Thursday April 23, 2026 Firebreak

Firebreaks are just my attempt to do something against wild fire, rather do nothing.

    I burned off a Blue Grama Native Grass plantation to renew its growth and to kill the volunteer alder brush spreading through it. The evident snow line on the left is a 800-yard long firebreak protecting several thousand trees of many different varieties planted in the last 14 years; on the far right is a township roadbed that acts as a firebreak as well.

I carry a couple backpack fire pumps and buckets with me on my ATV to put out spot fires or insure fires are out along the line. Here I have started to burn creek banks nearest the house. (The snowplow is unnecessary; just hadn't removed it.)

     After last year's many Red Flag warnings, I keep an eye out for the weak links in our own chain of firebreaks I've made. For the last couple years, I've renewed our firebreaks, for stalling the progression of an unexpected grassland wildfire. 

    Our firebreaks are typically 20-feet wide and up to hundreds of yards long. The one below, borders a county ditch on the right, and planted tree rows on the left. Should the dead grass & cattails in the ditch catch fire with a good wind behind it, the fire would rapidly spread unabated into the grass in the tree rows if not for the expanse of the tilled soil of the firebreak. However, given perfect conditions for a wildfire of low humidity into the twenties and teens, combined with sunlight, high temperatures, and high winds, this firebreak still isn't enough to stop the spread of airborne embers.

   A neighbor a mile away has a tree plantation too; his firebreaks are 8-10-feet wide and snake throughout his plantation. Our situations are different; in as much as their land is sheltered by neighboring woodlands of other landowners, whereas we have open farm fields on three sides where winds can build; the fourth side is more sheltered as it adjoins a wetland and woodlands.

    I protect utility posts like this one, when I'm going to do a burn, by burning or tilling around them first so they're not damaged.

   There are two 'weak links' to my chain of firebreaks. One is the wetland in the northwest corner at the intersection of the county road and the cemetery road. And the other one is the wetland east and south of our house. I try to minimize fire danger by burning the creek banks closest to our house as soon as I can in the spring. I don't burn the whole of the creek basin as it would be such an inferno it would take firefighters to extinguish it, I imagine.

   The second weak link is where the wetland adjoins the tree rows on its southeast side. Using the tractor and bush mower last fall, I cut down much of the brush and sedge grass down north of the trees, about ten feet wide; not as much as I'd like.

   I wanted to burn the dry cattails and sedge grass out of the wetland this spring, and tried burning the ditch leading to it a few times but the elements were against me, like too many cold cloudy days and excessive moisture. I didn't want to risk burning the tamaracs, spruce, and birch growing along its northern edges either although the ground around them was dotted with snow and open water filled the ditch there. My confidence waned when I thought about how things can quickly get away from you then regret not asking someone for help.

   One of my neighbors answered my voicemail inquiry about assisting me burn this area, and said he'd meet me on the cemetery road, a mile and a half away, in fifteen minutes. I wasn't prepared for that so soon; I had all my gear, but not loaded on my four-wheeler. So just being thankful for his help, I jumped to the task of topping off the backpack fire pump bags as I hurriedly got my boots on and repacked the contents of my ATV utility box I had bolted on the 4-wheeler's rear rack.

   Lifting the three 49 lb backpacks into the utility box, I stood them up, side-by-side against the open box lid, at the same time thinking how I was going to manage carrying, in addition, a 20-lb tank of propane and a blowtorch with a ten-foot hose attached to it used to set a running fire. Pushed for time, I decided I'd come back for it, by shortcut, if necessary, having easily started fires with wood kitchen matches; this one should be easy too ...

   Making a quick look about the place for what I needed with me, I started the four-wheeler, reversed, and sped quickly up the slope to get where I was going -- with 147-pounds of backpack fire pumps and gear leaning against lid --  when it all suddenly  lunged backwards against the lid and ripped the box off the rack spilling the three backpacks and all accompanying gear onto the ground behind me. SHIT! 

   I called Ron and told him I'd be a few minutes late ...

