Goats are a cute solution to fire hazards, but they won’t save us from ‘super firestorms’

My town of Laguna Beach was among the first in California to use goats to reduce the vegetation edging the city. You could say with some justification that the homes bordering the open hillsides all around the city should never have been built. That includes my 1965 ranch house, tucked in the back of a box canyon.

But back when the house was built, and even many years later when I bought it, the problem of planting buildings amid wildland was less understood and appreciated. Wildfire was certainly known but not a constant visitor, and firestorms were such rarities that no one spoke of them.

The city is surrounded by wilderness parks on three sides, which means that if you razed all the houses threatened by massive brush fires – a 1993 arson fire destroyed hundreds of homes here – you’d be removing a good half of the town. Only a change in the winds, along with intrepid firefighting, kept the fire from taking out city hall and possibly a good part of our downtown.

So, of course, Lagunans love their goats, overseen by a Peruvian goat herder and his disciplined dog. They’re picturesque. It’s like having a pastoral scene right here in suburbia. Unlike weed whackers, they’re quiet. And they take many of the plants right down to the nub along the winding streets where houses end and open land begins. Given how much we’ve been taught about clearing brush to prevent the worst of damage from wildfires, they seem like the perfect solution to fire protection, as well as adding to our sense of suburban fun. It makes sense, right? Create a bare space, stop a fire.

And yet, as I look at the hills rising above our houses, I wonder. After the goats have gone and the growth has returned, you can still see a clear line of demarcation where the portable, mildly electrified fencing used to be. Above the line is coastal sage scrub, a rich environment of remarkable native-plant diversity. Below it is a near-monoculture of invasive black mustard and annual grasses like cheatgrass, the stuff of barbed foxtails.

It’s even worse along the fire road on the ridgeline above us. These annual plants dry out quickly, a thick wall of potential fire fuel until the goats arrive months later to chomp them down again. Because they sprout from seed, they quickly take over land that used to be dominated by native perennials. And the goats help spread the seeds in their droppings as they move from one canyon to another.

As seemingly unstoppable firestorms grip the state each year, there is growing evidence that some of our previous tropes about reducing fire risk might not be enough – or might be partially mistaken.

A recent Los Angeles Times story looked at the lessons learned from the 2018 Woolsey fire that killed three people and demolished 1,600 structures in its 97,000-acre swath of destruction from Ventura County to Malibu.

It sums up the major findings this way: “For example, in some instances, oak trees served as ‘fire catchers’ – their leaves and limbs catching embers before they could ignite houses. Healthy, well-tended plants also fended off flames. Wood-chip mulch, by contrast, caught fire and ignited dwellings. Wooden balconies and trellises also caught fire, burning down homes.”

Meanwhile, a new study found that invasive annual grasses from the Mediterranean are increasing the number of wildfires nationwide, but especially in California. A particular culprit: cheatgrass.

Two years ago, a New York Times story reported on the inadequacy of defensible space as the main means of preventing fires from swallowing houses. It works in slow-moving fires, and it can be valuable in giving firefighters a place to take a stand against an oncoming blaze. But wind-whipped fires move so fast, and send out so many embers, that a strip of bare earth often won’t do the trick.

None of this should come as a terrific surprise. The Chaparral Institute and fire scientists have been saying such things for years. There’s evidence that decently-watered green plants are a better defense for houses, along with house repairs that include preventing embers from getting into the attic through roof vents, replacing wood decks with hardscape and, ideally but not cheaply, installing sprinklers or drip systems on roofs.

Yes – and policies that make it more difficult to build houses like mine in the hinterlands. We know better now.

These findings make me wonder whether the cleared-earth strategy of the picturesque goats is as effective as the selective trimming of dried scrub, along with planting fire-resistant native plants that remain green year-round, such as lemonadeberry and toyon.

I don’t know the answer. What bothers me as I see fires taking lives and chewing up communities is that the state isn’t working harder at learning solutions based on the best and most recent fire science. California’s strategy still mainly consists of clearing more land, chopping down more native plants and unintentionally inviting fire-prone weeds to take their place.

We’re still in an antiquated phase of wildfire policy, based more on what makes intuitive sense to us than what science might tell us. That won’t see us through the terrifying new days of fire superstorms.

This story was originally published November 29, 2019 at 7:01 AM.