Available

 The Musical Stone — 18 July 2026

 There was a word for it, and the word was available.

It meant your red card was current, your pack test was passed, your quals were signed off, and when the call came your regular job stopped being your job. It did not mean you worked for fire. Most of us didn't. It meant that when the system reached a certain pitch, the question of what you did for a living was suspended, and the only question left was whether you could roll.

This morning the National Interagency Fire Center moved the country to Preparedness Level 5. Seventy-three uncontained large fires. Twenty-three complex incident management teams committed. Seventeen thousand six hundred and eighty-three people assigned. Standard operating procedure at that level is to make all Forest Service staff available.

Missoula, 2003. Crews and gear coming off a charter, a rented school bus out of Plains, and the smoke thick enough to swallow the far end of the field. Photograph by the author.

I want to say plainly what that sentence used to mean, because I am not certain it still means it, and the difference is the whole story.

The Forest Service's fire capacity was never the fire organization. That is the thing the public never understood and the thing the agency itself sometimes forgot in the quiet years. The engines and the hotshot crews and the helitack were the skeleton. The muscle was everybody else.

Go down the roster of any Type 1 or Type 2 team from the years when the system worked and count the permanent fire positions. There are not many. The Situation Unit Leader is a hydrologist. The Resource Unit Leader runs timber sales in October. The GIS Specialist spends the other ten months building layers for a forest plan revision. The Resource Advisor is the district archaeologist, and she is on that fire because she is the only person within two hundred miles who knows where the sites are and can tell a dozer boss, at two in the morning, not there. Finance is a budget officer. Plans is whoever can still think at hour sixteen.

That was the militia. It was not an auxiliary. It was the organization.

I was in it for most of a working life. Not as a fire officer — I never was one. I started as a forester at San Carlos, with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, burning under prescription and supporting wildfire. I moved into GIS with the Park Service in the early nineties. I finished as a GIS coordinator with the Forest Service. And whatever the job title said along the way, I worked fire data every year of my geospatial career.

That is worth saying plainly, because it cuts against the tidy version of the militia story. Fire was not the thing that interrupted my work. Fire was in my work the whole time — in the fuels layers and the perimeter files and the burn units, in the ten-year fire history somebody wanted mapped for a NEPA document. It was in the burn plans and the wildfire monitoring protocols. And in the early years it was in the GISS standards and templates, back when they still went by GSTOP.

I want to be careful here, because there is a romantic version of this that is simply false. Those standards were never folk knowledge passed hand to hand between old-timers. They are owned. The National Wildfire Coordinating Group holds them — GSTOP then, PMS 936 now, the Standards for Geospatial Operations, maintained by a geospatial subcommittee with a charter, a steward, and a revision cycle. There is an office. It has a name and a publication number.

What there is not, and never was, is a workforce. NWCG's own membership rules state the exposure in plain language: members are appointed through agency command channels with full understanding of the collateral duty nature of the work and its potential workload impacts. Each member agency decides for itself what it can spare. Usually one primary member per committee.

So the standards that let a GISS step off a plane in a state he has never worked and be useful before lunch — the symbology, the file naming, the map product specifications, the directory structure that means the incoming shift can find what the outgoing shift built — are maintained by people doing it on top of their actual jobs, contributed by agencies that decide each year whether they can still afford to contribute them.

That arrangement holds beautifully right up until the agencies get thin. Nobody votes to abolish a standard. The seats simply get harder to fill, and the people who fill them arrive with less behind them, and the revision cycle slips, and one day the document that made a stranger useful on arrival is four years out of date and nobody can say quite when that happened.

I will note, without drawing a conclusion I cannot support, that NWCG archived its Geospatial Subcommittee on the first of July this year, its work to be folded into a new committee structure. Seventeen days before the country went to Preparedness Level 5.

What the dispatch interrupted was only the part of the job that could wait. The phone would go, and then you were on a team somewhere you'd never been, working for people whose names you learned at the morning briefing, doing in one night what would take a month at the district. I went out both ways, as a firefighter and as a GISS. Same man, same red card, whichever the order called for.

