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Where Fire Back Means Land Back
Why you can trust us
On his tribe鈥檚 land, enveloped by the state of Oregon, Jesse Jackson stood at the threshold between two ecosystems: On one side of him, an open canopy bathed grasses and white oak trees in sunlight; on the other, a thick cover of evergreen trees darkened the landscape.
A forget-me-not wildflower bloomed in the clearing. This is where the Cow Creek Band of Umpqua Tribe of Indians have been restoring their oak savanna meadows, after decades of fire suppression and the removal of large, fire-adapted trees under federal management.
In addition to land they bought from private owners, in 2018, the Tribe received 17,519 acres of land from the U.S. government for the Tribe to manage under its own authority. This came as part of the ; this bipartisan legislation in trust in order to return the restoration of these lands鈥攁nd the related economic activity and job development they created鈥攖o the Cow Creek Umpqua and the Confederated Tribes of Coos, Lower Umpqua, and Siuslaw Indians.
The Cow Creek Umpqua government hired foresters to study the landscape, which was dotted with decades-old Douglas fir stumps from clearcuts. They discovered that before the area had been overtaken by conifers, it was historically an oak savanna meadow, a pocket in the Willamette Valley that stretches the length of the Cascade Mountains and the Oregon Coast Range. This finding matched Tribal elders鈥� stories about a time when game was abundant, and grasses thrived as the tribe practiced cultural burning.
鈥淲e are not living the way that we want to live,鈥� says Jackson, Cow Creek Umpqua member and education coordinator for the tribe. His ancestors, the Nah谩nk拾uotana, moved seasonally between homes in the foothills and in the valley. When leaving their summer camps in the foothills of the Cascades, or Umpqua mountains, they would burn the land before moving down to their winter camps at lower elevations. They did the same when coming back up as the weather warmed. The Nah谩nk拾uotana would return to each place to find healthy soils enriched by the charcoal left from the fire, which came from burned wood and plant debris that acted as a natural fertilizer.
鈥淲e are a burn culture,鈥� Jackson says. 鈥淲e would say that we burned here since time immemorial. Anthropologists or archaeologists would say that we burned here 20,000 to 40,000 years.鈥� In any case, Jackson says, the feds have 鈥渕essed up鈥� that legacy in the past 200 years by not continuing these age-old land practices.
The U.S. Forest Service鈥檚 fire suppression policies began in the early 1900s and to the tribe鈥檚 current struggle with wildfires that burn larger, hotter, and out of control. To reduce this risk鈥攖o both the Tribe and the nearby city of Roseburg, Oregon鈥攁nd to revitalize their cultural resources, Cow Creek Umpqua is blending Western science with traditional ecological knowledge to manage the landscape and safely reintroduce fire. Despite the challenges posed by climate change in finding suitable conditions for burning, outcomes from the managed areas so far are promising.
But to bring fire back, they first needed their land back.
The Knowledge to Thrive
Despite the historic theft of the Tribe鈥檚 land, many members, like Jackson鈥檚 ancestors, never left.
When the Treaty of 1853 was signed, the Cow Creek Umpqua viewed it as a government-to-government agreement between two sovereign nations. In exchange for land 鈥渙wnership,鈥� the U.S. government would provide the Tribe with health care, housing, and education. However, the U.S. government didn鈥檛 follow through on its promises. Rather, it claimed more than 500,000 acres of Cow Creek Umpqua鈥檚 land, and while the agreement was to pay the Tribe just $0.02 per acre鈥攁 fraction of the $1.25 per acre the government charged settlers who quickly moved in鈥� they never received even this low sum.
Many people of Cow Creek Umpqua resisted the U.S. government鈥檚 efforts to relocate them to reservations, and instead lived in seclusion. They held onto their culture and continued to hold council meetings as they had for countless generations.
In 1954, the Cow Creek Umpqua pursued justice with the U.S. government. After being forcibly terminated under the , the Tribe filed a land claims case, resulting in its recognition as a sovereign tribal government and a $1.5 million settlement in the 1980s.
