Early in the history of the national parks, a visitor could expect to see staff perform unnatural stunts. To the modern visitor, these events would seem totally out of place. Rather than interpreting the landscape, one might find people exploiting the landscape and its wildlife instead.
Public bear feeding was one-such ill-informed enterprise. On a given summer day in Yellowstone National Park in the 1920s, it wouldn’t be surprising to see the park superintendent seated at a picnic table with black bears—feeding them trash. Tourists loved this, applauding and feeling encouraged to engage wildlife at a proximity that would have them judged a “Touron” by the internet nowadays.
Another “unnatural attraction” was the Firefall in Yosemite National Park. The Firefall began by accident in the 1870s, but soon became a staple of 20th century entertainment in the valley. A large-looming NPS character ended the practice in the 1960s, which is why you can’t see it today. Nevertheless, its legend lives on.
The accidental Yosemite Firefall
In 1899, David Curry erected less than a dozen tent-cabins at the base of Glacier Point in Yosemite Valley. By the early 1900s, Camp Curry was a well established concessioner, providing rustic accommodations and nightly entertainment to visitors. The pinnacle of their evening program was the Firefall, which began at 9:00 PM every night, seven nights a week.
To create the Firefall, Curry employees lit a bonfire of red cedar bark atop Glacier Point around 7:00 PM. By the time dark fell, there was a sizable heap of coals ready to be pushed over the precipice with metal rakes. The gradual flow of embers created an incredible spectacle, a red-hot shimmering cascade illuminating the grey-white granite of the valley wall. Surely, it was a sight—maybe even better than the spectacle of Horsetail Falls that draws visitors to Yosemite every February.
Curry got the idea from long-term park visitors reminiscing about past experiences. The story goes that the Firefall came about by accident, started by the proprietor of the Glacier Point Mountain House, which sat on the rim of Yosemite Valley. James McCauley, who ran the establishment, would build large fires in the 1870s for the comfort of his guests. At the end of the evening, he disposed of the burnt out bonfire by pushing it over the canyon wall.
Visitors below saw the veritable waterfall of embers and by accident a Yosemite tradition was born. Soon, people began asking McCauley to perform the Firefall more often. Seeing a business opportunity, he charged a small fee for irregular showings. Long after McCauley left Yosemite Valley, David Curry resurrected the practice, making it a nightly spectacle—but not forever.
The end of the unnatural Firefall
When Director George Hartzog, Jr. took command of the NPS in 1964, it marked the beginning of the end for Yosemite’s unnatural entertainment. “The Fire-fall in Yosemite Valley was an anachronism,” he wrote in his autobiography Battling for the National Parks. “I resolved to eliminate it.”
Hartzog believed that the national parks should be places reserved for rustic, natural experiences. For many, coming to the parks was an attempt to escape the spectacle, fanfare, and showmanship of modern life. Events like the Firefall contradicted that wilderness virtue of places like Yosemite National Park.
In addition to the Firefall, the 1960s campground culture of Yosemite badly needed reforming. Visitors often camped outside of designated areas and “every evening a pall of smoke hung over the Valley.” Hartzog began developing policies to tighten restrictions intended to protect the valley and keep the visitor experience authentic. Chief among these policies was the cancellation of the Firefall.
Surprisingly, those who had the most to gain from the Firefall agreed to its demise. The concessioner in charge, the Yosemite Park & Curry Company, had their own problems with the program. “I learned that the Fire-fall had become an expensive operation [for them] because the company had to forage further and further away to collect the red cedar bark—the ideal fuel for the Fire-fall,” wrote Hartzog.
The final Firefall took place in January of 1968. To avoid a rush of sentimental onlookers, no announcement was made that it would be the final time the burning red coals would be poured off Glacier Point.
The Firefall began by accident and ended anonymously. If he were alive today, George Hartzog would certainly be glad a natural Firefall has taken its place.
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