#Clay Trauernicht | University of Hawaii at Mānoa

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Illustration by João Fazenda

The Burning of Maui

The governor called the fires Hawaii’s “largest natural disaster” ever. They would more accurately be labelled an “unnatural disaster.”

— By Elizabeth Kolbert | August 20, 2023

The ‘alalā, or Hawaiian crow, is a remarkably clever bird. ‘Alalā fashion tools out of sticks, which they use, a bit like skewers, to get at hard-to-reach food. The birds were once abundant, but by the late nineteen-nineties their population had dropped so low that they were facing extinction. Since 2003, all the world’s remaining ‘alalā have been confined to aviaries. In a last-ditch effort to preserve the species, the San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance has been breeding the crows in captivity. The alliance keeps about a third of the birds—some forty ‘alalā—at a facility outside the town of Volcano, on the Big Island, and the rest outside the town of Makawao, on Maui. Earlier this month, the Maui population was very nearly wiped out. On the morning of August 8th, flames came within a few hundred feet of the birds’ home and would probably have engulfed it were it not for an enterprising alliance employee, one of her neighbors, and a garden hose.

According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, “many factors” contributed to the ‘alalā’s decline, including habitat destruction, invasive species, and the effects of agriculture on the landscape. Owing to these developments, Hawaii’s native fauna in general is in crisis; the state has earned an unfortunate title as “the extinction capital of the world.” Of the nearly hundred and fifty bird species that used to be found in Hawaii and nowhere else, two-thirds are gone. Among the islands’ distinctive native snails, the losses have been even more catastrophic.

Last week, as the death toll from the fires in West Maui continued to mount—late on Friday, the number stood at a hundred and eleven—it became clear that the same “factors” that have decimated Hawaii’s wildlife also contributed to the deadliness of the blazes. Roughly a thousand people have been reported as still missing, and some two thousand homes have been destroyed or damaged. The worst-hit locality, the town of Lahaina, which lies in ruins, was built on what was once a wetland. Starting in the mid-nineteenth century, much of the vegetation surrounding the town was cleared to make way for sugar plantations. Then, when these went out of business, in the late twentieth century, the formerly cultivated acres were taken over by introduced grasses. In contrast to Hawaii’s native plants, the imported grasses have evolved to reseed after fires and, in dry times, they become highly flammable.

“The lands around Lahaina were all sugarcane from the eighteen-sixties to the late nineteen-nineties,” Clay Trauernicht, a specialist in fire ecology at the University of Hawaii at Mānoa, told the Guardian. “Nothing’s been done since then—hence the problem with invasive grasses and fire risk.”

Also contributing to the devastation was climate change. Since the nineteen-fifties, average temperatures in Hawaii have risen by about two degrees, and there has been a sharp uptick in warming in just the past decade. This has made the state more fire-prone and, at the same time, it has fostered the spread of the sorts of plants that provide wildfires with fuel. Hotter summers help invasive shrubs and grasses “outgrow our native tree species,” the state’s official Climate Change Portal notes.

As Hawaii has warmed, it has also dried out. According, again, to the Climate Change Portal, “rainfall and streamflow have declined significantly over the past 30 years.” In the weeks leading up to the fires in West Maui, parts of the region were classified as suffering from “severe drought.” Meanwhile, climate change is shifting storm tracks in the Pacific farther north. Hurricane Dora, which made history as the longest-lasting Category 4 hurricane on record in the Pacific, passed to the south of Maui and helped produce the gusts that spread the Lahaina fire at a speed that’s been estimated to be a mile per minute.

After visiting the wreckage of Lahaina, Hawaii’s governor, Josh Green, called the Maui fires the “largest natural disaster Hawaii has ever experienced.” In fact, the fires would more accurately be labelled an “unnatural disaster.” As David Beilman, a professor of geography and environment at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, recently pointed out, for most of Hawaii’s history fire simply wasn’t part of the islands’ ecology. “This Maui situation is an Anthropocene phenomenon,” he told USA Today.

A great many more unnatural disasters lie ahead. Last month was, by a large margin, the hottest July on record, and 2023 seems likely to become the warmest year on record. Two days after Lahaina burst into flames, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration issued a revised forecast for the current Atlantic hurricane season, which runs through the end of November. The agency had been predicting a “near-normal” season, with between five and nine hurricanes. But, because of record sea-surface temperatures this summer—last month a buoy in Manatee Bay, south of Miami, registered 101.1 degrees, a reading that, as the Washington Post put it, is “more typical of a hot tub than ocean water”—noaa is now projecting that the season will be “above normal,” with up to eleven hurricanes. Rising sea levels and the loss of coastal wetlands mean that any hurricanes that make landfall will be that much more destructive.

A few days after noaa revised its forecast, officials ordered the evacuation of Yellowknife, the capital of Canada’s Northwest Territories. A wildfire burning about ten miles away would, they feared, grow to consume the city. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation called the evacuation order “extraordinary.” This summer has been Canada’s worst wildfire season on record, and, at times, the smoke has spread all the way to Europe. There are currently something like a thousand active fires in the country.

