Have you ever sat down to ponder toilet paper? Conceived to bring us comfort; a truly disposable tool. Manufactured by humans, for humans. Raw materials extracted from sturdy tree trunks. Sturdy trunks hacked down and divided into uniform logs. Uniform logs pulverized into papery pulp. Papery pulp processed into pale paper. Paper used to wipe. An afterthought.
These tiny squares made from trees, water, chemicals, and bleaches are commonplace in the western world, but I’m wondering if you have ever questioned this transient, expendable material. Doomed for a crude purpose, and rarely discussed, toilet paper comes in a variety of forms - standard, jumbo, single ply, double ply, the list goes on. But let me ask you this vulgar hypothetical: if you had the extreme misfortune of finding feces on your face, how would you clean it off? Would your first thought be to grab small strips of paper to wipe the dung from your face? That is absurd. If I had shit on my face, I would wash it off with scented soap and copious amounts of water! Why do we do anything different for our routine mode of waste disposal? Whether or not toilet paper is a foolish invention is up for debate, it’s not just for wiping asses. It’s good for cleaning glasses, stuffing bras, pranking friends, making mummy costumes, removing makeup, and killing bugs. It’s also good for starting forest fires.
~
Desolation Wilderness, a federally protected wilderness area near Lake Tahoe, has a variety of landscapes. Hiking up the trail, with a backpack towering over my thirteen-year-old body, I carefully step across babbling streams and overgrown roots. Lost stones and gnarled tree stumps groan as they stretch out to block my path. Every overturned tree trunk beckons me to take a break, inviting me to remove my backpack, but I blunder on. I can’t rest at every invitation, or it will get dark before we get to the campsite. The trail twists through a neighborhood of evergreens, each tree pushing others out of its way as it wrestles for sunlight. One group of trees are huddled together so closely I wonder how they managed to grow the way they did[EP2] . Ironically, this is the invitation I accept. I heave a sigh of relief as I unclip my waist strap and stumble as I cast my backpack to the forest floor. Creeping towards the clump of conifers, I steal a glance towards the sky - dappled light dances towards me, painting a mosaic of shadows across my forehead. I reach the trees and contort my body in order to walk between them. I am weaving through a forest maze, turning left, right, and then left again, losing myself in the dense woods. My skin is hot and dry; dry pine needles and twigs crunch beneath me. By the time I return to my backpack, I am ready to keep hiking.
Many steps and several hours later, we arrive at our destination and assemble our campsite. I learn how to set up our nylon tents and filter water from the subalpine lake. The stillness of the air, the melodies chirped by songbirds, the clear lake water shimmering with the mellow breeze; I let out a sigh of fulfilment. The metal pots rattle as we balance them atop our portable backpacking stove, boiling lake water for pasta. We reminisce on the hike as we eagerly anticipate dinner. For dessert, we take turns picking out our favorite colors from the bag of M & M’s[EP5] . Nobody likes the yellow ones. The sky falls into the night as we lay underneath the stars, huddled together in our sleeping bags. Dave, one of the dads, tells us that it takes four years for the light from a star to reach us on Earth. We gaze with wonder at the glowing flecks above us. Owls pass hoots back and forth around us.
As this is my first time camping outside, it isn’t long before I ask how and where we go to the bathroom. My friends snicker as they joke, “You don’t know how to go to the bathroom?!” One of the dads tells us to take 100 steps away from any water source or trail and to dig a hole at least six inches deep. “Oh,” he adds, “Don’t forget to bring a lighter so you can burn your toilet paper.” The closeted pyromaniac inside of me leaps with glee. I furrow my brow as I count my steps away from the campsite across the crisp forest floor, “Seventy-three, seventy-four…” I think I’ve walked far enough. I dig a small hole and cautiously unzip my pants. I’m so accustomed to toilets, the act of squatting feels unnatural and my muscles spasm. I wish I could tell you that at that moment, I was skeptical about burning toilet paper in the wilderness. At the very least, I was cautious. I watch the crumples of white paper glow with orange as they disintegrate into grey ash. I wait until the embers are entirely extinguished before I look away. Once I can relax, the view is spectacular.
