By Bill Torpy
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Copyright 2007 The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
FARGO, Ga. — William C. Cone, better known here as "Uncle Barnie," cast a wary eye at the menacing gray clouds drawing closer to this western gateway to the Okefenokee Swamp.
"See, the fire is picking up pretty good," he said last week, pointing to the southeast from his favorite loafing spot outside the town's only cafe. "It's drier than I've ever seen it."
Cone, 89, knows when a wildfire is "picking up pretty good." He started fighting them here in 1933 as a 15-year-old with the Civilian Conservation Corps.
Cone also knows a good fight. He battled the Germans on D-Day and later chased poachers and moonshiners as an Okefenokee ranger. He even dueled the yearlong wildfire of 1954 and 1955, a stubborn string of blazes that gobbled up 318,000 acres of government swampland and 140,000 acres of adjacent private land.
The slight octogenarian has a front-row seat as another generation wages its own battle. This time, fires in and around the tinder-laden Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge -- one started April 16 and another May 5 -- have devoured more than 420,000 acres, an area larger than DeKalb and Cobb counties combined. Fire has roared south into Florida, causing hundreds of evacuations and casting a shiny gray haze over his hometown. All this has occurred in just over a month.
The town has become a staging area for wildland firefighters --- perhaps 200 some days, most from different states --- to meet, strategize, then head into the wilderness. Heavy firefighting machinery rumbles by on the highways. Soot-covered, weary firefighters are a constant sight. Warnings and fire information sheets are posted everywhere.
The wind-driven flames approached Fargo last weekend, causing about 20 households to evacuate and many other residents to load up treasured belongings for a quick getaway if needed. The impending crisis was averted, thanks to the dogged round-the-clock work of the crews from Fargo and across the country who carved out firebreaks and smothered small blazes that tried to leap the line. Good fortune smiled on Fargo, as winds shifted the rolling inferno in another direction.
Through it all, there was little panic.
"The residents know what to expect," said Mayor Robbie Lee, a timber man who each day draws up current maps of the moving fire to aid the crews. "We have fires here all the time from lightning strikes and are used to having loved ones go out and fight those fires. Usually, they are the first ones out. They're on the front lines."
Fargo, with seven churches, six beekeeping operations and a four-room motel, is dependent on the swamp and surrounding forests. And its 380 residents are familiar with the fear, adrenaline, devastation and renewal that comes with wildfires. A life-sized cutout of Smokey Bear with a red warning sign stands downtown near Superior Pine Products Co., which owns 220,000 acres of area timber. Across the street, next to City Hall, which is also the library and charter school, is the Georgia Forestry Commission office and a fire tower.
When asked about the name of the town, located near the southernmost tip of Georgia, the answer is invariably, "It's as far as you can go."
There is a sense of welcomed isolation here, as well as independence and resilience.
Last Monday, Fargo was able to breathe the smoky air a bit easier as the threat subsided and residents wanted to repay their guests from Texas, Utah, Idaho and other states who helped them make a stand.
To meet the needs of the growing fire-fighting population, the Fargo Church of God transformed into a commissary/medical unit/welcome center. The first night, Fargo's women decided spaghetti would be quick and easy because everyone had some fixings for it. With each night after that, the operation became more organized, with one church in charge of starches, one doing greens and another on dessert detail.
"We brought whatever we had in the freezer since we're 50 miles from anywhere," said Doris Long, president of the church's ladies auxiliary. "When something like this happens, you don't even have to ask; people start coming with food."
A few feet away, manning the food line, was Emily Griffis, a member of the nearby Edith Baptist Church. "All it takes is one call in Fargo and the word spreads like fire," she said, smiling at her unintended metaphor.
Mark Elrod, a soot-covered Texan coming off a 14-hour shift, was appreciative.
"I never met any nicer people," he said, after finishing his second plate of comfort food. "I ate fried chicken because church ladies always have good fried chicken."
Elrod operates a tractor plow, which bulldozes vegetation and burning debris in its path while digging a fire break trench behind it. But cutting through to the sandy soil has been a problem, he said, because the swamp and surrounding land has heaps of thicket and dead vegetation. Those layers, sometimes 12 feet deep, burn like a vein of coal, sometimes smoldering underground before popping to the surface weeks later.
The topology of the area makes firefighting difficult, but it also makes the burning necessary, said Larry Richardson, a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist.
"It's the circle of life," he said. "It's an ecosystem that's dependent on fire."
Year upon year of growth has built the layers of peat, which suck up water and has made many parts of the swamp impassable and crowded out new growth.
Since the 1990s, the Forest Service has had a let-it-burn policy for natural areas, when fires don't threaten structures.
"This was a fire waiting to happen. The time was right for this one," Richardson said. "Next year, you won't believe the wildflowers. There will be a deepening of the swamp. It's a traumatic event, but it's a new beginning."
Fargo native Bryant Johnson knows that but he also knows fire is bad for business.
Johnson, a senior forester with Superior Pine Products and the company's fire boss, has spent the past month on the fire lines helping decide which parts of the fire should be attacked and advising the crews about the lay of the land. "We help them out because we know the woods," he said.
The adrenaline rush that comes with facing down wildfires is matched by few situations, he said.
"But any time you have a fire, you're losing money," he said. "Our livelihood is this timber. We have to save it."
He stood near his pickup truck, tanned, sweaty and weary as the Cherokee Hot Shots, an elite wildfire-fighting team from Tennessee, set fires several feet away to consume the fuel of the advancing fire.
The wildland firefighters, or "government crews" as Johnson calls them, must rest each day for at least an hour for every two hours of work. They also get rotated out after two weeks. That schedule sounds almost plush to Johnson.
"We've been at this for over a month," he said. "Every day. Some days are 18 or 24 hours. You go home, take a shower, come back.
"We don't have anywhere to rotate to. This is home."