And that is the part that gets missed when people talk about the militia as though it were a pool of willing amateurs. It was not. It was people who had been standing next to the fire program their entire careers, close enough to be fluent in it, and who could therefore be useful the day they stepped off the plane.

It was also, and this matters more, people who had qualified. Nobody wandered onto an incident because they were available and willing. You went through the hoops. That meant a task book, and a trainee assignment, and a qualified evaluator prepared to sign that he had watched you do the work, and then another assignment, and currency requirements after that or the card went cold in your wallet. The training was extensive, it was not optional, and it was the same system the career fire people went through. A hydrologist carrying a Situation Unit Leader card had walked an identical path to anyone else carrying that card. That is precisely what made the arrangement work — the red card meant the same thing regardless of whose payroll you were on. Interoperability was not a slogan. It was a qualification system that a stranger's signature could be trusted inside of.

Which is where the arithmetic turns against us, and I want to be plain about it, because it is the part nobody says out loud.

Trainees are produced by assignments. You cannot qualify in an office. Somebody has to take you out, carry you while you are still slow, and sign the book at the end. That costs the team something on every single incident, because a trainee is by definition not yet the person you needed. In a hard year, when every team is short and every order is urgent, the trainee slot is the first thing to go. Cutting it is always defensible. It is defensible this morning, on seventy-three uncontained large fires with twenty-three teams committed.

So the seasons that most demand a deep bench are exactly the seasons in which the bench stops being built. Run that for a few years, add a reorganization and a workforce reduction on top, and you do not get a collapse anybody can photograph. You get a slow one, arriving five and ten years out as positions nobody can fill — and no single decision anywhere along the way that you could point to and call the mistake.

That is the part that does not appear in a staffing table. The capacity was never a number in a resource database. It was a few thousand people scattered across specialties who had made the same private arrangement with the agency — that when it got bad enough, what they did for a living stopped, and something older took over.

A Montana fire camp at last light, 2003. Every tent is somebody whose regular job stopped. Photograph by the author.

Both of those photographs are from 2003, which was also a Preparedness Level 5 year. That summer the Northern Rockies burned better than six hundred thousand acres in Montana alone, and at the peak of it there were something like fourteen thousand people working fires in this one geographic area.

Fourteen thousand, in the Northern Rockies.

This morning the entire United States has seventeen thousand six hundred and eighty-three, and the Northern Rockies has four hundred and fourteen. The seasons are not the same and the calendar is not the same — 2003's peak came in late August, and today is the eighteenth of July with the worst of it still in front of us. I am not claiming the arithmetic proves a decline. But I took those pictures standing in a field with what a full mobilization looked like when the militia still turned out, and I would like somebody to tell me we could still fill that field.

Four things have happened to that arrangement.

The first began long before anyone proposed a new agency, and it explains most of the rest. The Forest Service budget changed shape. In 1995, fire was sixteen percent of the agency's appropriated budget. By 2015 it was fifty-two percent — the first time in a hundred and ten years that more than half of what Congress gave the Forest Service went to wildfire, with a projection of sixty-seven percent by 2025. National Forest System funding, which is where most of the agency's actual work lives, fell from fifty-eight percent of appropriations to twenty-nine.

Now set the staffing beside it. Non-fire personnel went from roughly eighteen thousand in 1998 to fewer than eleven thousand in 2015 — a thirty-nine percent cut. Over the same years, fire staffing more than doubled.

Read those two sentences together and you have the whole of it. Those seven thousand people were the militia. Not the fire organization — the militia. The hydrologists and the archaeologists and the surveyors and the GIS people, whose salaries came out of non-fire lines, who carried red cards, who staffed the teams. The fire program did not simply take budget share from them. It consumed the payroll that produced its own surge capacity.

