Fire is Its Own Reward

Prairie fire, east-central Kansas

“Takin’ pictures, huh?”
“Yep.”
“What of?”
“Well, I …” and thus enabled, I launched into my litany of wanting to see and photograph a burn, to use the local terminology. Those of us not familiar with a burn might call it a prairie fire.
I had just stepped out of the Flint Hills Restaurant, Strong City, Kansas, having consumed more breakfast than two normal people might eat, all for less than $8, when a local cowboy leaning against his pickup spotted the arsenal of photo gear on my front seat.
“Well,” he said, looking skyward “ya might want to try north and east of Zerd. I come down that way this morning and they was burning something up there.”
I was excited. This was the best lead for seeing a fire that I had in days.
“Tell me, again, sir, where is Zerd? I don’t recall seeing that on the map.”
He looked at me, then over my shoulder as if I was hiding a troll, leaned forward a bit and said in a hushed tone usually reserved for revealing the true meaning of life, “It’s probably not on the map.”
Glancing to his left as if checking to be sure the sun was still in the right location, he said, “Go east on 50 here, about two mile. Turn north on the first road. That’s Zerd. If ya git ta Yerd you’ve gone too far. Turn around and come back.”
I thanked him and set off on my search for the Holy Grail. Almost to the inch on my GPS, a road heading north popped up at two miles. As I made the turn a road sign caught my eye: ZZ Rd.
Oh, ZZ road, not the mythical Land of Zerd. I zigged and zagged, following the billowing clouds of smoke. At one point I even crossed YY Rd, a bit disappointed there would be no Land Of Yerd, either.
The fire, like a slender bloody gash in the earth, six-inches tall, stretched across a pasture as far as I could see. It was a curious juxtaposition of towering white clouds rising from the interface of tiny flames and scorched land, into a cobalt sky. Above it all, Swainson’s Hawks hovered, dipped and danced on the 20 miles-per-hour wind. My cap went into my pocket before it could get into the flames.



After 15 minutes of making pictures, stoked by the excitement of hopping over small, fast-moving flames, which showed no respect for my presence, I jumped back onto the dirt road and headed for my car. An Oldsmobile one might expect to see in an antique car show rolled up next to me, window down, tattered elbow showing, a couple equal to the age of the car and land.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Out here, near the top of any conversation is an introduction. After the part about “Yer not from around here, are ya,” a statement, not a question, the conversation got pleasant, as if we were old friends.
When Mr. Moore said, “Well, I’ve lived here all my life. Well, that ain’t true since I ain’t dead, yet.” I looked over at Mrs. Moore, hands in lap, eyes assessing her muddy boots, a coquettish smile on her lips, a fringe of silver hair showing below the out-of-season red wool hat she wore. How many times had she heard that joke?
When he launched into how his grandfather had come to this place, right after the Civil War, the Mrs. (as he referred to her) was grinning and nodding. Another story, familiar in the retelling.
I was trying to do the mental math of how old he must be if he was third generation from a Civil War vet, when he said, “Well, enough about history. We’ll be gitting outta yer way young man.” And off they went, disappearing into the cloud that was the smoke-blanketed road.



Swainson's Hawk makes a close inspection of me

As I packed up the photo gear I saw two aberrations coming toward me from across the smoking field. Turned out to be Mr. Horton and his son, owners of the land. They walk the edges knocking down small fires that might want to jump the road, he explained. He kindly educated me, as if talking to nine-year-old kid, about fire and its beneficial purpose. Leaning on his all-metal rake handle, acting as if fire was not licking at his pant’s cuffs, he said, “We burnt about 3,000 acres this year, leaving the rest for next year.”
Again I was trying to do the mental math of how much pasture must burn in this one little spot of Kansas. I let it go to enjoy the moment.
We talked about the hawks circling above and I was pleased to be able to add to his storehouse of knowledge, that these were Swainson’s Hawks. Something he could pass on to the other ranchers.
Three of us, all grown men, stood there on an April morning, in a smoldering field, surrounded by smoke, watching birds do what they’ve done for eons. Finally, Mr. Horton kicked at a particularly stubborn patch of fire the size of a softball and said, “Well, it’s a mystery.”



Swainson's Hawks work the edges of the fire