A LEGACY LOST
A rancher’s unforgettable account of the fire’s devastating impact on his family, his cattle and the forests
It was a typical spring cattle drive (left) when the Daley herd began moving into the family’s cattle range in Plumas National Forest. Months later, only a few survivors made it out after the horrific North Complex West Zone Fire. For a rancher’s unforgettable account of the fire’s impact on his family, the cattle and the mountains, please
Editor’s note: Lifelong rancher Dave Daley posted the following story on his Facebook page several days ago explaining the impact of the North Complex Fire onhis family, his cattle and the mountains he has always considered a part of his family’s legacy. Several readers sent it to us saying “This needs to be in the newspaper.” We agree.
It is almostmidnight. We have been pushing hard for 18-20 hours every day since the Bear Fire ( later called the North Complex West Zone Fire) tore through our mountain cattle range on September 8. There is so much swirling inmy head I can’t sleep anyway.
The fire destroyed our cattle range, our cattle, and even worse our family’s legacy. Someone asked my daughter if I had lost our family home. She told them “No, thatwould be replaceable. This is not!” I would gladly sleep inmy truck for the rest of my life to have our mountains back.
I am enveloped by overwhelming sadness and grief and then, anger. I’m angry at everyone, and no one. Grieving for things lost that will never be the same. I wake myself weeping almost soundlessly. It is hard to stop.
I cry for the forest, the trees and streams, and the horrible deaths suffered by the wildlife and our cattle. The suffering was unimaginable.
When you find groups of cows and their baby calves tumbled in a ravine trying to escape, burned almost beyond recognition or a fawn and small calf side by side as if hoping to protect one another, you try not to wretch. You only pray death was swift. Worse, in searing memory, cows with their hooves, udder and even legs burned off still alive who had to be euthanized. A doe lying in the ashes with three fawns, not all hers I bet. And you are glad they can stand and move, even with a limp, because you really cannot imagine any more death today. Euthanasia is not pleasant, but sometimes it’s the only option. You don’t want more suffering. How many horrible choices have faced us in the past three days?
Our history with the forest
We have taken cattle to the Plumas National Forest since before it was designated such. It is steep and vast land of predominantly mixed conifers and a few stringer meadows on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains straddling Butte and Plumas Counties. My great, great grandfather started moving cattle to the high country sometime after he arrived in 1852 to the Oroville area looking for gold.
The earliest family diary entry noting driving cattle to our range in the mountains dates back to 1882. We were poor Irish immigrants trying to scratch a living from the land.
The range is between the south and middle forks of the Feather River, the drainage that fills Lake Oroville. It is 80-inch rainfall country from October to May with deep snow at the high end then, it goes completely dry.
Threemajor streams/rivers and hundreds of creeks and springs punctuate the land. It is difficult country, in some ways more suited to sheep because of the browse, but politics and predators killed the sheep industry in the country years ago. But the cows love the range and do well. Cool days and nights, no flies, higher elevations avoiding the hot summers in the valleys. A great place to summer cattle. They actually like to go asmuch as we do!
My friends from the arid west can’t understand why it is hard to gather — “don’t you just go to the water?” Not that simple in this en
vironment. For those who have never seen this land, this isn’t riding a horse into a meadow or open ridge where you can see cattle. This is literally “hunting” through a vast forest of deep canyons, rivers and creeks, and the high ridges in between. It is not an easy place to gather or even find cattle in the best conditions.
There are six generations who have loved this land, andmynewgranddaughter, Juni, is the seventh. I find myself overcome with emotion as I think of the things she will never see, but only hear in stories told to her by “grandad.” We all love the mountains. They are part of us and we are part of them. All destroyed. In one day. I am angry.
As a child in the early 1960s, days “going to the mountains” were the greatest ever for my family. It was our playground and our quiet spot. Sure, we worked, but we learned so much about the world, the trees, birds and f lowers. And, sometimes, inmy family that may have included learning the scientific name or at least the family of the plant. There were lessons on botany, forestry, geology, archaeology. We didn’t even know we were learning but we imbibed it until it became a part of our souls.
And then my kids. For them, the mountains were the best! Rolling into a little seat behind grandma and grandpa to “go hunt for cows” as we gathered in the fall. Hot chocolate from Grandma as soon as we got there. On cold, dusty or wet days, it was sometimes discouraging, but they loved it and still do. It was their sanctuary where “no matter what happens, this will always be here.” And now it is gone. It is a death and we are still in shock and not sure how to move forward. What will my granddaughter know of the truth and grounding that comes from nature? Willwe gather cows in the mountains while I sing cowboy tunes off key and she sips hot chocolate? I am overcome.