In the following decades, the Tribe started buying its land back. In 2018, the Bureau of Land Management returned around 3% of the Cow Creek Umpqua鈥檚 ancestral lands under the Western Oregon Tribal Fairness Act. It was returned in trust, meaning the federal government holds legal title, but the beneficial interest remains with the Tribe. Elected leaders who supported the passage of the law called it an in righting the injustices toward Indigenous peoples.
Then, in 2019, a wildfire came through.
The Milepost 97 wildfire destroyed nearly a fourth of what was returned to the tribe: 3,634 of their 17,519 acres. The fire raged when it reached the burn scar of the 1987 Canyon Mountain wildfire. Years鈥� worth accumulated snags and thick brush prevented firefighters from quickly accessing the area and added dangerous fuel to the flames.
鈥淲hen I first went up there, it was like an atomic bomb had gone off,鈥� Cow Creek Umpqua Chairman Carla Keene this year. 鈥淭he trees were gone. It was just black, and it was just the most depressing sight I鈥檇 ever seen.鈥�
The Cow Creek Umpqua Tribal Board of Directors resolved to restore the forest, initiating efforts to salvage and repurpose the charred logs. Today, that lumber is showcased in the construction of the Portland International Airport and the Tribe鈥檚 remodeled government office. These structures display the tribe鈥檚 principle that forests and people are meant to have a hands-on connection.
鈥淔or people that have not had their voices heard at many tables for a long time, our [Tribal] voice is starting to be heard and starting to be cherished,鈥� Jackson says. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e starting to see Western scientific knowledge and traditional ecological knowledge start to do this, like they should.鈥�
After the fire, the Tribe hired Wade Christensen, an enrolled member of Choctaw Nation, as a forester. He was trained in silviculture鈥攁 practice focused on managing forest health and growth to meet specific land management objectives, such as ecosystem restoration through thinning and burning. He creates detailed maps and work plans focused on cultivating the oak savanna and reducing the conifer monocultures that had been introduced for timber.
To make this happen, Christensen coordinates closely with the Forest Service and neighboring landowners for prescribed burns. Foresters like Christensen refer to it as a 鈥減rescription鈥� because, much like a doctor treating a sick patient, they are writing a plan to restore the land to health.
Early in his time working for the Tribe, Christensen was following a prescription on land the Tribe had purchased from a timber company. As he began marking trees for removal, he quickly realized the plan didn鈥檛 account for the meadow ecoregion. Within it were Oregon white oak trees, a species with thick bark that can survive fire. Moving forward, he knew he had to adapt. He worked to gain a deeper understanding of the landscape, not only to reduce wildfire risk, but also to promote cultural resources like berries, native grasses, and 鈥媘edicinal plants that flourish in recently burned soil and under an open canopy.
鈥淚鈥檝e got this understanding of the benefits of burning in the forest, and I鈥檓 all in on prescribed burning,鈥� says Christensen, who has a degree from Oregon State University in sustainable forest management, 鈥渁nd I work for a Tribe, so I鈥檓 learning why it is important to the Tribe.鈥澛�
That learning is ongoing. Christensen recalls hearing a speaker at a conference say that he knows to light the trees when the acorns drop: 鈥淚 was like, I am not at that man鈥檚 level.鈥�
Christensen was listening to Frank Lake, a Karuk Tribal descendant and leading research ecologist with the Forest Service鈥檚 Southwest Station, who explores social-ecological frameworks to understand the impact of colonization鈥攍ike fire suppression policies鈥�. Lake鈥檚 research underscores that between federal agencies and tribal nations is essential, something Christensen understands well.
鈥淵ou really got to dig deep with these guys and spend a lot of time with them,鈥� Christensen says. 鈥淚鈥檓 using [fire] for fuels reduction, and hopefully I do things right, and we have other benefits. I am trying to get to where I understand where we can apply it to help a plant that we gather off of, but that takes time, and that takes a lot of conversation.鈥�
Healing Cultures and Landscapes
In an era of climate change, government agencies across the U.S. are increasingly recognizing the need to actively apply traditional ecological knowledge to mainstream land management practices鈥攂alancing these institutions鈥� often short-term, extractive values with an intergenerational perspective.
