“The Country since leaving the Colorado has been a dry rocky sandy Barren desert.” — Jedediah Smith, 1826.
Early western explorers who ventured into the Mojave Desert, like Jedediah Smith, often mischaracterized it as a barren landscape, devoid of life.
Yet a closer inspection of these sweeping landscapes reveals soil-hugging carpets of springtime flowers, native grasses and fragrant shrubs, alongside the more obvious cacti and succulents.
Where the desert lives up to its stereotype is after a wildfire.
In the shadow of last month’s York Fire in California’s Mojave National Preserve, almost nothing is left amid the rocks and sand, except the charred carcasses of Mojave yuccas, Joshua trees, and chollas. The soil is a mottled brown and black, and some plants have been reduced to mere silhouettes of char on the ground.
The moonscape is the result of a fire that burned quickly and widely, engulfing roughly 130 square miles of the preserve — including picturesque Caruthers Canyon, a boulder-strewn spot popular with campers.
“Caruthers Canyon is the prettiest place we had. It was a beautiful little pinyon-juniper forest up there,” says Debra Hughson, who is the preserve’s deputy superintendent. “When the pinyon-juniper burns, it doesn’t come back. Not in my lifetime. Not in your lifetime. Maybe never.”
There may be no going back
This latest wildfire comes as a reminder of the unpredictable future facing some of the desert’s most iconic residents. Warmer, drier temperatures are already stressing the preserve’s spindly Joshua trees. Models predict those warming trends will leave Joshua trees with fewer suitable places to live. Scroll forward in time, Hughson says, and their range shrinks: “It melts like an ice cube on a hot sidewalk.” On top of that, in recent years wide-ranging wildfires are also pushing the succulents into greater peril.
“They’re already living on the edge,” Hughson says. “What we’re doing here globally is we’re cranking up the temperature, and here we’re also cranking down the rainfall, the precipitation.” Joshua trees, she explains, are having a hard time keeping up with such swift climate changes. “Then you get a major stressor like this, that just erases the chalkboard.”
What she means is the park’s dense Joshua tree forests may never come back after a fire. A grassy savannah might rise up to replace them, with a few Joshua trees scattered throughout as a reminder of what once was.
Nowhere is that potential future on greater display than along Morning Star Mine Road, which cuts across the northern reaches of the preserve. On one side of the road there is a Joshua tree forest so dense it looks like a green wall at a distance, with a rich understory of drab greenish-gray bushes. On the other side there’s a graveyard of blackened Joshua trees with sun-bleached buds. The ground is mostly bare, aside from patches of grass, and the color palette is black, white and shades of tan.
The road was a firebreak during the 2020 Dome Fire. Flames destroyed an estimated 1.3 million Joshua trees on Cima Dome, an area that was once the park’s grandest example of dense Joshua tree woodland. The area’s relatively high elevation was supposed to serve as a sort of sanctuary — a climate refuge where Joshua trees could continue to thrive amid hotter, drier conditions elsewhere in their range. Then, the fire came – an unexpected destabilizing force that casts that long-term trajectory into question.
Hughson trained as a geologist. She talks about the future of the Joshua tree and what might happen at Cima Dome as if she still assesses these seismic ecological changes at the tempo of geologic time. “In the end,” she says, “the desert is going to tell us what it’s going to be and it’s going to show us what it’s going to be.”