The first day
When news broke of the fire in our cattle range, my son Kyle, who ranches with me, and I were sure it could not be as bad as it sounded.
We had close to 400 cows, most of them calving or close to calving in our mountain range, ready to gather and bring home in early October. They were the heart of the herd. Old cows, those with problems, bought cows and first calf heifers stayed in the valley. Only the good cows that knew the land were there.
That first day, we had no access and were relying on spotty reporting posted to local news or socialmedia. My daughter Kate, a veterinarian, who practices about fourhours away, “I’mon the way.” My youngest son, Rob (named for his grandad) a soldier stationed in Louisiana, “I have a lot of leave and I’m on a plane tomorrow.” All three have been
unbelievable and we have all needed each other to navigate this heartbreak.
At first, we couldn’t get into the range and were frantic as it was completely locked down for safety. We knew cattle were dying as we waited. I received a call from a Pennsylvania number and answered before thinking. A wonderfully nice man from the Forest Service was calling to tell me about the fire since I had a cattle allotment in the Bear Fire ( North Complex Fire) area. I had to help him find it on themap! He knew less than me. Frustrating.
Later I got a call from San Bernardino, another fire resource officer from the Forest Service. I asked about access. “Well,” he said, “maybe next week and only if we provide an escort. We have to make it safe first.” He, too, had no idea where the allotment was or the challenge that I faced. All the cattle would be dead if I waited a week. I politely told him I would figure out an alternative — through private timberland and common sense!
I called our county sheriff, Kory Honea, who has been a great friend of the cattle community. I had to wait one day, but he provided two sergeants to navigate the roadblocks until I was in the range. Was it dangerous? Yes. Were animals dying? Absolutely. Local solutions are always better. Thanks to Sheriff Honea, Sergeants Tavelli and Caulkins who got us access. All incredible people who get it. Local.
Kyle and I make a fast trip to reconnoiter. We are unprepared for the total destruction of everything we have always known. Nothing left and active flames on both sides burning trees and stumps. Shocking. Surreal.
We make it to our Fall River corral somewhat hopeful that there would be green andwater tomitigate the disaster. Everything is completely gone. We see dead cows as we start down the hill. Everywhere. This is
our first step inwhat will be an impossible week. We go home hoping against hope thatwe have seen theworst. Little did we realize that it was just the beginning.
‘There is no sound … just death’
It is 3:30 in the morning now and time to start this nightmare again. To find the courage to throw some things in the truck, run with the kids to check and feed the survivors, and hit repeat. I dread it but know we must. And I work to be optimistic because that is who I am. Not easy.
As we make a plan and split up to run 4-wheelers up and down logging roads hunting life and death, I think how lucky I am. So many people have offered to help. I am grateful but it is difficult to explain how challenging it is to gather in almost 90,000 acres of incredibly difficult terrain (and that’s on a flat map!). Each canyon and ridge is dotted with logging spur roads that could be choked with down and burning trees. Much of it is unrecognizable, even tome. Only those with deep, local knowledge of these mountains can help.
Fortunately, my family, “The Carter boys” (Devin and Doyle), Brian Jones— all friends of my kids—and now friends of mine, plus my best friend Sean Earley all stepped up. They know the mountains well and have helped us for years. They just showed up and said, “We’re here. We’re going. What can we do?” So, we strap chainsaws and some alfalfa on 4-wheelers and set out hoping against hope to find something alive.
We split up. My crew takes the Lava Top and Ross Creek drainage, while the other half goes towards Twin Bridges and Fall River. It is eerie, and as Rob said, “There is no sound in the Forest, just death.”
When we traditionally gatheredcows, theywere always toward the ridge top
in the morning and down by water in the afternoon. Now, we find nothing high up, except the occasional dead cow that wasn’t fast enough. We hunt for the deep holes where there was a chance for water and life.
You learn as you ride through the apocalyptic murk. Rob’s head goes up and I catch the scent at the same time. The scent of death and charred flesh mingled with the acrid smoke that burns your eyes. You begin looking in the draws hoping it is not cattle. It always is. Eight cows and three baby calves in a pile at the bottom of a ravine, rushing in terror to escape. A sight youwon’t soon forget.