I do not believe that was intended, and I am not certain it was ever fully noticed. Fire grew. The bench fire ran on shrank. Both came out of the same appropriation. You cannot double the fire organization by spending the militia and finish with more capacity than you started with. You finish with a larger skeleton and less muscle.

The second is that fire has now been separated from the agency that fed it. There is a U.S. Wildland Fire Service, under Interior, and there is still a Forest Service, under Agriculture, and the non-fire workforce that historically backfilled the national system at PL5 now sits on the far side of a departmental line from the incidents it would fill. On paper the qualification records are interagency and nothing has changed. In practice an internal mobilization has become a transaction. Release authority rests with supervisors whose delegations and incentives are not what they were. Cost coding crosses a department. And the thing that actually moved people — the sense that this was ours, that the fire on the next forest was a family emergency — got quieter the moment fire stopped being ours.

The third is more arithmetic, on top of the first. The recent reductions did not fall evenly; they took hardest from the mid-career specialists, which is exactly the band where the quals and the currency live. A GS-11 with fifteen years and a Division Supervisor card is not replaced by two seasonal hires. The pool is smaller again and the average depth inside it shallower again, and neither of those facts appears in any staffing table as a fire number.

The fourth is that the transition is unfinished, and we already know what the seam looks like, because we have seen it.

On the night of 27 June, on the Knowles Fire in Mesa County, a wind-driven run overtook a Rifle Helitack crew conducting initial attack. Five deployed shelters. Emily Barker, thirty-eight. Nick Hutcherson, twenty-seven. Sydney Watson, twenty-seven. Two others were carried out with burns.

Barker and Hutcherson were badged to the Forest Service. Watson was badged to the Wildland Fire Service. One crew. Two agencies. That seam existed at the crew level three weeks ago. At Preparedness Level 5 it exists at every ordering channel, every dispatch, every delegation, simultaneously.

The serious accident investigation is still open. I have said before and I will keep saying that the useful question is not what those five people did on that slope. It is what was assumed on their behalf by the structure that put them there — whether the escape route and the contingency were facts or hopes, and who was in a position to know the difference. That question does not get easier to answer inside a PL5. It gets harder, because the qualified people who staff serious accident investigations are the same people the system is currently consuming.

Here is what I will be watching, and it is a narrower thing than acres burned.

Not engines. Not crews. Overhead. Section chiefs, unit leaders, GISS, resource advisors, finance. If equipment continues to fill while overhead orders go unable-to-fill, that is the militia not answering, and it will appear in the daily situation report before anyone says it out loud in a press conference. That is the number that tells you whether the muscle is still attached to the skeleton.

And one more thing, which is not a fire matter at all.

The mobilization standard is explicit that preparedness levels govern wildland fire, prescribed fire, all-hazard response, and international assistance. Those twenty-three teams committed to Oregon this morning are the same teams this country sends to hurricanes, to floods, to pipeline failures, to the recovery of things nobody wants to describe. It is a national bench, not a fire bench. It has always been quietly available for whatever came, because the wildland fire community built the only scalable incident management capacity the United States has.

I know that because I was on it. In January of 1997 I went to the Yosemite flood as a cartographic technician out of Voyageurs — northern Minnesota to the Sierra Nevada, because the Merced had run twenty-four thousand cubic feet a second through the valley, the highest in eighty years of record, and somebody needed maps of what was left.

Yosemite, January 1997. The Merced took the road out from under its own centerline. Photograph by the author.

In 2003 I went to Montana as a firefighter, which is where these photographs come from, the tarmac and the tents both. In 2005 I went to Katrina as the GIS coordinator off the Monongahela. Eight years, three agencies, three entirely different kinds of catastrophe, and the same red card in my wallet the whole way through. Nobody hired me to do any of it. It was simply understood that a mapmaker who could also hold a line was worth having on the list, and that the list was how the country got through things.

That is what is being tested this week.

