One of these is the Miramichi fire of 1825. It began its greatest destruction about one o'clock in the afternoon of October 7th of that year, at a place about sixty miles above the town of Newcastle, on the Miramichi River, in New Brunswick. Before ten o'clock at night it was twenty miles below New Castle. In nine hours it had destroyed a belt of forest eighty miles long and twenty-five miles wide. Over more than two and a half million acres almost every living thing was killed. Even the fish were afterwards found dead in heaps on the river banks. Many buildings and towns were destroyed, one hundred and sixty persons perished, and nearly a thousand head of stock. The loss from the Miramichi fire is estimated at $300,000, not including the value of the timber. (Pinchot, Part 1. p. 79-80.)
Of such calamities, one of the worst that is on record is that known as the Peshtigo fire, which, in 1871, during the same month, October, when Chicago was laid in ashes, devastated the country about the shores of Green Bay in Wisconsin. More than $3,000,000 worth of property was burnt, at least two thousand families of settlers were made homeless, villages were destroyed and over a thousand lives lost. (Bruncken, p. 110.)
The most destructive fire of more recent years was that which started near Hinckley, Minn., September 1, 1894. While the area burned over was less than in some other great fires, the loss of life and property was very heavy. Hinckley and six other towns were destroyed, about 500 lives were lost, more than 2,000 persons were left destitute, and the estimated loss in property of various kinds was $25,000,000. Except for the heroic conduct of locomotive engineers and other railroad men, the loss of life would have been far greater.
This fire was all the more deplorable, because it was wholly unnecessary. For many days before the high wind came and drove it into uncontrollable fury, it was burning slowly close to the town of Hinckley and could have been put out. (Pinchot, Part I, 82-83.)
One of the most remarkable features of these "crown fires," is the rapidity with which they travel. The Miramichi fire traveled nine miles an hour.
To get an idea of the fury of a forest fire, read this description from Bruncken. After describing the steady, slow progress of a duff fire, he proceeds:
But there comes an evening when nobody thinks of going to bed. All day the smoke has become denser and denser, until it is no longer a haze, but a thick yellowish mass of vapor, carrying large particles of sooty cinders, filling one's eyes and nostrils with biting dust, making breathing oppressive. There is no escape from it. Closing windows and doors does not bar it out of the houses; it seems as if it could penetrate solid walls. Everything it touches feels rough, as if covered with fine ashes. The heat is horrible altho no ray of sunshine penetrates the heavy pall of smoke.
In the distance a rumbling, rushing sound is heard. It is the fire roaring in the tree tops on the hill sides, several miles from town. This is no longer a number of small fires, slowly smouldering away to eat up a fallen log; nor little dancing flames running along the dry litter on the ground, trying to creep up the bark of a tree, where the lichens are thick and dry, but presently falling back exhausted. The wind has risen, fanning the flames on all sides, till they leap higher and higher, reaching the lower branches of the standing timber, enveloping the mighty boles of cork pine in a sheet of flame, seizing the tall poles of young trees and converting them into blazing beacons that herald the approach of destruction. Fiercer and fiercer blows the wind, generated by the fire itself as it sends currents of heated air rushing upward into infinity. Louder and louder the cracking of the branches as the flames seize one after the other, leaping from crown to crown, rising high above the tree tops in whirling wreaths of fire, and belching forth clouds of smoke hundreds of feet still higher. As the heated air rises more and more, rushing along with a sound like that of a thousand foaming mountain torrents, burning brands are carried along, whirling on across the firmament like evil spirits of destruction, bearing the fire miles away from its origin, then falling among the dry brush heaps of windfall or slashing, and starting another fire to burn as fiercely as the first. * * *
There is something horrible in the slow, steady approach of a top fire. It comes on with the pitiless determination of unavoidable destiny, not faster than a man can walk. But there is no stopping it. You cannot fight a fire that seizes tree top after tree top, far above your reach, and showers down upon the pigmy mortals that attempt to oppose it an avalanch of burning branches, driving them away to escape the torture and death that threatens them. (Bruncken, American Forests and Forestry, 106-109.)
Fig. 108. Fighting Forest Fire. U. S. Forest Service.
Real forest fires are not usually put out; men only try to limit them. A common method of limitation is to cut trenches thru the duff so that the fire cannot pass across, Fig. 108. In serious cases back fires are built on the side of the paths or roads or trenches toward the fire, in the expectation that the two fires will meet. In such cases great care has to be taken that the back fire itself does not escape. Small fires, however, can sometimes be beaten out or smothered with dirt and sand, since water is usually unavailable.
Fig. 109. Fire Lane. Worcester Co., Mass. U. S. Forest Service.
But "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." One of the best of these preventions is a system of fire lanes. Even narrow paths of dirt will stop an ordinary fire. Roads, of course, are still better. Systems of fire lanes, Fig. 109, are made great use of in Europe and British India. Belts of hardwood trees are also cultivated along railways, and to break up large bodies of conifers.