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A volunteer-led burn crew is applying Indigenous fire practices to reduce the chance of more intense destructive wildfires. By training community members to use low-intensity, prescribed fire, the group hopes to make the work more accessible.
Fire rolled across dry grass in what Katie MacKendrick called a beautiful burn.
The bright flames slowly died out as about two dozen people gathered around the dark, raw patches of exposed earth, the result of a day’s work.
MacKendrick, an ecologist, watched from a soaked path at the fire’s edge, radio strapped to her chest, overseeing the prescribed burn — an intentionally set, low-intensity fire that keeps trees and shrubs from growing into the dense brush that fuels wildfires.
This mid-October prescribed burn is one of many carried out in forests and grasslands throughout the Eugene-Springfield area in autumn. What sets it apart are the people: many are volunteers.
It’s also among the first burns organized by the new South Willamette Prescribed Burn Association, one of nine such groups in Oregon and Washington.
Launched in March, the association equips and trains people — including those without wildland fire experience — and brings them together to conduct burns collaboratively, often on private land whose owners otherwise couldn’t afford this kind of work.
But they are hardly the first people to set fire in what is now the Coyote Creek area above Fern Ridge Lake.
“This is a known spot where Kalapuya folks camped and processed camas,” said MacKendrick — noting that mortar, pestles and other tools belonging to Indigenous people have been found in the areas the association burned that day.
“Humans have had a relationship out here [with fire] for a long time,” said MacKendrick. “[We’re] trying to just kind of weave all of this together … to bring back the practice of regular burning to this land in partnership with native folks.”
Restoring the natural cycle of fire
Fire is a tool, and has been a cultural practice that Indigenous peoples have used since time immemorial. The Kalapuya, who once lived on the land that is now Eugene and Springfield, burned the oak savannas to support food systems, such as camas, or “andip” in the Kalapuyan language.
Bare ground gave seeds the space to germinate and grow into strong seedlings. This supported both plant cultivation and created feeding grounds for hunting.
When settlers arrived in the region a couple of centuries ago, these intentional fires stopped. The U.S. government forcibly removed Indigenous people from the area, and later, federal policies required firefighters to put out every wildfire across the western United States. These mandates nearly erased a cycle of fire that had shaped the landscape for thousands of years.
And in recent decades, climate change has dried out overgrown vegetation, creating tinderbox conditions that invite large wildfires and threaten a growing population.
The exclusion of fire has come at the detriment of both people and their environment, Scott Polhamus, board president of the Willamette Ignitions Network, told Lookout Eugene-Springfield during the spring.
Earlier this year, the organization ran classes for experienced fire practitioners — people with about a decade in the field — who were training to become crew bosses, a supervisory role for firefighters working on both wild and prescribed burns.
Contracting companies often hire practitioners for clients and can provide gear, liability insurance and ongoing training — resources many individual landowners and community-led efforts lack.
The South Willamette Prescribed Burn Association and Willamette Ignitions Network are trying to close this gap with the help of the Oregon Department of Forestry’s Certified Burn Manager program, which provides training and certifications for safe and effective use of prescribed fire.
On Oct. 16, a professional crew carried out a 7.5-acre burn at the base of Mount Pisgah, at a cost of just under $10,000. Meanwhile, the South Willamette Prescribed Burn Association conducted its burn near Fern Ridge, at about half the cost.
But there is a trade-off. The association burned less, only about 2 acres.
“It’s slower,” said Polhamus. “But it’s worth it.”
That’s because the smaller scale offered education, empowerment and a chance to experiment.
Teaching to burn
Before picking up rakes, Polhamus and others ate tacos made by a fellow volunteer over a small grill.
Nearby, Joe Scott cooked something of his own. Over a camp stove, Scott, a member of the Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians, melted pitch — the sticky mix of resin, sap and insect remains drawn from inside certain trees.
They planned to use these pitch sticks when near wetlands. Drip torches — handheld canisters that release ignited fuel — can harm species such as burrowing crayfish.
“This is in honor of those aquatic creatures,” Scott said.
Scott is a leader locally in creating and teaching traditionally inspired lighting materials to others.
“The idea is you put the pitch stick under a bunch of grass or dried debris, grab a little handful of something and pull the two together so it makes a bigger flame,” he explained during a briefing. “The technique is something you develop on your own with these, but it’s really effective.”
That was something first-time volunteer Shea Davis tried to figure out herself as she knelt at the base of a tree with a pitch-coated stick.
It was slow to catch but eventually did, giving her a different view of fire as something slow and helpful in contrast to wildfires that burn quick and destructive. She believes that fire is not always “a super scary thing.”
“It can be used to our benefit,” Davis said. “I hope [this association] can grow more, because I think it’s cool to see how fire improves the landscape and I hope I can go back out there and see what changes it makes.”
MacKendrick hopes for the same, but she has more work to do. It’s why she watches so attentively during the burns.
“It’s important to show up and to try and to learn,” MacKendrick said.
To burn again
A lot of paperwork goes on behind the scenes to make a prescribed fire safe for those carrying it out and for the people who live around it.
Tiffany Perez, a restoration and fire project manager with the Long Tom Watershed Council, and MacKendrick, who used to work with the council, helped coordinate the Oct. 16 burn — preparing a burn plan, obtaining permits from the Lane Regional Air Protection Agency and the city of Eugene, and notifying Lane Fire Authority, including the fire chief, ahead of time.
Less than 1% of prescribed burns escape each year, according to the U.S. Forest Service.
Those numbers reinforce Perez’s belief that with the right preparation, trust and community support, prescribed fire remains a viable tool — just as it was for Indigenous people thousands of years ago — and can become more accessible while still protecting the landscape and nearby communities.
“The spirit of the prescribed burn association is that we pretty much are hopefully reminding and inspiring people to remember that fire is everybody’s,” she said. “[It] doesn’t belong to people that are qualified or agencies or organizations, and it doesn’t need to be a barrier.”
This story has been updated to correct that Katie MacKendrick formerly worked with the Long Tom Watershed Council.
