Lightning strikes. It’s a dry summer in the Pacific Northwest, which sounds like an oxymoron to anyone who doesn’t live here, but the locals know the truth. On August 28, 2023, a bolt hit the ground near the 2620 Road on the eastern side of the Olympic Peninsula. Nobody thought much of it at first. Then the smoke started rising. This wasn't just another small brush fire; the Olympic National Park fire—specifically the 2620 Fire—became a symbol of a shifting climate in a place we used to call a "temperate rainforest."
It feels weird to talk about fire in a rainforest.
Most people associate the Olympic Peninsula with moss, dripping ferns, and the kind of dampness that gets into your bones and stays there until July. But things are changing. The 2023 season was a wake-up call for the National Park Service (NPS) and the residents of Brinnon. It wasn't just the size of the fire—which eventually ate up about 445 acres—it was the location and the behavior of the flames in a landscape that theoretically shouldn't burn this easily.
What Really Happened with the 2620 Olympic National Park Fire
If you were driving down Highway 101 near Duckabush in late August of 2023, you saw it. The haze. The 2620 Fire was stubborn. It sat on steep, rugged terrain that made it a nightmare for ground crews. Honestly, fighting fire in the Olympics is mostly a vertical battle. You aren’t just walking through the woods; you’re scaling rock faces and dodging falling "snags"—those dead, standing trees that become literal torches once a spark hits them.
The fire was managed by a Type 3 organization, which is basically the mid-level management team for wildfires. They brought in helicopters, specifically Type 1 and Type 2 ships, to drop water drawn directly from local sources. It was a massive logistical headache. Why? Because the soil in the Olympics is deep. It’s made of centuries of organic duff. Fire doesn't just crawl across the top; it tunnels. It gets under the roots and smolders for weeks. You think it's out, then a wind kicks up, and suddenly the ground is breathing smoke again.
The Myth of the "Fireproof" Rainforest
We need to stop calling these areas fireproof. They aren't. Historically, the Olympic National Park has seen massive fires, but they used to happen every few hundred years. Now, the intervals are shrinking. Experts like Dr. Brian Harvey from the University of Washington have pointed out that as summers get drier and snowpacks melt earlier, the "window" for an Olympic National Park fire to take hold is staying open longer than it ever has in recorded history.
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Fire is actually a natural part of the ecosystem here, but not at this frequency. When the 2620 Fire took off, it wasn't just burning dry grass. It was consuming old-growth timber and hitting areas that haven't seen flames in a human lifetime. The "rainforest" tag gives us a false sense of security. If the duff layer dries out, the whole forest floor becomes a giant charcoal briquette.
How the 2023 Fire Season Reshaped Park Management
Managing fire in a National Park is a delicate dance between "let it burn" and "put it out now." For decades, the policy was simple: fire is bad, kill it. But we've learned that suppression actually makes things worse by letting fuel build up. However, when a fire like the 2620 starts near private property or critical habitats for Northern Spotted Owls, the "let it burn" philosophy goes out the window.
During the peak of the 2620 Fire, crews had to prioritize protecting the Duckabush River watershed. It’s a vital spot.
- Helicopters were the primary weapon because the slopes were too dangerous for hand lines.
- Water drops focused on cooling the perimeter to keep the fire from "slumping" down into the drainage.
- Monitoring became a 24/7 job for the Western Washington Interagency Management Team.
The cost was staggering. Wildfire suppression isn't cheap, and the 2620 Fire required a massive mobilization of resources at a time when the rest of the West was also screaming for help. This is the new reality. We are competing for fire engines and air tankers with California and Canada.
Surprising Details from the Front Lines
One thing people don't realize about the Olympic National Park fire is the role of "maritime influence." Most wildfires in the US are driven by heat and dry wind. In the Olympics, the fog can be your best friend or your worst enemy. A thick marine layer can roll in from the Pacific and "lay the fire down," effectively putting it to sleep for the night. But if that fog doesn't come, or if an east wind blows over the Cascades and drops down onto the peninsula, the humidity plummets and the fire explodes.
