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First published June 6, 2023
John Vaillant is an author and freelance writer whose work has appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, National Geographic, and the Guardian, among others. His first book, The Golden Spruce (Norton, 2005), was a bestseller and won several awards, including the Governor General's and Rogers Trust awards for non-fiction (Canada). His second nonfiction book, The Tiger (Knopf, 2010), was an international bestseller, and has been published in 16 languages. Film rights were optioned by Brad Pitt’s film company, Plan B. In 2014 Vaillant won the Windham-Campbell Prize, a global award for non-fiction. In 2015, he published his first work of fiction, The Jaguar's Children (Houghton Mifflin), which was long-listed for the Dublin IMPAC and Kirkus Fiction Prizes, and was a finalist for the Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize (Canada).
This is not planet Earth as we found it. This is a new place—a fire planet we have made.
The city and the surrounding landscape had become something akin to a fire planet—not a biome but a “pyrome” whose purpose was not to support life but to enable combustion.
It is almost unbearable to consider that our reckoning with industrial CO2 is only in its infancy, and that future generations will bear this burden far more heavily than we do now.
The current moment is the greatest challenge humanity has faced since we (almost) mastered fire. This time, it is not fire we have to master, but ourselves. If we fail this test, there will be another one, and another after that, but each time the stakes will be higher and the price of failure steeper.

Wildfires live and die by the weather, but “the weather” doesn’t mean the same thing it did in 1990, or even a decade ago, and the reason the Fort McMurray Fire trended on newsfeeds around the world in May 2016 was not only because of its terrifying size and ferocity, but also because it was a direct hit — like Hurricane Katrina on New Orleans — on the epicenter of Canada’s multibillion-dollar petroleum industry. That industry and this fire represent supercharged expressions of two trends that have been marching in lockstep for the past century and a half. Together, they embody the spiraling synergy between the headlong rush to exploit hydrocarbons at all costs and the corresponding increase in heat-trapping greenhouse gases that is altering our atmosphere in real time. In the spring of 2016, halfway through the hottest year of the hottest decade in recorded history, a new kind of fire introduced itself to the world.
A photo taken from an airplane window late on the night of May 3 shows a vast and luminous smoke cloud where the city had been while, high above, the northern lights blaze across the sky. In another age, this might have been an omen worthy of formal record, but that night, it was just one more illumination from the twenty-first century, captured in this smartphone-crowdsourced record of apocalyptic visions.
By the early 1990s, Republican attitudes toward environmental action of virtually any kind had turned decidedly negative. Meanwhile, energy producers and manufacturers used this extraordinary turnabout as an opportunity to promote even more carbon-intensive products, including plastics (recall the sudden explosion of bottled water in the early 1990s, simultaneous with the first Gulf War).
In 2016, people who raised the question of climate change in the context of Fort McMurray, or its fire, were ignored, accused of exploiting a tragedy or, worse, kicking a man when he was down. The province’s brief and contentious dalliance with a slightly more liberal government happened to overlap with the fire and ended abruptly afterward with a return to, and hardening of, the industry-friendly United Conservative Party, among whose devotees Donald Trump is considered an ally and, increasingly, a role model.
The fire plume, which was growing steadily larger, was actively changing the regions meteorology. No longer simply a ground interface fire, it had become a force of nature. As temperatures rose past 1,000 degrees F, the air at the smoke columns center rose ever more rapidly, driving upward, like smoke up a hot chimney. As this superheated air rose faster and faster, it created a vacuum into which cooler air was drawn from all sides at greater and greater velocity. Operating like a recirculating fountain, storm systems this large also generate powerful downdrafts along their outer edges, which, in the case of the wildfire, can cause it to burn even more intensely, like an atmospheric turbocharger.
A pyrocumulonimbus cloud or pyroCb can be two hundred miles wide and reach into the stratosphere. A fully developed pyroCb, like the one shrouding Fort McMurray on May 3rd is so huge and energetic that its behavior is influenced by the Coriolis effect – the rotation of the earth. In the Northern Hemisphere this will cause the system to spin counterclockwise, just like a hurricane…In addition to hail, PyroCbs can also generate their own lightening…fires caused by lightening can be ignited virtually anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of a PyroCb…With the forest already primed to burn, a pyroCb, combined with wind-driven embers and lightening, changed this fire…into a perpetual motion machine of destruction…
It is hard to overstate the totality of the disorientation people were experiencing: the roar and crackle of the fire; the wind searingly hot and alive with sparks and ash; the black and acrid smoke that stole breath and reduced visibility to a car length; the flames a hundred feet high across a front that seemed to have no end or edge. It was as if the world had been remade in fire, and now it was coming…