A Day at Shiloh Ranch

by Sean Coleman (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

Burn scars tell a story. It’s an ancient story woven into the earth itself. Peel back layers of topsoil or tree bark in any forest on earth and you find the clues. I didn’t expect to find healing in these woods. Remnants of adrenaline were huddled in the corners of my body. We hiked Shiloh Ranch in the Mayacamas Mountains to see what life disappeared, and what remained. Fire Chief Marshall Turbeville brought us here to teach us something about fire. How it behaves in wild spaces. How it consumes and creates. How it wraps fingers around massive trunks and ascends upward. Chief Turbeville is an affable man with a short crop of brown curls and an easy smile. His wise blue eyes contrast a youthful, almost boyish face. Among his crew, his memory is legendary. I learn about it after speaking with his captain, Brian. “He sees them in his sleep—old roads and canyons that don’t exist on maps.” Brian is sturdy, articulate and looks about thirty. He grew up in the Coffey Park neighborhood that was incinerated in hours. I watch the Chief as he scans the hillside, his hands perfectly still. If they call him Chief, I am calling him Chief. He talks about the land as if it’s an old buddy who’s battling cancer. He believes the disease can be contained, maybe beaten. We trust his optimism. The man is third in a lineage of fire chiefs; his father and grandfather held the position before him. Chief Turbeville was right here on the night of October 8. He managed trench lines and lit backfires in an effort to prevent the Tubbs Fire from heading north into the bedroom communities of Windsor and Healdsburg. The Chief remembers the night well. He saw what firefighters see once or twice in their career: crown fires dancing across treetops—thieves stealing their way across the land. He heard the shriek of Foehn winds exploding fire whirls into patches of madrone and moss-covered buckeyes. He saw ember bullets rain a thousand sparks on swing-sets and sycamore trees along sleepy streets. The Chief saw embers disperse again and again throughout Santa Rosa while so many slept. He witnessed the unimaginable—fire transecting Highway 101 into Coffey Park. He cleared bodies from the ashes. The chief says a fire like the Tubbs is an order of magnitude more intense than most forest fires. They aren’t so much fought by firefighters as they are witnessed. The intense heat and unpredictable flare-ups are too perilous to fight against. The wind, too violent and erratic to get in front of. Manned with pulaskis and hoses, the firefighters sit back and watch. Some of them text their loved ones while others prep supplies. A few of them pray. Shiloh Ranch is a favorite for trailrunners and lazy picnickers. In spring you might witness a dazzle of wildflowers like the vivid Ithuriel’s Spear. Occasional black and valley oaks can be seen across the prairie - defiant relics of the past. At dusk you can hear leaves crunch as mule deer browse their way up from the creeks. The idea of a massive blaze surging through this tranquil place is surreal. Today is a new day. The absence of wind is reassuring. The air is cool and still. Like the Chief, we are searching for life. I didn’t expect to find healing among the scars. Yet the hills are covered in thin strands of luscious green punching their way through the earth. The moss and sword ferns make new promises but look strange above the charcoal blackness. I feel gratitude to be here. I am grateful for Chiefs who lead captains down unknown logging roads. Grateful for firefighters who stand against the raging heat. I’m grateful for saplings of Doug fir and scores of Purple Iris that will soon dot the northern slopes. Grateful to see buds sprouting from the root crown of valley oaks and deer scamper across the creek, unfazed by humans. I am grateful for a roof over my head and a family who loves me. I found healing in these woods in Irises without memory—reborn again.