It is spoken for. Atlantic season is opening. A magnitude 7.3 is still ringing off the coast of Chiapas with a swarm behind it. And the forecast beneath a strengthening ridge over the Rockies calls for dry lightning across the interior West into cured fuels, which is to say the system is about to be handed new starts it has no depth left to catch. It will get worse before it gets better. Whatever else happens to this country between now and September happens to an organization that has already filed the paperwork saying it has nothing in reserve.

I do not think this fails. The people are still good, and the system has absorbed worse than a reorganization. A wildland fire service under Interior is a defensible idea and it will probably work, given time enough to grow back what a transition costs.

What I am saying is narrower. The bumps in this line of work are measured in people. The bench that used to absorb them was built over decades out of an arrangement nobody ever wrote down — and it is being rebuilt now, in the middle of a Preparedness Level 5, by an organization that cannot pause the season to do it.

Available was a status. I'd like to know if it's still a promise.

 

Samuel R. Lammie began his career as a forester with the Bureau of Indian Affairs at San Carlos, where his work included prescribed fire and wildfire support. He moved into GIS with the National Park Service in the early 1990s and retired as a GIS coordinator with the USDA Forest Service, working fire data throughout his geospatial career. His work included burn plans, wildfire monitoring protocols, and, in the early years, GISS standards and templates. His fire experience spans three agencies — BIA at San Carlos, the National Park Service at Voyageurs, and the Forest Service on the Monongahela — and he was red-carded and dispatched both as a firefighter and in GIS. Assignments included the 1997 Yosemite flood, the 2003 Montana fire season, Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and wildfire incidents across the West. The photographs are his own, made on a 2003 fire dispatch to Montana.

This piece was drafted in conversation with Claude (Anthropic), which supplied research, current fire figures, and prose. The argument is the author's: that the agency's real surge capacity was always the militia rather than the fire organization, that consolidation and workforce reduction put that capacity in question, and that a Preparedness Level 5 commits the nation's all-hazard bench, not merely its fire bench. The AI had the preparedness level wrong at the outset and was corrected. Fire figures are from the NICC Incident Management Situation Report of 18 July 2026. Budget and staffing figures are from the Forest Service report The Rising Cost of Wildfire Operations: Effects on the Forest Service's Non-Fire Work (2015). Standards references are to NWCG PMS 936 and its predecessor GSTOP.

The Orphaned Globe

 On the sunset of Google Earth Pro — and what a working map is worth keeping.

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Figure 1.  “The Orphaned Globe.”

There is an hour in late June when the light comes down through the hardwoods here at two thousand feet and lies flat along the desk. I was reading the notice a second time — Google Earth Pro on desktop will no longer be available for download beginning June 25, 2027 — when it struck me that I had spent the better part of two decades looking at the world through that particular window, and had never once thought of it as a window that could be shut.

Let me be plain about my stake. For most of a career in the Forest Service, the desktop globe was not a novelty or a toy. It was an instrument. It sat open beside the work the way a field notebook sits open — a place to fly a drainage before you drove it, to scrub the historical imagery back a decade and watch a clearcut heal or a road cut into a slope, to drop a pin where a report said one thing and the ground would later say another. You learned to think inside it. That is the part worth naming: a tool used long enough stops being a thing you look at and becomes a way you see.

What is ending is not the seeing. Google is not closing the globe; it is closing the desktop. The browser version remains, and it is a fine thing for what it is — a way to fly to Paris, to wander the Serengeti from a couch. The casual eye is well served. But the browser inherits the tourist, and it is the professional who is left holding the map. The forester and the surveyor, the archaeologist and the search-and-rescue coordinator, the tribal GIS shop and the county assessor — the people whose work lived in the desktop’s stubborn particulars: local files that opened without an account, imagery you could walk backward through time, measurements you could stand behind, a globe that worked when the signal did not. Those particulars were never features. They were the grammar of a working relationship to a place.

