Background
Like many, I used to see wildfires only as something destructive: charred trees, barren land, and a stark reminder of loss. The aftermath felt ugly, a scar on the landscape, and I struggled to find beauty in it.
Beauty in the Burn
A Shift in Perspective
But perspectives can change, given the right light. The Alder Creek Fire of 2021 reshaped mine. In early June 2022, I planned to visit a lake within the burn zone. It was my first time witnessing a fire’s immediate aftermath. It was a rainy day, so the view was seen through a minimalist lens of a foggy, black, white, and red landscape. The rain and mist softened my perspective, limiting my focus to observing closer details. At first, the destruction was striking, but as I looked closer, I noticed the details were unusually beautiful. Silver-gold branches glinted in the soft diffused light, charred trees displayed speckled patterns, black ash and mica shimmered on the forest floor, and the faint beginnings of new vegetation along the waterways. Over time, the landscape revealed an unexpected beauty in texture, light, and regrowth.
Part of A Larger Process
I returned about a month later, this time for the much-anticipated morel foraging. The landscape was as striking as the first visit, and I realized I needed to share this view with others. This realization became the foundation of Beauty in the Burn: there is profound beauty in the cycles of transformation. Though I had initially only felt anger and sorrow toward wildfire, I came to understand it as part of a larger process of renewal, even as the frustration returns each fire season. Through Beauty in the Burn, I hope to share what I’ve discovered in fire’s aftermath. Although it begins with destruction, fire is part of a cycle I’m still learning to understand.
Spring 2022
The first visit was spent observing the contrast in color and light. The burnt bark pattern in the trees reminded me of freckles. Some branches had a gold metallic appearance, reflecting the soft, diffused light.
Winter 2023
The contrast we saw in spring inspired a revisit in winter when the landscape is mostly black and white due to winter conditions. The variety of colors between light dispersion, bright yellow light hitting the burn areas, and blue shadowy light cast a surreal experience.
Spring 2023, Early May
This second spring, more evidence of new growth is seen compared to the first. The combination of seeing the entwined charred roots with new growth sprouting around them tells its own tale of resilience. I was still captivated by the burnt texture and speckled patterns.
Spring 2023, Late May
Later that spring, I returned to find an abundance of arnica and lupine starting to return. The arnica blossomed first and covered the floor in bright yellow. Ash was still on the arnica flowers left from bursting through the charred remains.
Summer 2024
Fireweed is one of the first plants to return after wildfire. Fireweed is a pioneer species that prepares the ground for what follows. By summer 2024, it had taken over the burn in force.
May 2025
Two burns in one frame: Alder Creek (2021) in the distance, Sawlog Fire (2025) in the foreground. Different years, same hillside. Layers of time visible in one view.
June 2025
I first noticed lupine in spring of 2023 (second spring post burn). I’m not sure if it would already have been there the first spring, but I wanted to make sure I documented it.
Autumn 2025
The plan was to revisit when the fireweed had gone to seed. I wasn’t able to make it until just shortly after, however, my eyes were opened once again at the beauty of this renewal process.
