Proof of gelid gust dusts all we see— the fence-lines, the avenue, the cars half-buried, the scatter of November’s leaves now sealed beneath a stilling plea. What survives survives by yielding: branches bow, the eaves let fall their weighted load in muffled thuds along the yard and walk— an elemental treaty now.
The world composes its reply to summer’s claim and autumn’s boast. No cardinal law, no thunder-host proclaims what drifts down from the lead-grey sky, yet everything it touches seeks to answer why it must comply— the wild rose hips, the window frames, the question lingering in its wake.
By morning all dispute is moot. The snow has made its argument without a word, without assent, soft-covering the curb and root, the path we thought was permanent, the streets where we were confident we’d marked our necessary route.
Just returned from a brief errand. As I drove east along Lake Avenue in Lakewood, the autumn foliage was at its radiant peak, a kaleidoscope of living color, and the mid-morning sun—at 10:50—displayed it to full advantage. Gemstones would be embarrassed, and rainbows would blush.
Upon reaching the Lakewood–Cleveland border, it was clear the colors were not as vivid. So moved was I by the brilliance I had just witnessed that I immediately turned back so that I could trace the same three-mile eastward path once more, simply to behold again the wonder of dancing color, of light and leaves. It was a small diversion of time and effort that gladdened the heart, soothed the soul, and reminded me how splendiferous autumn can be—more wondrous than any peacock’s fan of tail could ever hope to be.
Canadian wildfire smoke causes an afternoon haze on August 4, 2025, obscuring the view of Lake Erie and downtown Cleveland, Ohio. Photograph by John K. Jones.
This morning I awoke—yet again—to an air quality alert in Cleveland. These warnings have become disturbingly routine. Yet there is nothing routine about them. Sometimes the smoke is plainly visible, a dull haze hanging over Lake Erie; other times the sky appears deceptively clear, even as sensors warn of danger. Each alert is not only a public health signal but also a tangible indicator of the broader climate crisis—one that too many still deny.
I. Not a New Story, but a New Scale
Canada has long experienced wildfires, particularly within its vast boreal forests, as part of natural ecological cycles. However, the severity of recent fire seasons represents a dramatic departure from historical norms. In 2023, Canada endured its most destructive wildfire season on record, with more than 18.5 million hectares (over 45 million acres) burned—more than two and a half times the previous record and roughly seven times the long-term annual average.[1]
II. Why Canada Is Burning More Than Ever
1. Climate Change Accelerates the Threat
Canada’s climate is warming at roughly twice the global average (approximately 2°C since 1950 compared to the global average of 1.1°C), and in some northern regions nearly three times faster.[2] This accelerated warming produces hotter, drier vegetation that becomes fuel for wildfires, extends the fire season well beyond historical norms, and increases the frequency of lightning storms that ignite many of these blazes.[3]
2. Boreal Forest Vulnerability and Ecological Shifts
While boreal forests are adapted to periodic fire, the new scale and intensity of burning can overwhelm their capacity for regeneration. Repeated megafires may transform vast areas into grasslands or savannas, disrupting ecosystems and releasing massive stores of carbon into the atmosphere.[4]
3. Human Activity and Legacy Fire-Management Models
Though many fires are sparked by lightning, human activities—campfires, discarded cigarettes, sparks from machinery—remain a significant cause. Decades of fire suppression, along with the decline of Indigenous controlled-burn practices, have also left forests dense and fuel-rich, primed for catastrophic fires when drought and heat arrive.[5]
III. Cleveland Downwind
Wildfire smoke respects no borders. Carried by wind patterns and jet streams, it regularly drifts into the Midwest and Northeast. In Cleveland, this has meant days when the Air Quality Index rises into the “unhealthy for sensitive groups” range or worse. Fine particulate matter (PM₂.₅—particles smaller than 2.5 micrometers) can penetrate deep into the lungs and enter the bloodstream, aggravating heart and lung conditions and increasing health risks for vulnerable populations. Elevated ground-level ozone, worsened by heat, compounds these dangers.[6]
The reality is that Cleveland residents now regularly breathe air compromised by fires burning hundreds or thousands of miles away—a stark reminder of how interconnected our environmental challenges have become.
IV. A Shared Crisis
This is not merely a Canadian issue—or solely a U.S. problem. It is a continental and global crisis, rooted in climate change and demanding coordinated action in emissions reduction, forest management, and public health preparedness.
V. Closing Reflection
Tomorrow’s sunrise over Lake Erie may bring either full clarity or another haze alert. Regardless, the truth remains: our climate is changing faster than our institutions, our habits, or our response. The question is not whether the air tomorrow will be breathable. The question is whether we are prepared to protect it—not only here, but everywhere.
A few feet away from my back porch, this fawn was left in the “nursery” by her mother for several hours this hot August afternoon, continuing the tradition of mother deer who have a fondness for the security of my back yard. Photograph by the author.
This beautiful butterfly was one of many visiting my backyard the first week of August 2025. Fewer than in past years, but always a delight to encounter. Photography by the author.