I have spent a good deal of the last year thinking about institutions and their instruments — about how much of a place’s memory lives not in any archive but in the tools its stewards happen to hold, and about how quietly that memory can be set down when a distant vendor decides the ledger no longer favors it. There is a fragility here that has nothing to do with malice. A company reorganizes around the browser; a desktop client that served a few hundred thousand professionals falls below some threshold; the download link goes dark one morning in 2027. No one meant any harm. And yet a way of seeing, embedded in a million KMZ files scattered across a million hard drives, is suddenly an orphan.

What, then, is worth keeping? Four things, and they are less a feature list than a small creed. The slider through time — because a landscape is not a snapshot but a sentence, and you cannot read it without its verbs. The map that simply opens — no account, no ceremony, your own work under your own hand. The data that stays home — on your machine, in your keeping, which for an agency or a tribe or a court is not a preference but a principle. And the measure you can defend — dated, sourced, admissible — because a professional’s map is finally an argument, and an argument must be able to answer for itself.

None of that requires Google. That is the quiet mercy in this. Terra manet, instrumentum transit — the land remains; the instrument passes — and the question a sunset asks is never really about the instrument. It is about stewardship: who carries the way of seeing forward when the tool that carried it lets go. Wendell Berry, whom I keep returning to, put the whole of it in a line: the earth is what we all have in common. A globe that let a hundred professions hold that common ground in their hands is worth the trouble of inheriting.

So I did the unromantic thing an old program manager does with grief: I worked out what it would take. Not to revive Google Earth Pro — its imagery was Google’s, and you cannot license the past out from under a company — but to rebuild the specific way of seeing on open ground: an open globe, open imagery, the historical slider reconstructed over the public archives, the whole of it local-first and vendor-proof. I wrote it up as a proper strategy — the market, the competition, the economics, the build — and I’ve set it below for anyone who wants the engineering under the elegy.

Figure 2.  “Google Earth Pro Next” — the vision, in one plate. (Source: ChatGPT/The Author)

The picture above is the hopeful version of the same thought: not a tool to view the planet, but an instrument to understand how it changes — see it, study it, steward it. That is the right north star, and it is larger than any one company’s desktop.

Twenty years ago a globe taught a great many of us to see the world whole. The next twenty should teach us to keep what we have seen. Not a revival. An inheritance.

The full strategy

Accompanied by the companion document“Continuing Google Earth Pro: A Product Strategy.”

— Sam, with Claude

The Musical Stone · Montrose, West Virginia · Leading Creek watershed

Tapadh leat

Sustaining People and Landscapes

A 120-year learning experience — and what the USDA Forest Service mission still asks of us

High Falls of the Cheat, Monongahela National Forest, West Virginia.  Photo by the author.

Two frames hang side by side on my screen this week. The first, 120 Years of Service, lays the whole agency out like a wheel — watersheds and timber and range and recreation and wildlife turning around a single hub of ecological integrity and social well-being. The second, The Greatest Good, is quieter and more typographic: a mandate, five uses, and a bar chart of how long different forests take to grow back. Set together, they try to hold in one view what a career in the Forest Service teaches you only one program area at a time.

I spent better than two decades inside that agency, and I moved through a lot of those wedges — timber and hydrology and wildlife and recreation, and eventually the geospatial work that tries to see all of it at once. What both graphics get right is the thing that is hardest to say in a mission statement: the parts are not really separable. You cannot manage the timber without managing the water, or the water without the soil, or any of it without the people who live downstream and downwind.

120 Years of Service — Sustaining People and Landscapes.  Graphic: ChatGPT and author.

The mission as a living legacy

The Forest Service marks 1905 as its beginning — the year the forest reserves passed from the Interior Department to Agriculture and the agency took its name. That is the “120 years” on the banner. But the mission is older than the badge. Its charge is stated plainly and has held up remarkably well: to sustain the health, diversity, and productivity of the nation's forests and grasslands to meet the needs of present and future generations.

That last clause is the whole thing. Present and future generations. It is what turns a set of management decisions into a legacy, and it is why the first frame draws the work as a journey rather than a fixed destination — a century of learning, adapting, and looking ahead.