To mobilize, the National Science Foundation to launch its Center for Braiding Indigenous Knowledge and Sciences last year. The center has set up hubs from the Pacific Islands to the Northeastern United States.
Leaders in the Land Back Movement have relied on a limited set of policy tools. For example, the Department of the Interior for the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, a similar trust structure that returned land management to Cow Creek Umpqua. There鈥檚 also co-management agreements鈥攍ike Forest Service with tribes in the Midwest and Western states鈥攁nd conservation easements鈥攍ike the one Oakland used to in the hands of the Ohlone people.
Critics argue that while these actions may return land to tribes, they often do so under federal, state, and municipal terms that in managing their lands.
That鈥檚 where purchasing lands outright comes in鈥攁 strategy the Penobscot Nation used in 2022 when nearly 30,000 acres of private forest lands went up for sale in Maine. The Nation worked with Trust for Public Land, . Trust for Public Land, a nonprofit organization focused on expanding outdoor access, has collaborated with more than 70 tribes and Indigenous groups to help them acquire and preserve their homelands and culturally significant sites. The organization tries to facilitate a tribe or nation鈥檚 right to self-governance. To do so, it has adopted internal policies that don鈥檛 require legal agreements that limit land use to conservation.
鈥淲hen you impose restrictions or conservation easements or those types of things on the property, then you鈥檙e really not supporting the tribal sovereignty,鈥� says Ken Lucero, director of tribal and indigenous lands at Trust for Public Land. Lucero is a member of the Pueblo of Zia, who historically practiced dry farming and waffle gardening, which harnesses the little bit of rain that falls in the Southwest desert.
鈥淏y having Indigenous knowledge and land back be at the center of the new definition of conservation, then we have a lot of good things that can come of that,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f we can put land back, land return, and Indigenous knowledge at the center of conservation 鈥� we really can support a global solution to climate warming.鈥�
Indigenous peoples are considered by dangerous weather brought on by climate change, though they have contributed the least to the greenhouse gas emissions driving it, according to the United Nations Department of Economic and Social Affairs. Public health researchers stress that climate justice, as exemplified by the Land Back movement, requires addressing the harms of settler-colonialism past and present.
鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of healing that has to happen,鈥� Jackson says. 鈥淚鈥檓 one of the few that was never ripped off these lands. That鈥檚 why I live here, and why it鈥檚 very special to me.鈥�
In May, Jackson visited an 800-year-old Douglas fir called the Grandmother Tree for the first time since the U.S. government gave the Cow Creek Umpqua back some of their land. The tree is a few miles away from where Christensen and the Tribe鈥檚 forestry team have been restoring the meadows.
So far, finding a time to burn has been tough. Challenges like climate variability from season to season limit how much they can burn each year. But near the grandmother tree that day, there was a glimpse of what鈥檚 to come.
Jackson turned to a patch of wild strawberries and pulled out a leafy green that smelled like a mix of eucalyptus and mint. The plant in his hands is native to the Pacific Northwest and commonly known by its Spanish name, yerba buena, which means 鈥済ood herb.鈥� Jackson, whose grandmother Dolla was one of the last medicine women and healers in the Tribe, called it a perfect example of a medicinal plant that returns with fire, growing abundantly in sunlight.
As Jackson鈥檚 traditional ecological knowledge tells him, this is the kind of growth the landscape will see again as the Cow Creek Umpqua manage fire for open and clear savannas, benefiting the land and people there for generations to come.
This story was produced in collaboration with . Reporting for this story was made possible with a fellowship from the nonprofit Institute for Journalism and Natural Resources.
CORRECTION: This article was updated at 11:24a.m. PT on Sept. 24, 2024, to clarify that Christensen attended Oregon State University, not University of Oregon. Read our corrections policy here.
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Ashli Blow
is an independent journalist and researcher specializing in environmental science, policy, and justice. Her work focuses on solutions-oriented journalism and projects, particularly in the areas of climate adaptation, pollution abatement, and wildland fire management. She is a member of the Society of Environmental Journalists, and she speaks English and is learning Spanish.
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