Two days after the Yellowknife evacuation was ordered, another Pacific hurricane—Hilary—intensified into a Category 4 storm. Hilary was being drawn north by a “heat dome” of high pressure over the central Plains, which was expected to bring record temperatures to parts of the Midwest. The storm’s unusual track put some twenty-six million people in four states—California, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona—under flash-flood watches.

How well humanity will fare on the new planet it is busy creating is an open question. Homo sapiens is a remarkably clever species. So, too, was the ‘alalā. ♦

— Published in the Print Edition of the August 28, 2023, New Yorker Issue, with the Headline “Fire Alarm.”

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In an eerie echo of 2018’s Camp Fire, which sped through the town of Paradise, California, destroying 19,000 buildings and killing 85 people, ferocious wildfires are tearing through Maui, forcing some people to flee into the ocean. Much of the town of Lahaina is now ash, and the death toll stands at 36 so far. 

Like so many other places around the world, the island of Maui is being swept into the Age of Flames, also known as the Pyrocene. In places where fire is a natural part of the landscape, like California, wildfires now burn with ever greater ferocity, oftentimes spawning their own towering thunderclouds made of smoke, or obliterating ecosystems instead of resetting them for new growth. And where wildfire was once very rare in the landscape, like Maui, residents and governments are struggling to cope with their descent into the firestorm.  “Hawaii's ecosystem is not adapted to fire. It is destroyed by fire,” says Elizabeth Pickett, co-executive director of the Hawaii Wildfire Management Organization. “So we don't have good fire and bad fire. We have bad fire, period.” 

In the immediate term, what’s driving Maui’s fires is what makes wildfires so deadly anywhere in the world: wind. Hurricane Dora, which is churning hundreds of miles to the south, is a low-pressure system. Meanwhile, to Hawaii’s north, a high pressure system has formed. Those opposing systems have created 80-mile-per-hour gusts across Maui, driving the flames forward. Once the fire reaches a town like Lahaina, it easily hops from structure to structure. (California’s wind-driven wildfires have been known to throw embers miles ahead of the actual fire, setting new blazes ahead.)

Maui is in its dry season, but parts of the island were already abnormally parched, to the point of moderate or severe drought, according to the US Drought Monitor. Less moisture in the landscape means that vegetation dries out and piles up, ready to burn. Dry winds exacerbate this problem by scouring the landscape, sucking out any moisture that might remain. In general, as the atmosphere warms with climate change, the air gets thirstier and thirstier, leading to further desiccation. (Hot air can hold more moisture than cold air.)

Historical factors have also conspired to push Maui into the Pyrocene. When Europeans arrived in the late 18th century and established plantations for growing sugarcane and pineapple, they also brought invasive grasses. Now the economics have changed, and those fields lie fallow. But the grasses have spread like a plague. “Those fire-prone invasive species fill in any gaps anywhere else—roadsides, in between communities, in between people’s homes, all over the place,” says Pickett. “At this point, 26 percent of our state is covered in these fire-prone grasses.”

This stuff is highly sensitive to short-term fluctuations in rainfall. The grass will grow like crazy when the rains come, then quickly desiccate when the landscape dries. “When we get these events like we’re seeing these past few days—when the relative humidity really drops low—all those fine fuels become very explosive,” says fire ecologist Clay Trauernicht of the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. 

While the contribution of climate change to these Hawaiian fires hasn’t fully been worked out, Trauernicht says, it’s clear that something has gone awry. But between 1920 and 2012, over 90 percent of the state has seen a drying trend. “It's really coming from the firefighters, who are also telling us that they're seeing fire behavior that they haven't seen in 20 years fighting fires on these islands,” Trauernicht says. “The extreme fire behavior coming up out of these grasslands in particular—the erratic movement and rapid spread and the intensity—that's my kind of yardstick. Is climate change affecting fire? It’s definitely making it more challenging to work with.”

Social dynamics are also making these Hawaiian wildfires far more dangerous. People are at the greatest risk along the “wildland-urban interface,” or WUI—the places where human development butts up against vegetation. The town of Paradise was very much like this, with lots of vegetation interspersed with buildings. “Virtually every community in Hawaii is on a wildland-urban interface,” says Pickett. “So we're just like a WUI state, because we have developments that are all adjacent to wildland areas, or surrounded by wildland areas.”

That’s not only putting more people in the path of fast-moving wildfires, but providing more sources of ignition in the first place: cars driving over dry grass, camp fires, fireworks. “Lahaina hasn’t changed much—it’s been where it’s been for a long, long time,” says Trauernicht. “But that landscape around it has gone through some dramatic changes, just within the past couple of decades. And that’s really like the message that we’ve been trying to harp on, is that this is a fuel-management problem.”

Which means it’s a solvable problem. There’s already growing awareness of the dry vegetation issue in Hawaii, Pickett and Trauernicht say. Not only can communities clear more brush, but they can also bolster wetlands, which act as natural firebreaks and support native species. And then, maybe, no other Hawaiian community will have to suffer Lahaina’s fate. “The vegetation is within our control,” says Trauernicht. “Unfortunately, this is the worst outcome you can imagine. And maybe this will make people wake up.”