The framework: balancing multiple uses

The wheel in the first graphic is doing careful work. It puts ecological integrity and social well-being at the center, and it arranges the uses around them — not stacked in a hierarchy, but balanced on a rim. That is the honest picture. These uses compete. They always have.

The second graphic names the five that Congress made statutory in the Multiple-Use Sustained-Yield Act of 1960: outdoor recreation, range, timber, watershed, and wildlife and fish. But the legal bedrock is older still. The Organic Act of 1897 set the purposes of the reserves, and it is worth noticing the order in which it named them. Favorable conditions of water flows came first. Timber came second.

The Greatest Good — the mandate, the five multiple uses, and the rhythm of the rotation.  Graphic: S. R. Lammie, after USDA Forest Service, Managing Multiple Uses on National Forests, 1905–1995.

That order is not an accident, and it is not merely historical. The national forests are the single largest source of fresh water in the United States — roughly a fifth of the supply — and something like 180 million people across more than 68,000 communities drink from them. The nation's first faucet was named in the founding statute before the first board foot of timber. When people ask what the forests are for, the oldest answer on the books is water.

The uses have always layered on top of one another, and they have not always sat easily together. Range is one of the five, and for a stretch of the last century it was one of the heaviest. The cutover Alleghenies were grazed hard while the forest was still finding its way back.

Cattle grazing on cutover land at the Sinks of Gandy, June 1927 — the stumps still standing. Much of this ground is forest again today.  USDA Forest Service photograph No. 219209.

Precision in management: the rhythm of the rotation

If the wheel shows breadth, the bar chart at the right of the second graphic shows discipline. It plots how long it takes different forest types to grow to harvest and renewal, and the range is startling. Southern pine turns over in twenty-five to thirty-five years. Ponderosa pine and northern hardwoods can take a hundred and fifty. One word — “timber” — spans a human lifetime to several.

This is the part the public rarely sees, and it is the heart of what sustained yield actually means. Sustained yield is not a slogan about cutting less; it is an accounting of time. You set it stand by stand, because the pine on a dry southern slope and the hardwoods on a cool northern one keep entirely different clocks. Which is exactly why the founding policy held that local questions should be decided on local grounds — not out of sentiment, but because the biology gives you no other honest choice.

Red spruce and balsam fir, side by side — the high-elevation forest of the Monongahela, and the kind of distinction on which stand-level decisions turn.  Photo by the author.

That principle runs straight into the adaptive-management cycle in the first graphic: observe and listen, plan and decide, act and implement, monitor and learn, adapt and improve, and around again. It is a plain-language description of how a data-driven agency is supposed to work over decades. You do not manage a hundred-and-fifty-year rotation with a five-year plan and a firm opinion. You watch, you measure, and you adjust.

Looking ahead

The guiding ethic on both frames is Pinchot's, by way of the 1905 letter that Secretary Wilson signed: the greatest good of the greatest number in the long run. It is easy to quote and hard to practice, because every phrase in it is a live argument. Greatest good for whom? Which number? How long is the long run when the trees outlive the foresters?

Pinchot answered part of it early. In 1907 he wrote that the national forests were made for and owned by the people, and should also be managed by the people — that the officers were paid to act as the public's agents, not to work out theories on public ground. A century later the values on the first graphic say the same thing in modern terms: science-informed decisions, local knowledge and collaboration, transparency and accountability, stewardship for the generations who are not here yet to vote.

What I keep coming back to, looking at these two frames together, is the closing line on the second one: a 120-year learning experience — and it isn't finished yet. The mission was never a fixed formula. It is adaptive management all the way down, fitting many uses together and adjusting as the science, the markets, and our own values change. That is not a weakness in the design. It is the design. Caring for the land and serving people was always going to be a verb.

 

Drafted in collaboration with Claude, an Anthropic AI assistant, used for prose composition, source verification, and editorial review; the "120 Years of Service" graphic was generated with ChatGPT (OpenAI). The argument, the personal experience, and the conclusions are the author's.