Beauty Comes with Fire in the Prairie

Burn boss Shane Tripp walked by, pointed at my head and matter-of-factly said, "Your hat is on backwards."

Every little thing matters in a prescribed burn.

Ashes of my dad, a long-time quarryman, must have flying all over in hard-hat embarrassment.

I trekked along Monday on a prescribed burn--a controlled fire, in this case to maintain the health of an ecosystem--at Sundrop Prairie Nature Preserve.

It's part of Indian Boundary Prairies, prairie remnants in Markham in southern Cook County.

It's work and deadly serious, but no denying, it's fun, too. Fire is as primal as it gets.

The Nature Conservancy declares the IBP prairies "the largest remaining example of high-quality grassland in Illinois and one of the best in the Midwest" and "a sort of biological `ark' for the future—a living flotilla of hope for the inhabitants of Illinois' once vast prairie community."

Portions of IBP are a National Natural Landmark.

The pre-burn meeting was serious. People weren't scrolling their phones.

Tripp, who did his masters thesis [at SUNY] on the role fire had on deer tick populations, said, "Just spending the time, I saw the ecological benefits, I was really inspired by the benefits of fire. Fire just kept growing into my main passion."

As burn boss, Tripp built a detailed plan, solidified beforehand with line bosses Eric Bugvilionis, IBP senior land steward, and Moira Staudacher, a IBP land steward.

The plan detailed who drove what vehicles, where the tender (holding water for sprayers) was parked, which Kawasaki UTV went with which crew, position of escape routes and safety zones, where fire breaks were, protocol on hand radios, procedure if "the fire gets out of the box," who will check smoke and who will notify neighbors.

Tripp accurately figured the head fire would be about 20 feet when raging, the back fires to 4 feet.

Everybody was reminded to watch for spot fires outside the box. If you couldn't put them out, you were to radio for help.

Bugvilionis had volunteers Anja Christensen and Fabiola Padron. I went with Staudacher's crew, volunteer Kaitlin Soto and Jaron Cook, Illinois TNC's conservation information manager.

Soto, an experienced volunteer, walked me through gearing up, donning the right-sized Nomex yellow fire jumpsuit, safety glasses, hard hat, cowhide gloves and stowing the hand radio. I wore leather boots and was dressed for temperatures dancing near 70.

In the field, we clustered around as Tripp, then Staudacher, worked a test fire. Bugvilionis and others stood ready to react if the test went rogue.

When the test fire met expectations, Staudacher used it to build a back burn (a blackened area as a fire break) before her crew burned the northwest corner of the burn area before the head fire was set.

At the start, it was 64 degrees, 32 percent humidity with west southwest winds. Mixing height (how high smoke can rise) was 3,000 feet, which is high (a good thing).

The surprise came from three sedges of sandhill cranes, about 200, circling overhead for an hour or so. As we walked our area, Staudacher pointed to a stand of rattlesnake master, a native plant that looks like a Medieval weapon.

Methodically, the two crews built backfires to create blackened edges to contain the head fire. Staudacher did most of our igniting. Cook usually drove the UTV spraying an edge line. Soto usually worked the flapper or swatter (a long-handled tool with a wide patch used to swat out small fires outside the edge).

When the head fires were lit, it was on. Tripp said the dominant fuel was Indiangrass.

"Tallgrass burns hot and fast, about as scary as it gets when you get it going, but it cools off quickly," he said. "We call it flashy fuel."

The head fire blazed across the prairie like a flash fire [contained] and spread amazing heat for half a minute or so.

As the fire tightened, they left the far southwest corner open a bit to allow any remaining critters an escape route before the final head fire was set.

As we waited, someone asked if they ever did a psychological study on those who work burns.

"The primal feel of fire matters to me," Tripp admitted. "You light the head fire and see the giant smoke plume, then watch it roll. You either catch the fire bug or you never burn again."

When lit, the final head fire blazed through the remaining patch in a couple minutes.

It was time.

Mop-up time mainly checked for any hotspots.

The debriefing was as serious as the pre-burn meeting. Things had went close to plan, smoke didn't go over the school or Kedzie.

"It is a thrilling experience and you go back later in the summer and see what a beautiful experience it is," Tripp said. "You get the calming beauty afterward."