~
Camping next to Lake Aloha means waking up to brisk, glassy water painting the striking landscape. Enormous granite basins, carved like ceramic bowls by ancient glaciers. Clusters of lodgepole pines and red firs, whose furrowed bark reads like a love letter in braille. Imposing mountain peaks dusted with snow like confectioner’s sugar. Most everyone is off on a day hike, ascending Pyramid Peak, the highest point in the Crystal Range of California’s Sierra Nevada, but I stay behind, along with two friends and Rabbit, one of the dads.
Growing up, no one ever believed that his name was actually Rabbit. I was already a teenager when I learned that Rabbit wasn’t the name he was born with. His passport says Steven Mentor, but to everyone around him – family, friends, students, and strangers, he is Rabbit. The story I heard was that in the 70’s, Rabbit became passionately involved in anti-nuclear protesting. He changed his name from Steven to Rabbit as a continuation of embracing radical activism and adopting an alternative lifestyle. Also, he was constantly on the move, never stopping, bouncing around like a Rabbit. I know Rabbit because he co-founded the intentional community that I grew up in.
Rabbit was off on his own – doing whatever it is that adults do, while we explored the environment with wide eyes and wild imaginations. Being outside opens the mind up to an entirely new vocabulary of senses. There, in the shadow of prickly conifers, we lost ourselves in ‘make-believe’ games, leaping across boulders that served as buffers to the molten lava below. Sharpening stray sticks into glinting iron swords. Shrieking with delight as we slayed fictional foes. I can’t remember any details about the battles we were fighting, but the plume of ashen smoke spiraling into the cloudless sky, ripped me out of my imaginary game into harsh reality.
A dagger pierced my stomach, but it wasn’t the imaginary dagger from our iron swords. This is no game.
We race towards the source of the smoke. Is this really happening? As we approach, the aroma of burning wood intensifies. Then, we finally see it. An area, about the size of a classroom, is covered with a flaring carpet of blood-red flames. A huge fallen tree trunk is completely engulfed in the wispy tendrils of orange fire. The torrid heat of the flames envelops my entire body. Coils of thick grey smoke sting my eyes and pierce my nostrils. My mind is racing but my body is frozen. We start calling out Rabbit’s name. Where are they? The adults?
~
WATER! We need to get water! I mindlessly empty my Nalgene water bottle onto the corner of the flames. The fire laughs sarcastically. Absolutely nothing happens. We run frantically back to the campsite and fetch several canvas bags used to hold larger volumes of water. My heart pounds against my chest as I clutch the bags and sprint down to the lake. I nearly fall into the water as I plunge the receptacle into the lake. Water sloshes everywhere as I run back to the inferno, hands clenched around the corners of the canvas. I pour the bag as close to the center of the blaze as possible[EP9] . Absolutely nothing happens. The flames ignore the water. Exasperated, I see Rabbit’s jaw drop as he spots the fire. “Oh, shit!” he exclaims, “I think I started that.” Immediately, he begins commanding us to get more water from the lake. And we do. Over and over and over again for what feels like an eternity.
My fists are balls of lead. My jaw is clenched with indignation. I have been hauling heavy canvas bags of water for hours now and I haven’t seen you lift a finger. You pace back and forth, shouting orders at us. I use the smelly sleeves of my shirt to dab the beads of sweat from my forehead. Our grimy clothes cling to our prepubescent bodies. My mind is a parade of resentment. My thoughts are clashing cymbals of irritation, beating drums of exasperation. A new fire burns within me. I can’t believe you are making us put out a fire that YOU started.
We end up carrying the water in a fire brigade fashion, passing off bags of water to each other. There are moments when I think we have done it. The flames die down and I pause to catch my breath. Just when I think we can celebrate a small gust of wind delivers a fresh dose of oxygen to the embers and the flames are resuscitated back to life. The fire is cruel, unrelenting, and omnipotent. We continue our relay lane of firefighting.
