– Five Reasons Why Cal Fire’s Approach to Wildfire Prevention is Wrong –
November 9, 2023 is the date (updated – the schedule was moved forward two months).
The future of wild Nature in California depends on how the courts ultimately rule.
After more than three years of waiting, we finally have our hearing with a judge to stop Cal Fire from clearing hundreds of thousands of acres of native habitat per year – from Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, along the chaparral covered hillsides of California’s beautiful coastline, throughout the Sierra Nevada foothills, to the precious Bishop pine groves at Point Reyes.
The basic Cal Fire assumption? We can control wild Nature by turning it into a managed garden, replacing rich chaparral habitats with isolated clusters of shrubs surrounded by flammable, invasive weeds and creating artificial, park-like forests with chain saws, grinding machines, and herbicides.

Here are the five reasons
we are taking Cal Fire to court:
1. The Cal Fire Vegetation Treatment Plan (VTP) will Increase Fire Risk.
2. Cal Fire Admits They are Ignoring the Real Threat.
3. Cal Fire Admits that Native Shrublands are Threatened by too much Fire, but they’re Going to Burn/Grind/Herbicide them Anyway.
Read MoreAn Irreverent Look at Chaparral Illiteracy
“Chaparral in France? Sacré bleu!” Arthur quickly downed his remaining Champagne and poured another. He stood up in the tub and raised his drink. With steam wafting up from his naked torso in the evening air, his words became infused with surreal, mythical energy. “The maquis is southern France?! The maquis gave cover to the French Resistance as they sabotaged the Nazi war machine, hence their name, the Maquis! Long live the Maquis!”


Buyer beware. Counterfeits abound.
True Champagne can not be made in California, and a lush forest is not chaparral, despite claims to the contrary.
It was getting late and we’d been in too long. Our bodies were beginning to overheat in the simmering tub.
Dangling his left hand in the pool to cool down, sipping French Champagne with the other, Arthur turned toward me. “Once, if I remember rightly,” he said as his eye lids began closing slowly like heavy, velveteen bedroom curtains, “my life was a feast where all hearts opened, and all wines flowed.”
“And now?” I asked.
He took another sip, then began slipping into the abyss, telling of his discovery that life is not as simple as he once thought. “One evening I sat Beauty on my knees – And I found her bitter – And I reviled her.”
I don’t recall much more about that evening. Arthur’s life over the past year or so had been what one could best describe as a season in hell, so I suspect we talked a lot about that. However, I do remember how Arthur became irritated with me for handing him a bottle of California sparkling wine and calling it champagne.
We’d run out of the French Champagne he had brought, so I ran into the house to gather more to drink, another baguette, and the last chunk of chèvre cheese.
Upon my stumbling return, Arthur smiled his Mona Lisa, ripped off a piece of bread, then sneered. “That,” he growled, waving away the offending bottle, “will certainly not help me seek the key to the old feast, where I might perhaps find my appetite again!”
Thus began my education on Champagne.
Some California vintners have tried to appropriate the Champagne name over the past couple decades and slap it on their bottles of sparkling wine, but the 2006 Agreement between the United States and the European Community on Trade in Wine slaps them back. Violating the agreement is an international crime.
If it’s not from the Champagne Region of France, it’s not Champagne. Unfortunately, thieves prior to the agreement were grandfathered in.
As is normal fare during discussions in the wee hours at the Chaparral Institute, the conversation eventually wandered into the infinite complexities of the chaparral. “Ah, the maquis!” Arthur declared as he began describing the wonderful days he had as a kid, wandering through the Mediterranean shrublands back home in France. “At least you Americans haven’t tried to steal the maquis.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse,” I replied with a sense of melancholy. “Some have completely erased the name maquis in France, classifying it as chaparral. Do a search on the web. The Americanization of Mediterranean shrublands all around the world is pervasive.”
“Chaparral in France? Sacré bleu!” Arthur quickly downed his remaining Champagne and poured another. He stood up in the tub and raised his drink. With steam wafting up from his naked torso in the evening air, his words became infused with surreal, mythical energy. “The maquis is southern France! The maquis gave cover to the French Resistance as they sabotaged the Nazi war machine, hence their name, the Maquis! Long live the Maquis!”
“Yes!” I proclaimed with my own raised glass, standing up to meet Aurthur’s. “Long live the Maquis!”
We both sat back down, but this time on the tub’s edge. The neighbor slammed shut their bedroom window.
“And if I may add in response to the blasphemers,” I said. “The chaparral is California! If it’s not growing here in the Floristic Province of California, it’s not chaparral. Long live the chaparral!”
We continued discussing all things chaparral, all things French, until the eastern sky began to brighten with an orange glow and the Spotted Towhees colored the morning air with their calls.
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