But today, whenwemeet up, Kyle and Kate had great news. They found 16 head at our Twin Bridges corral! The largest group to date. I had baited it with alfalfa last night and there were cattle standing in the little corral of temporary panels. Remarkable.
Two of them are heifers that I gave Kyle and Jordan (my daughter in-law and Juni’smom) for their wedding. Kyle branded themwithmy dad’s original brand just to keep them straight. Someone in our crew said dad gathered them for us so we wouldn’t miss them. Maybe he did. My Dad was a cow whisperer who has been gone over four years after roaming the mountains for almost 90. Maybe he is still helping lead us and the cattle home. I turn away as I feel emotion begin to rise. Again.
For some reason, I am more emotional when I find the live cattle than those that died. I don’t knowwhy. Maybe thinking of what they went through and I wasn’t there to help? And, more frightening, death has becomemore expected than life.
Dread & anger
I completely dreadtaking my mom to see this tragedy. She will be 90 in less than a month; still loves the mountains and gathering cows. She is tough but this could break anyone. She worked these mountains with my Dad from 1948 when she was 18, he was 21, and they had just married. She told me in later years she had always loved the outdoors but really was “sort of afraid of cows” since she had not ever been around them. She never told Dad and learned to be one of the best trackers and gatherers the mountains have ever seen, knowing every plant, tree and road.
You can learnmore from old people. They may not use PowerPoint or Zoom. They may not be elegant in politics, but they have life experience. We are quickly losing that vital perspective from the land before we have allowed them to teach us. Far more valuable than a visiting scholar or great consultant is local knowledge and observation. I wish we would listen.
I am again angry at everyone and at no one. Why did this happen? I am absolutely tired of politicians and politics, from both the left and the right.
Shut up. You use tragedies to fuel agendas and raise money to feed egos. I am sick of it. And it plays out on social media and cable news with distorted and half-truths. One both sides!
Burned by politics
Washington, DC is 3,000 miles away and filled with lobbyists, consultants and regulators who wouldn’t know a sugar pine from a fir. Sacramento is 100miles south and feels even more distant than DC.
To the regulators who write the Code of Federal Regulations, the policies and procedures and then debate the placement of a comma, you mean well, I know. And I am sure you are good people. But you are useless when it comes to doing things to help the land. And the “non-profits” (yea, right), lawyers and academics, this is all too often a game for you to successfully navigate your own institution. “How do I get a grant to study something that if I looked closely, generations before already knew?” Nothing happens on the ground to make change. I do understand that most folks truly care and start with the best intentions.
For those of you on the right blaming the left and California, these are National Forest lands that are “managed” by the feds. They have failed miserably over the past 50 years. Smokey the Bear was the cruelest joke ever played on the western landscape, a decades long campaign to prevent forest fires has resulted in mega-fires of a scope we’ve never seen. Thanks, Smokey.
The US Forest Service is constantly threatened with litigation from extremists who don’t want anyone to “use” the forest. It is to be “preserved.” Great job in helping to get us where we are. I feel bad for Forest Service personnel. Most of them are great people who work there because they love the land like I do. But they are chained to desks to write reports and follow edicts handed down from those who don’t know. One size fits all regulations are not a solution in diverse ecosystems. The Forest Service budget is consumed by fire suppression and litigation. What funds are left to actually work on the land?
For those of you on the left blaming it all on climate change, the regulations at the state and federal level have crippled—no, stopped—any progress toward changing the unmitigated disasters facing our landscapes. I wonder how many of you have walked the canyons or ridges or seen thewildlife and beauty at a secret stream?
Politicians stage drive by photo- ops to raise money. None of us really like you. We’re just forced to deal with you. Of course, there are many exceptions and you know who you are. I hate to visit an office to discuss issues when the legislator is farmore interested in talking than listening. It seems that nobody can be a centrist, make sense and win.
There is plenty of blame to go around on both sides of the aisle.
And justmaybe it’s both— horrible forestmanagement and climate change. Don’t you think months of massive smoke covering the West may impact the climate, especially added to our other pollutants? Does it matter which came first? Why not invest in solutions rather than using sound bites to gin up the base? And locally, we know the solutions. And those investments should be locally conceived and locally driven.
‘Last man out’
I grewup hearing the stories from my dad and grandad of the “last man out” lighting the forest floor to burn the low undergrowth. Their generations knew to