Prairie burn

My prairie burn

For the life of me, I can't find the story anywhere, but I'm told it's true. One of the first--if not the first--white settlers to Sioux County, the Groth family, created a domicile --a sod house?--about 15 miles north of Hawarden, before there was a Hawarden, even before there was a Calliope, Hawarden's ancestor. Had to be early 1860s. 

When they sunk a well, the story goes that a neighboring band of Yanktons drew water from it themselves, which may explain why, reportedly, those friendly neighbors came by when a prairie fire threatened the Groth family domicile and helped them save it.

Prairie fires can't rage like that today, given checkerboard mile roads. Besides, we're blessed by abundant rainfall--last night even some hail. Nobody's worried about a prairie fire.

But for the Groths, prairie fires were as fearful and as devastating as tornadoes--or grasshoppers. They could destroy everything in minutes. On wide open landscapes, they could be spotted miles away; but if you read the histories, the flames moved like wild horses. 

The tall-grass prairie, spring and fall, was a tinderbox. Spark was native: lightning capably carpet-bombed everything. And yes we have wind: fifty miles an hour is not unheard of.

To call prairie fires destructive requires a footnote. The blessed teamwork around the Groth house--whatever it was--saved the place. What it didn't save was prairie. However, when the thick cover of dead grass goes up in flame, it turns organic material to useable ash that would have taken years to rot and feed the topsoil. Native folks may have helped the Groths fight the fire, but, the the joy of the buffalo, they burned the prairie themselves to quicken new growth.

That's all well and good. We've got a chunk of prairie out back. People in-the-know have told me I should burn it, thick as it is with last year's growth. A burn'll clean the place up.

There's nothing behind us but corn field and a river. What's more, paths run through the grasses, paths I cut there. "Burning things isn't hard," my friends say. All around us, people burn ditches this time of year on the first windless evening they can. Last week our neighbor burned the old grasses on the river bank, so I asked him to come over and burn this little patch of mine. He did.

Or tried. The old grasses weren't thick enough to keep a fire burning because there wasn't enough wind to push it along. That night, the path wouldn't go up.

My wife, who is wiser than I am, suggested that me doing that job by myself was not in anyone's best interest. She knows me. But, having watched the guys the night before, I thought her fears not necessarily silly, but let's just say exaggerated. There was only a gentle breeze.

So I soaked a twist of prairie grass in lighter fluid, lit it, dropped it on the close edge of the patch. Unlike the night before, the flames got pushed along by a wind that somehow seemed stronger than it had been just a minute before. For a moment or two, the burn seemed downright diligent, moving through that quarter-acre.

Did I mention that reaching that patch with a hose is really not possible? Thus, I had no water beside me. But I sure did have fire. More than I bargained for. Soon enough, it was out of control. The truth?--it never was "in control." I assumed it would simply listen to me, I guess. 

Soon enough it swept hungrily into the neighbor's corn field stubble. Just about then, I told myself that fire could have kept going for more than a quarter mile and consumed nothing more than foot-high corn stalks, could have burned everything in its path until it came to the river. Big deal. 

No matter. That fire's roaring ignited terror in my soul because there wasn't a blame thing I could do about it. I couldn't run back to the house and uncoil some hose, or lug a sprinkling can--I couldn't even run fast enough to catch the flames. I couldn't mount a bucket brigade. Even though there was nothing in real danger, it was vivid and clear that my little prairie fire was way out of control.

Just so happens--isn't that a wonderful phrase?--just so happens the neighbor was right there in his tractor, pulling a plow. In a minute, the whole fiery mess got plowed under. Nothing got hurt, nothing got ruined, and most of my patch of native prairie got burned. 

And me?--I learned this three lessons: 1) there was more wind than I thought; 2) terror isn't fun; 3) I'm in no danger of becoming a pyromaniac; 4) once again, my wife of nearly fifty years was right.

If you're wondering, that night I didn't wet the bed. But that doesn't mean I slept well.