A clear definition of a photographic typology is the study or interpretation of types of things. The fire presented many fine-scale features that deserved close attention, and we continue to discover new typologies as the forest responds to fire.

These groupings of similar image types fall into three distinct categories. Typologies that were created by the fire; revealed by the fire; and, more recently, biological responses set in motion by the fire.

Presented here is one image from each of the typologies we’ve discovered. To view more images of a particular Typology, click the link below that image.

Conifer trees typically have vertical stems and horizontal branches. During the fire, intense heat rose from the forest floor, drying the needles, leaves, and limbs high in the canopy where fire did not reach. The property of wood differs between the tops and bottoms of limbs to support their load of needles, so loss of needles and drying of the wood caused conifer branches to curl inward and upward in atypical fashion. During the height of the pandemic it was easy to sense this as a form of self-embrace.

In a landscape of black and dark grays the oozing white sap was more than dramatic mark-making. They were among the first signs of biological processes taking place inside the trees of this burned forest.

Bark and wood burn very differently. Different species of trees burn differently. Even among the same species, the effects of burning and charring differ by tree age. All this resulted in a surprising variety and abstraction in the marks made by fire.

Part of the human legacy on these landscapes is huge old-growth stumps. Some were so massive they did not completely burn, while others had decomposed to a point where they did completely burn, leaving these caverns with deep channels describing the path of their root systems. They seemed ghost-like because of their inverse forms describing what once was. The widest of these measured 15 feet across and the deepest root channel measured nine feet.

These small trees were most likely cut as part of a forest thinning operation. They covered over their wound with scar tissue and were sustained by nutrients shared through connected roots from a nearby tree. They continued living despite not being able to produce a single needle to photosynthesize and create their own nutrients. The exudate dripping from some of them is evidence of their life force sustained by a nearby tree.

On the earliest visits before any vegetation began to grow, we saw evidence of the smoldering aspect of wildfire. During the initial, raging phase of fire, the understory quickly burns away completely, leaving downed wood and fallen branches and small trees to smolder for days and sometimes weeks. Wherever two branches or trees touched during this smoldering phase, a more intense heat was generated which allowed the burning and smoldering to continue. Eventually enough wood burned away, creating space for the air to cool the fire. The result is sculptural evidence of the layered intensity of fire..

Wildfires are quite often spread rapidly by winds. They also generate their own windstorm within the fire. These skinny, hardwood trees chose to grow tall as fast as possible to reach light through the canopy of conifers. The spindly stems and weak wood of the hardwoods left them vulnerable to tipping by the fire-driving winds. As they bent and swooped, they thoroughly dried from the heat, retaining their swooping form long after the fire was out.

Shown here are 8 of the 17 branch holes that dot the flanks of this one cedar tree from ground to head height. The entire outer form of the tree is intact, while the inner dead wood core of the tree was hollowed out by decay over decades and then by the recent fire. Our theory is that long ago branches close to the ground were lost, facilitating decomposition of wood in the core of the tree. Scar tissue ringed the branch holes, which then provided access for fire to enter the hollow core of the tree and permitting it to function as a chimney. The fire revealed the intricate details of these forms.

Many of the younger vine maples and chinquapin trees burned down to 6-18-inch tall stubs. They posed a danger because they could easily impale a falling photographer who was not paying attention. In addition to their lovely sculptural qualities, they produced leaves that ranged from bright spring green to fall hues in December and January a few wintery months after the fire, curiously out of season.

In the first months after the fire, white exudates oozing from the trees were the first signs of interior biological processes. Now these whitish sporocarps tell us that wood-decomposing fungi have entered the tree, matured, and are now putting out these fruiting bodies to share their spores with the rest of the world.

The woodpecker holes tell us of another biological process happening inside and now outside the tree. Boring beetles enter the tree to feed and lay eggs from which larvae emerge. The woodpeckers are drilling to find and feed on the larvae. The beetle and woodpecker holes provide access for wood-decomposing fungi, and the tree responds by sending sap to fend off the intruders. Sap seeping from the woodpecker holes flows down the blackened trunk. In this particular story we also see the larger story of a vast, biologically diverse, forest where new life is constantly emerging from, and because of, dead and decomposing organic matter.

The fate of burned trees was determined by both the fire and by people after the fire. Splotches of blue paint marked trees along the state highway judged to be dead and destined to be removed as a public safety measure. In the forest far from the highway, blazes on trees and plastic orange flagging tape marked property boundaries where salvage logging of the burned forest would take place. These orange flagged trees and the forest behind them were to remain standing.

Legacies of human presence abound across the landscape. From the 1930’s through the 1960’s a small logging camp occupied part of the Finn Rock Reach. It was known as Finn Rock Logging Camp. They lived in 27 cedar cabins and had a small church and school.

When the fire burned away the dense underbrush, it revealed a metallic history of the camp’s inhabitants. Charred car parts, waffle irons, tea kettles, a roller skate, baby stroller parts and more littered the burned site. Volunteers with the McKenzie River Trust spent many days gathering and piling the metal which was loaded onto trucks and hauled to a recycling center.

The forest surrounding the logging camp also shows remnants of human influence – stumps of giant old-growth trees cut a century ago, rusty logging cables, and younger forest established by the randomness of natural seeding as well as regimented tree- planting.

Near where the cabins were, non-native plants, both intentionally introduced like daffodils and unintentional like scotch broom are widespread and problematic, as they crowd out native vegetation reducing the native food web’s ability to thrive.

Today, another human presence influences this landscape. Legions of Trust volunteers have removed tons of rusting metal and pulled thousands of invasive weeds. Their collective actions remove mistakes of the past, aiding the transition to a resilient native forest once again.