living landscape.

Clingers & Shakers

What do Coneheads, Fluffies, Ballistic Missiles, Mama’s Boys, Clingers, and Shakers have in common? They’re all whimsical names applied to types of seeds based on their dispersal mechanisms.

The familiar dandelion, for example, disperses its seeds by air, each attached to a fluffy appendage known as the pappus. We’ve all experienced blowing on the tuft of a ripe dandelion seed head to watch the little “parachutes” float away on a breeze. Thistledown is another example of pappus. We might categorize seeds dispersed in this manner as Fluffies.

Generally, as organisms rooted in place, plants benefit from dispersing their seeds away from the parent; that’s how a population might expand and how new territory might be claimed by a given species. Some plants disperse their seeds with the aid of mobile animals. Seeds with bristly attachments, hooked hairs, and the like (think Bidens, enchanters’ nightshade, or stick-tight) might be called Velcro Seeds or Clingers. Those of us who have had to face the challenge of trying to comb bur dock out of a dog’s fur know just how stubborn such seeds can be in clinging to an animal.

Some seed pods are spring-loaded and catapult their seeds a considerable distance, perhaps as far as 30 feet. Such a dispersal mechanism could be termed, Ballistic. Local examples include Geranium, violets, and jewelweed.

If you’d like to learn more about seed types, especially in terms of harvesting native seeds for use in ecological restoration of natural areas, we have just the program for you:  Seed Collection & Dispersal, here at Severson Dells on Monday, October 2, from 9:00 a.m. until noon. We will begin with a brief presentation of seed types and dispersal mechanisms, followed by a hands-on field session of seed collection, and concluding with a tour of the Winnebago Forest Preserves’ seed-processing facility.

Each seed is a treasure, a little box of promise. Each seed represents the vegetation of the future—and our own future wellbeing may well hinge upon the vegetation that sustains the diversity of life in our region. To hold such promise in the palm of our hand, to nurture the future, is an honor and a privilege. And you are welcome to participate.

The event is free. RSVP at http://www.seversondells.com/community-programming-1/ or call 815-335-2915.

Ripe seeds of common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca)--shown without the pappus

Ripe seeds of common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca)--shown without the pappus