~
The mountain air is cool at dusk, the sun hangs low in the sky. But I still feel warm. My head throbs and I am panting from all the running. My sore muscles nag at me with a persistent ache. The fire is out. We did it. A part of me feels happy. We, a bunch of teenagers, extinguished a fucking forest fire! We should be celebrating. We worked together and prevented a disaster. But a larger part of me doesn’t quite understand how I feel. Here we are, overlooking a giant patch of charred earth. An enormous black scar disrupts the otherwise beautiful landscape. There is a clear delineation between where the vegetation is green, yellow, brown, and then coal-black. The wood is textured with glossy black scales. The wind sweeps ribbons of ash across the ground. I blink and see the stubs of a billion cigarette butts.
Still, I am torn. If it weren’t for us, the fire would have spread uncontrollably. There is no knowing how many acres of forest would have burned. How many lives would have been lost. I close my eyes and shudder as I imagine a cemetery of charred tree trunks, singed branches, and scorched earth. But then again, without us, would the fire have started?
Later on, we learn that the burnt toilet paper that Rabbit buried managed to burn underground overnight. At a certain point, the fire became hot enough to break through the surface and ignite the ground above.
~
More than a decade later, I am cooped up in my dorm room; the windows are closed and the doors are shut. Classes have been cancelled. The air is filled with orange smoke and everything smells like that fateful day so many years ago. I close my eyes as I imagine how this fire could have begun. Was it a lighting strike, or a group of backpackers in the Sierras? Now, as a college student studying Earth Sciences and the complex relationships between humans and the environment, I am revisiting this story from different perspectives. Growing up, I was taught to treat fire with utmost caution and fear. Smokey the Bear and other icons of anti-fire propaganda have indoctrinated Americans to fear fire and prevent it at all costs. Widespread fire suppression practices lead to huge accumulations of biomass - the perfect fuel source. When combined with any spark of ignition from a careless camper or ignorant defecator, they wreak havoc. 2018 was the deadliest and most destructive wildfire season in history, with 8,527 fires burning an area of 1,893,913 acres in California alone. 2,044,800 households are at high or extreme risk from wildfires. The Camp Fire in November of 2018 burned 153,336 acres, destroyed 18,804 structures, and caused 85 deaths. How did we get ourselves into this mess?
In her book, Before the Wilderness: Environmental Management by Native Californians, Kat Anderson speaks with living tribal elders who explain that fuel reduction to help prevent severe fire was a large reason for burning, especially close to villages. Fire was also used to make access easier through thick vegetation, to encourage certain plants to grow, and to help heard animals in certain directions so they could be hunted. Desolation Wilderness was home to the Washoe people for 6,000 years. In 1848, when the Gold Rush brought hundreds of thousands of people to California, the Washoe people were forcibly removed from their land and repeatedly denied establishment of a reservation. They were continually pushed farther and farther into the margins, eventually given access to land with very limited water. Before European settlement of California, indigenous communities like the Washoe had a rich history of living in harmony with fire; using prescribed burns to manage land and seeing fire as part of a necessary and natural cycle. In order for a wildfire to occur, there needs to be both an ignition source and combustible fuels. Ignitions are almost always caused by lightning strikes or human activities, and combustibility comes from flammable biomass like dead and dried leaves, twigs, branches, and even standing live trees. Fire serves as a natural buffering mechanism. They consume the biomass, reducing the likelihood of a subsequent fire. Native people clearly understood this relationship. So much has changed between this knowledge and our groups’ relationship with fire.
~
Last week, I spoke to Rabbit on the phone. I wanted to hear how he remembered the trip, and what insights he has now. He reflected on how we don’t understand fire the way native people understood it. Native people in Yosemite burned routinely. All of those picturesque landscapes are the result of interactions between native people and the natural world. And when white people came into Yosemite, they kicked out all the native people so that they could have this pristine cathedral of beauty for white people to come and appreciate. There’s a curse on Yosemite. We are trying to get back to a knowledge that we don’t have. A knowledge that we suppressed.