   Grabbing the backpacks, one by one, I loaded them back on the fractured rack, noting one of them was now leaking. (Don't worry Joe, it wasn't yours.) I strapped them to the rack the best I could, then set the utility box off to the side out of the way. I made one last look of the scattered things, and left the yard in High gear. 

   An apology probably wasn't necessary. Excess verbiage about what I intended to do and where I intended to start met Ron's understanding of all things combustible as a professional welder in his past life and a known grass fire lighter in his present life; (owing to our shared Palm-blood affinity for such things) He turned to a small box in the back of his Ranger, opened it, and said "Yah, I t'ink you need a beer, den."

Ron stands watch in the distance for wind-borne fire possibly reaching across the cemetery road. Beyond him the ditch is full of snow, eliminating fire danger that direction. I had set the foreground ablaze into the wind, but due to the high water levels only patches of grass burned successfully and limited our access to it as well.

   Feeling confident there was no immediate fire danger, and accepting that throwing matches wasn't going to do the trick fast enough I called Ron to tell him I was going back home to get the tank of propane and the blow torch; I'd take the short cut back through the woods than out to the county road and around; it took all of maybe ten minutes.

 

   It had been several years since I had used the blow torch method. I had an old torch but didn't know exactly where it was in all my stuff, so I purchased a new one at Fleet, in Roseau, where they were having a inventory close-out sale, so I saved time and money. Deciding to connect the hose to the tank before I left, I was mortified that it appeared I lacked the appropriate connector, as the threads on the torch were too small than the ones on the tank, at a glance; I couldn't remember having to go through that all those years ago. I thought it was a simple connection. 

 

   Feeling the crush of time, I hurriedly located the old torch in one of my outbuildings, and almost felt nauseous seeing the same hose connection on it, that the new one had. I stuck the hose end into the larger diameter tank coupling but didn't feel any apparent threads -- so in my frustration, just set both aside and went back to the burn. Explaining my dilemma to Ron, he chuckled and asked, "Ready for anudder beer, den? Let's go get my torch."

 

"It's only a mile an' a half," he said, when I apologized for the inconvenience, not believing I couldn't get mine to work. Beginning to turn around where we where, I motioned him to just go straight down the firebreak instead, 'and save on some miles ...'

 

   About halfway through the half-mile muddy slog he had to shift his Ranger into four-wheel drive, already regretting agreeing to 'take the shortcut.' "I t'ink I don't vant to drive t'rough dat," he said gesturing toward water-filled ruts in a low spot of high grass; the Ranger heaving side to side its wheels spinning, walking itself and its cargo through the brush until we finally popped onto the township road. "We von't be going back dat vay, I'm t'inkin.' 

   

   He wasn't but a minute, in and out of his shop with his 20-lb tank and torch that looked exactly like mine on the end; and fit into his tank the same way -- and SCREWED IN JUST LIKE IT WAS SUPPOSED TO -- JUST LIKE MINE. WHAT THE HELL?

 

   "Vait a second, he said, stepping back into his shop, then reappearing. "Need more cold beer. 'ere you go, den." Securing his propane tank and torch in the compartment in the back of his Ranger, off we went taking the pavement all the way.

 

   "You sit 'ere, like dat, an' 'old dis like dis, den pull dis 'ere trigger vere you vant da flame to go," Ron said, opening my door and handing me the four-foot long steel torch; its hose routed from the tank behind me. "Open dis 'ere knob alittle  like dis to light 'er up ... ...VOOOSH!! like a rocket engine.

 

   Ron drove west along the narrow dirt trail between the tree rows and the wetland as I shot two-feet of flame into the grass and leaves just outside my door, hoping all behind us was burning. But wasn't. There was just enough of a natural firebreak of moisture between the two areas that, amazingly, little to none of the grass ignited. 

   Turning south to burn the ditch, using the torch, on the west side of the firebreak, we discovered the frost wasn't out yet, turning the whole of the 800 yard firebreak, a muddy quagmire that we couldn't drive through; ending up shutting off the torch and driving home with little grass burned at all for the day. 

Maybe we'll get another chance yet.