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The 2620 Fire saw a lot of "spotting." This is when embers fly ahead of the main fire and start new blazes. In the dense canopy of the Olympics, spotting is a nightmare because you can't see the new starts until they’re already established. It’s like playing Whac-A-Mole with a flamethrower.
The Long-Term Impact on Wildlife and Tourism
The smoke didn't just stay in the park. It choked the Puget Sound. If you were in Seattle or Tacoma during that stretch, you felt it. For the park itself, the impact is a mixed bag.
For wildlife, fire is a disruptor. While some species, like wood-boring beetles and certain woodpeckers, thrive in the immediate aftermath of a fire, others lose critical nesting grounds. The Northern Spotted Owl, which is already struggling, doesn't handle high-severity fire well. Fortunately, the 2620 Fire was mostly low-to-moderate severity. It cleared out some understory without nuking the entire canopy. That’s actually good for the forest in the long run. It creates "structural diversity." Basically, it makes the forest less like a uniform wall of trees and more like a mosaic.
For tourists, it was a mess.
- Trail closures: Popular routes near the Duckabush and Dosewallips were shut down for safety.
- Air quality: High-elevation views were replaced by a grey wall of smog.
- Cancellations: Many visitors skipped the eastern side of the park entirely, hitting the local economy in Brinnon and Quilcene pretty hard.
What Most People Get Wrong About Fire in the Olympics
The biggest misconception is that rain will eventually just "fix it." Sure, a heavy fall deluge will put the flames out, but the damage to the soil can lead to winter landslides. In the Olympics, fire and water are two sides of the same coin. When you burn off the vegetation on a 60-degree slope, there’s nothing to hold the soil when the winter atmospheric rivers arrive.
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Another mistake? Thinking that because you see green trees, the fire is "over." The 2620 Fire left behind "ghost trees"—trees that look fine but have had their root systems cooked. They will die over the next two years and become the fuel for the next fire. It’s a cycle.
Why the 2620 Fire Still Matters Today
We are looking at the 2023 season as a blueprint for the future. The NPS is currently revising its fire management plans to account for these "anomalous" dry spells. They are doing more prescribed burns in the shoulder seasons—though that’s incredibly hard to pull off in a place that’s usually soaking wet—and they are investing more in remote sensing technology to catch lightning starts before they become 400-acre headaches.
We have to get comfortable with the idea that the Olympics will burn. It's not a matter of "if," but how we live with it.
Actionable Steps for Your Next Trip
If you're planning a visit to the park, especially in the late summer, you can't just wing it anymore. The Olympic National Park fire risks are real, and being unprepared is how people get stuck or start new problems.
- Check the "Hoot Owl" Restrictions: During high fire danger, the park may restrict certain activities (like chainsaws or smoking) to certain hours of the day.
- Ditch the Campfire: Honestly, just don't do it. Use a pressurized gas stove. It’s faster, cleaner, and won't burn down a 500-year-old cedar. If there is a fire ban, follow it religiously.
- Watch the Air Quality Index (AQI): Download an app like AirNow. If the AQI hits 150+, your hike to Mount Ellinor isn't just going to have bad views; it's going to be legitimately bad for your lungs.
- Register Your Trip: Use the wilderness permit system. If a fire starts while you're at Enchanted Valley, the rangers need to know exactly how many people they need to evacuate.
- Understand "Defensible Space" if You Live Nearby: If you’re a local on the Peninsula, the 2620 Fire proved that the forest is closer than you think. Clearing brush 30 feet from your home isn't just a suggestion; it’s a necessity.
The 2620 Fire was a warning shot. It wasn't the "Big One," but it showed that even the wettest corners of the lower 48 are vulnerable. The Olympic National Park remains a spectacular, rugged wilderness, but it's a wilderness that is increasingly defined by its relationship with fire. Stay informed, stay prepared, and respect the fact that even a rainforest can burn if the conditions are right.