A grizzly bear and her two cubs amble across a scree slope, dislodging melon-sized chunks of granite. The cubs frolic and run about while their mother is intent on reaching the berry thicket in the draw just over the next ridge. Some of the granite rocks roll and slide down the slope, not coming to rest until they reach the remains of a miner’s cabin. A few of the rocks strike the abandoned pump, sending sparks into the air. Sparks land among the frass where termites and carpenter ants have colonized a pile of scrap lumber. As the frass smolders, the heat ignites the midden left by a bushy-tailed woodrat, or pack rat, and a handful of dry pine needles, which in turn set the woodpile aflame.

I am born.

I am small at first. Even the lightest rain would have put me to death. But this was July in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, a time that is hot and dry, before the heavy rains of autumn. I grow rapidly. Soon, the miner’s cabin is reduced to a pile of smoldering ash. Quickly I consume nearby shrubs and tree seedlings. I have no fixed shape. As my size increases, so does my hunger. Deadfall trees are but snacks to me. Now I attack the younger(less than 50 years of age) Ponderosa pines. I am stronger; no mere rainstorm can quench me.

I am insatiable. Colorado Blue Spruce – delicious. As I grow in size, I reach out to the giant subalpine fir trees. On slopes that are lower and slightly I gently touch the piñon pines, and they seem to leap into my arms. I give voice to my hunger with a mighty roar. I amuse myself with a towering, swirling, column of flame.

The forest is no more.