When West Yellowstone, Montana, was threatened with utter destruction by the historic and devastating 1988 Yellowstone wildfires, a drastic situation called for a drastic solution.
That turned out to be sprinklers and irrigation pipes — and some industrial explosives.
A truckload of detonating cord was discreetly delivered to the banks of the Madison River right inside the western boundary of Yellowstone National Park as part of a massive effort to save West Yellowstone from burning to the ground.
The National Park Service and its fire crews teamed up with Idaho farmers and local volunteers to drench a defensive perimeter around the gateway community to the nation’s first national park.
To stop the encroaching flames, they needed more water than the series of pipes and sprinklers they put down. So, they blew a hole in one of Yellowstone’s rivers to unleash enough water to save the town.
Thomas Howell, one of the farmers called to help save West Yellowstone, was there when it happened — and has a photo to prove it.
“We needed a hole in the river, picked the spot where we wanted the hole, and they sent a federal crew to blow it up,” he told Cowboy State Daily. “That let us set up what they needed to protect West Yellowstone.”
Farmers On The Front Line
Howell was going about his business on his ranch in Ashton, Idaho, while an inferno consumed Yellowstone in the summer of 1988.
More than 250 fires flared up that summer and consumed more than 793,000 acres — about 36% of the park — before the cool, moist air of autumn finally knocked down the flames.
In early September, Howell and several other farmers were contacted by the National Park Service and the local congregation of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) in West Yellowstone. They had a plan to save their town, and the farmers were a critical part of that plan.
“They contacted us to bring up our irrigation pipes,” he said. “They wanted us to set it up around the town to stop the flames.”
The plan was to surround West Yellowstone with irrigation pipes and sprinklers to dampen the ground, stopping any flames before they reached homes and businesses. As the park’s busiest gateway community, ensuring West Yellowstone’s survival was critical.
Howell and several other farmers hauled all the industrial-sized irrigation pipe they had available to West Yellowstone, but that wouldn’t be enough to stop the fire.
The critical factor was finding an adequate water source to feed the pipes.
To pump water through the pipes, they needed a hole — and fast.
There wasn’t time to excavate the bank of the river, so they blasted it with explosives.
The Woodsman Leads The Way
Mike Bryers was building a home for his family in West Yellowstone when he attended a meeting at the LDS church on Sept. 6, 1988. It’s a date he remembers well.
“I’ve kept a journal for 47 years just so I could remember all of this stuff,” he said. “Also, one of my kids was due to be born that night.”
As the church leaders coordinated with farmers, Bryers was tasked with clearing a path from West Yellowstone to the Madison River.
That meant taking a chainsaw to dozens of trees within the boundaries of Yellowstone, something that would’ve been unthinkable under normal circumstances.
“They knew I sold firewood and cut down problem trees for people.” he said. “I was a young fella who knew how to work a chainsaw, so they asked me to go ahead of the cavalcade of big trucks pulling irrigation pipes coming up from Idaho.”
Bryers, who would be immortalized in historical accounts as “The Woodsman,” followed the path the Riverside Ski Trail, which still runs from West Yellowstone across the park boundary to the Madison River.
He cut any trees that had fallen or were leaning into the trail to ensure large vehicles and their irrigation pipes could reach the river.
There was a surprise waiting for Bryers when he emerged from the forest at the riverbank: Yellowstone District Ranger Joseph Evans.
“Joe was scratching his head as I came out of the opening in an orange Ford truck,” Bryers said. “He said, ‘You can't be driving in here and using chainsaws.’ So I go, ‘I can't believe you haven't heard. I'm clearing the way for a big line of diesel trucks hauling pipe.’”
Despite having the full permission of the NPS and Clyde Seely, the fire commander, nobody had informed Evans that Bryer would be cutting through Yellowstone’s trees to get to the Madison River.
“He went off to see what in the world was happening,” Bryers said. “There was a lot of miscommunication back then.”
Blow It Up
The Idaho farmers brought several diesel-powered suction pumps to send water from the Madison River through the irrigation pipes. To work properly, they required a water source of sufficient depth.
The Madison River had plenty of water, but it was too shallow for the pumps to feed the pipes. At the direction of Howell and his fellow farmers, the NPS prepared to blow a crater at the chosen spot in the river.
“I went into (the park) with Bill Howell, Clyde Seely, and a few other guys to pick a spot in the Madison River where we wanted the hole,” Howell said. “They sent in a federal crew to blow it up.”
Soon, an unassuming Ryder rental truck arrived at the western bank of the river. Inside was a large amount of detonating cord, supplied by the federal government, that would be used to create the crater.
“They did one blast, and it turned out it wasn't quite enough to make the crater they needed,” Bryers said. “So, they put a bunch more of it in there for a second blast.”
Howell managed to capture a photo of one of the explosions, showing a tall column of water shooting out of the Madison River.
“I wish we’d taken more,” he said about recording the event, “but we were up there getting the job done, rather than standing around taking pictures.”
