HARPERS FERRY, IOWA — On the final mile of a three-hour hike along the bluffs between the Yellow River and the Mississippi, we noticed the forest had begun to fill with smoke.
At first it looked like it was rising from the valley, like the pasture fires we’d seen the day before en route to the dairy. But at a bend in the trail we could see the hill itself was on fire, the underbrush crackling lightly as smoke drifted in curtains up the opposite slope.
The kids had gone up ahead, eager for a promised rest and wade into a stream at the hike’s completion. Them being out of sight amidst a forest fire was maybe not good. But before any real worry set in, we looked ahead and saw the kids talking with a park ranger who was leaning against a go-cart and smiling. I thought for sure the ranger, whose name was Joe, would make us turn around, tacking on another two hours of hiking for our already weary party, but he said it was safe to proceed as long as we stuck to the trail. (Eric later told me that this is exactly what he loves about Iowa.)
Joe explained that the fire was a controlled burn that the forest service conducts every eight years to foster older growth oaks and hickory, a forest kept healthy for recreation, harvesting wood, and fostering new growth. The work used to be done by a prison camp but that closed in 2017.
The burn was as mesmerizing as it was unexpected, and with the smoke drifting away in the opposite direction, we were able to appreciate it more comfortably. It was more of a diffuse low-key campfire than the out-of-control West Coast wildfires I’d seen on TV. It burned swiftly, chewing underbrush into ash with a satisfying crunch, smoke lingering as the fire crept steadily across the hillside.
Up ahead, Joe’s buddy (who he referred to as “Bilbo Baggins” in apparent jest although he bore little likeness to a hobbit) walked a careful line on the trail’s left edge, torch in hand, steadily kindling the burn line. He nodded to us, and we took a few pictures, but kept our distance.
The kids had run on up ahead again, so we followed, taking a last look at the smoke rising amid the trees as it rose in an almost ceremonious, ghostlike fashion.
Back at the trailhead, the kids waded in the creek, taking turns crossing the rocks and testing their balance at safe if splashy heights. I played harmonica and drank coffee roasted and brewed by my new friends, who run Thinkwell Coffee in Waverly. It was delicious.
While the Johnsons drove back to the cabin, my fam and I drove through the old logging camp and up Fire Tower Road.
The firetower itself is one of those classic overlook towers with zigzagging rows of wood steps and an iron cabin at the top that looks like a mix of WWII watchtower and faux monastic treehouse airbnb.
I wanted to climb it but Jenn wouldn’t let me. There was a sign that said “authorized personnel only.” Which, I pointed out, is not the same thing as “danger: unsafe structure,” a warning I would more willingly heed. But I didn’t want to set a bad example for the kids. Plus there was also lots of barbed wire and two missing flights of steps.
I definitely should have climbed it, though. Yes, I would have been breaking the rules, but I also would have been honoring the tower’s purpose: spotting a fire, in this case the one that had how spread all the way to the roadside.
Instead we wound up driving alongside a much wider burn, watching small trees topple and branches fall. We saw a rock tumble into the road as heat fanned the side of the car. Jenn stopped to take a picture, but I — apparently the new voice of caution — encouraged her to keep driving. It was epic to behold, but the sight of fire hits different when you’re in the car on a narrow road, so we sped on by Smokey Co and Co. for the second time that afternoon.
Later Emil did the math and figured that if this section of the forest only burns every 8 years, and the trail area only takes a few hours to burn, we had only a 1 in 30,000 chance at being there in that moment, maybe closer to 1 in 10,000 if you exclude nights, seasons, and other large disqualifying chunks of time.
No matter how you slice it, it’s a near-miracle we happened across such an event — especially considering we probably shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near in the first place. Years from now I’ll think back on those columns of smoke and marvel: What a wonder we were ever here at all.
lucas wetzel 