I am driving home from work along Route 86, heading into Wilmington, New York, near Whiteface Mountain. I drive this route nearly every night. The road is curvy, but I am used to it; it is routine now. It is dark and windy, and the wind whistles inside of my Jeep. I think the seal around the door must be loose. Listening to the radio and paying attention to nothing but the road, I am thinking about how nice it will be to finally get home and go to bed.

As I turn a corner, I can see ahead of me up in the mountain, something glimmering in the blackness. What is that? I think to myself. Lights on Whiteface Mountain? But I'm not at Whiteface yet, I realize. As I continue to drive around the twists and turns of this dark highway, I lose sight of the peculiar glowing speckles in the distance.

Route 86, or the Notch as it is known locally, in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains has high cliffs on either side of the roadway. The Ausable River flows parallel to the road almost the entire way like a snake. The hills on both sides are densely covered with both deciduous and coniferous trees. Sugar maples, paper birch, balsam firs, douglas firs, and white pines are some of the trees that make these six million acres of wilderness their home. During the last Ice Age, huge glaciers swept over the region, gouging and carving valleys and waterways.

Rounding a sharp bend, the mysterious lights reappear. It's a raging forest fire directly in front of me. The mountain is ablaze, completely engulfed on one side.

The lights I saw scattered about the mountainside were the result of hot embers carried by the wind from one tree to another, consuming all of them. We had little rain last summer and fall, and on a windy night like this, the conditions can be disastrous. Turning on my signal, I pull my Jeep off to a parking area. There are several other cars—other people amazed by this wall of fire. I get out and look directly across the Ausable River; the fire is so close, maybe 40 feet from me. As I squint my eyes, the fire pops and crackles, it climbs up the towering trees, it leaps from limb to limb.

A gust of wind blows, and the flame explodes into another tree, igniting it like a blowtorch. The fire has made its way toward the top of Sunrise Notch where the evergreens and hardwoods grow. I notice a very faint smell of smoke as it wafts down the valley to the east.

What do forest rangers do?

After an hour or so, I climb into my Jeep and drive farther to see how far along the road the fire traveled. Coming to another pull-off, I park again. I can't seem to leave yet. Stepping out of my vehicle, the fire is at eye level with only the narrow river between us. It must only be 25 feet from me. Grumbling and groaning, it appears to be alive. Breathing, its sides rhythmically expand and contract like a fierce, fanged beast impatiently waiting to pounce. My skin tingles from the heat and everything is illuminated with an eerie orange glow. I watch one flame creeping over an entire tree, screeching, whistling, and hissing consuming yet another victim.

This area has a lot of natural fuel on the ground from the dry, fall leaves that cover the ground year after year and from the ice storm in 1998. The ice storm wiped out more than half of the trees, leaving decaying debris on the forest floor—perfect for a forest fire.

Drops of water begin to land on my face. I look up and extend my arms outward. It is raining. The raindrops increase with each minute until it is steady and cold. Hissing and spitting, the fire does not want to die. Mother Nature's two most powerful elements are meeting head to head. The rain doesn't seem to have a chance against the heat of the incinerated wood. Steam rises with each sizzle and sputter of rain. The sky, dark and filled with smoke, thickens even more as the steam ascends.

Watching the forest burn, I wonder what the animals are doing. Do they escape harm? And where do these now homeless creatures go? I can't help but remember the scene in Walt Disney's Bambi when all the creatures are fleeing the fire set by the evil humans. Whitetail deer roam this forest, as well as many other animals. The Adirondacks are home to 54 species of mammals, 220 species of birds, 30 species of reptiles and amphibians, and 66 species of fish. Peregrine falcons nest on the high cliffs not too far from the inferno. Sunrise Notch is the only spot within at least 30 miles with cliffs high enough to support them. Foxes, beavers, coyotes, black bears, squirrels, small rodents, and even mountain lions live here.

As for Bambi and his friends, animals usually have the ability to escape flames and are often left with a more diverse habitat. This fire burned in some random spots due to the high wind. This "patchy" landscape leaves more places suitable for a living environment. Since it is fall and not spring, the Peregrine falcons and other birds should not be affected; they are done nesting for the season. If it were during their nesting season, they may be forced to abandon their nests. This coming spring, this scorched and barren earth will attract beetles and other insects. The insects, in turn, will attract woodpeckers and other birds. The birds and insects will help germinate new plants, which attract larger animals like deer and bear, thus starting anew. After all, nature must have a plan.

The falling rain, heavier now, soaks me along with the forest. It cannot spread as fast now, and the wind has died down. As long as the rain continues, it should slowly burn out—sizzling, gasping, and fighting all the way. In fact, that is exactly what it did: the rain smothered and choked out every last flame. Wiping my flattened, dripping hair from my face, I get in my Jeep and head home.

While driving east through the Notch, watching the fading fire in the rearview mirror, the smell of smoke fills my nostrils. I struggle to see the road. The haze is so thick, I must creep along. Eventually it clears, and there is not a hint of what I have just left behind.

Share your fire experiences with us.

The Power of Fire The fire that took place during the fall of 2001 near Whiteface Mountain was destructive, but it had some benefits. The charred remains of this mountainside prompted re-growth and rebirth in the spring. The soil became more fertile because nutrients were returned, nutrients that only a fire can provide. Debris on the ground from the changing seasons and last season's ice storm was recycled. Without fires, dead material accumulates, locking up nutrients necessary for plant growth. Fire releases these nutrients and feeds nitrogen-fixing plants. Fire also opens up thick, treetop canopies so sunlight can penetrate to the forest floor. This reduces competition, allowing small trees to grow larger and new ones to start. Some trees, like the douglas fir, need fire to open their cones. The resin that keeps the cones closed heats and opens, releasing the seeds. --A.W.