Bryers had the same regret. As he was putting some distance between himself and the second detonation, he noticed several farmers were standing alarmingly close, watching and waiting.
“I yelled at those Idaho potato farmers to get out of the way,” he said. “I told them there were going to be rock flying everywhere. They said, ‘That’s nothing. That last one didn’t do anything.’ And boom, off it goes.”
Bryers was right to be concerned about flying rocks. After the second detonation, he noticed that a 7,500-pound boulder had crashed through the top of the Ryder truck, landing on a massive coil of detonating cord.
“I wish that I would have got a picture of it, but I didn’t have my camera,” he said. “That rock was just sitting there on top of all the explosives.”
Whatever Works
The second detonation achieved the desired result.
A massive crater about 3 feet deep had been blasted down to the bedrock of the Madison River.
Bryers and another volunteer were tasked with wading into the river with shovels to clear as much debris out of the crater as they could. As they shoveled, they found themselves swarmed by curious reporters.
“All the reporters were asking us, ‘What’s the plan? What’s the next move?’ So, I told them, ‘You see the instruments were holding? When you see a man with the shovel, he knows zero,’” he said.
A 3-foot crater was deep enough for the suction pumps to work with. While Bryers shoveled, Howell and around 150 volunteers worked tirelessly to lay several lines of irrigation pipe on the eastern, northern, and southern sides of West Yellowstone.
“The hole was just deep enough to get our suction pumps in,” Howell said. “We ran the pipe through from the river to the town and surrounded it with sprinklers on three sides.”
It worked.
Between the spraying river water and saturated ground, West Yellowstone was saved from the encroaching flames.
The fire got concerningly close. Bryers was laying out a line of pipe from Duck Creek to the Fir Ridge Cemetery north of town when the fire caught up to him.
“Me and another fella stripped naked and jumped into the deep part of Duck Creek,” he said. “We wanted to come out and dry off, but there were a bunch of surprised Idaho farm boys watching from the bank.”
Reliable At Old Faithful
Immediately after West Yellowstone was deemed safe from the encroaching fire, the flames turned toward Old Faithful.
Since the irrigation pipe strategy proved so effective, the same methods and many of the same pipes were rushed to set up a defensive perimeter around Old Faithful’s historic infrastructure.
Protecting historic structures, such as the Old Faithful Inn, was the top priority as the flames burned closer and hotter. The inn’s timber structure was hosed down by fire engines to reduce the risk of fire, but more protection was needed.
“They wanted the irrigation pipes to protect the electrical substations at Old Faithful,” Howell said. “They really wanted to stop the fire at that particular spot.”
And, once again, it worked.
Old Faithful survived the inferno, thanks in no small part to the rapid mobilization, expertise, and contribution of the Idaho farmers and their irrigation pipes.
Howell didn’t join the farmers who mobilized to protect Old Faithful, but he said no explosives were used or needed to create a source of water deep enough to feed the pipes.
“I'm not sure where they found the water up there at Old Faithful, but they got everything surrounded and they shut that fire down.”
It Was A Blast
While there have been many books written about the 1988 Yellowstone fires, this explosive episode has almost slipped through the cracks of history.
Jeff Henry, a Yellowstone historian who published a book on the fires in 2015, wasn't aware that a crater had been blasted the Madison River, with full approval from the NPS.
"I've never heard of this story, and this is after having a great deal of personal experience during the 1988 fires," he said. "And I know Mike Bryers. I don't know why that hasn't come up in conversation between me and my friend before now."
Howell described his contribution to as “the most fun we ever had in a national park, but that didn’t mean it went off without some heated exchanges."
Howell said he and the other farmers butted heads with the Yellowstone rangers and fire crews on-site to coordinate the placement of the irrigation pipes.
“We kind of wanted the rangers to just get the hell out of our way,” he said. “You know how park rangers are — they’ve got to exert their authority. But we were a bunch of redneck farmers, so we went in there and got to arguing with the park rangers about how we were going to do things.”
The crater blasted into the Madison River is long gone, slowly filling with sediment until it disappeared completely a few years after the fires.
However, Bryers said the crater was a fishing hotspot until it was filled in.
“Trout liked to find a nice, deep, slow spot in the river, so I told my fly fishing friends about the crater,” he said. “They caught some big fish out there.”
The contribution of Bryers, Howell, and the other farmers and volunteers was invaluable. With their time, tools, and expertise, they saved a community and Yellowstone’s most iconic structure.
“It was scary, but it was a great experience,” Bryers said. “I haven't seen the (West Yellowstone) community be as so together since then. If someone wasn’t working, they were handing out sandwiches or water bottles. It was a great experience for many reasons.”
Despite the danger and exhaustive effort, both Bryers and Howell have fond memories of their time saving West Yellowstone. It’s safe to say they had a blast.
“They called us, and we got there and set up to help (protect West Yellowstone),” Howell said, "and we definitely helped.”
Andrew Rossi can be reached at arossi@cowboystatedaily.com.