I was moved by his depiction of the displacement of the Miwok people, but also struck by how unapologetic Rabbit was about starting the fire. He had constructed a barrier between himself and any shame, guilt, or remorse. In a way, I respect that. It could have been any of us who started the fire. Blaming one another would not help put it out, it would add heat and turbulence to our relationships, more than anything. But, I hoped that Rabbit would have expressed some reflection that he made a mistake or that he is still learning…
In the end, talking with Rabbit helped me understand what I learned from the experience. Pondering our actions, their consequences, and the overall ignorance of our group. How primal reactions to our surroundings disrupt the delicate balance of nature. In admiring the exquisite beauty of our environment, we forget that the natural world can be harsh, unforgiving, and cruel. I was engrossed in my imagination, playing with my friends, when I saw a forest fire emerging from our campsite. The smoke ripped me out of my fantasy and demanded action. The patch of embers was an indelible reminder of our impact on the environment.
Reflecting on native understanding of the land, this trip reminded me of the loss of natural knowledge. The elders in my community had forgotten how to be good stewards of the land, and their capacity to teach us, their children, about how to relate to the wild. They had lost a sense of the nature of the landscape and how it responds to our actions on it – in this case, a clump of burnt toiled paper.
Americans use an average of 23.6 rolls of toilet paper per person each year. One source reports that one eucalyptus tree can produce enough pulp to make 1,000 rolls of toilet paper. In 2018, the population of the United States was 327.2 million. Some quick calculations reveals that, assuming all toilet paper is made from eucalyptus trees (it is not), the US alone harvest 7.7 million trees each year for toilet paper. As if the environmental impact of manufacturing toilet paper wasn’t enough, a simple google search reveals that my story is not unique. “Woman burns toilet paper, starts fire, is given suspended sentence.” “Forest Burns After Man Set Used Toilet Paper Ablaze.” These article headings are just a few examples of forest fires caused by ignited toilet paper.
After this trip, I never looked at toilet paper the same way. It is an accident waiting to happen. A luxury reserved for the bathroom. When I go backpacking now, I am careful to use smooth stones and leaves to wipe. If I do bring toilet paper, I pack it out in a separate baggy and dispose of it with the other trash I generate. I learned this from other elders whom I trust and with whom I engage with in dialogue about why we do what we do.
My friends and I needed to act responsibly, even if the adults around us did not. We, as humans, have immense impacts on the world around us. We have control over fire! Well, maybe control is the wrong word. We have the ability to start fires with the simple flick of a lighter. The same flick of that lighter can mean surviving until the morning during a frigid night. It can mean denaturing proteins of plants and vegetables in order to make them edible. Or it can be a way of tending to the land. But the lighter can also mean setting aflame entire ecosystems and destroying vast landscapes and habitats. Fire is just one example of the many ways we shape the environment. The cars we drive are polluting the atmosphere with noxious gases. The choices we make as consumers contribute to the exploitation of materials and degradation of resources. As humans, our actions often have huge consequences, but they can be hard to fathom. There is nothing more palpable than seeing the area of burned ground that was left from your spark.
Works Cited:
Blackburn, Thomas C., and Kat Anderson. Before the Wilderness: Environmental Management by Native Californians. Malki-Ballena Press, 1993.
“Facts + Statistics: Wildfires.” Insurance Information Institute, www.iii.org/fact-statistic/facts-statistics-wildfires.
Giaimo, Cara. “Forest Burns After Man Set Used Toilet Paper Ablaze.” Atlas Obscura, Atlas Obscura, 11 Aug. 2016, www.atlasobscura.com/articles/forest-burns-after-man-set-used-toilet-paper-ablaze.
Pritzker, Barry. “A Native American Encyclopedia: History, Culture, and Peoples.” A Native American Encyclopedia: History, Culture, and Peoples, ABC-CLIO, 1998, pp. 246–248.
Vale, Thomas R. Fire, Native Peoples, and the Natural Landscape. Island Press, 2002.