Fire Chief Jason Schneider watched the Cottonwood Fire tear through Nebraska's Loess Canyons in March, a landscape of steep slopes and invasive cedar trees that explode when burning, when something unexpected happened: the fight began to turn. His volunteer crew connected with the South Loup Burn Association, a group of ranchers and landowners who taught him a counterintuitive tactic—fighting fire with fire. They set controlled, low-intensity blazes in the fire's path to consume flammable material and contain the wildfire. "It would have burned a lot more if they hadn't showed up and helped us get it stopped where we did," Schneider said.
The moment captures Nebraska's deepest land management dilemma. As of May 6, wildfires had burned about 981,502 acres across the state—the worst fire season on record—reigniting fierce debate over prescribed burns, a centuries-old practice now seen by many fire ecologists as essential prevention. Yet the same month that the Cottonwood Fire demonstrated the power of controlled burning, heavy winds turned a smoldering prescribed burn in the Nebraska National Forest into the Road 203 wildfire, which devoured nearly 36,000 acres. Nebraska faces an impossible choice: the fires it starts, or the fires it must fight.
The state's predicament mirrors a national reckoning. Across America, decades of fire suppression combined with climate change have created landscapes primed to burn catastrophically. From California to Florida to New Jersey, fire districts and land managers increasingly turn to prescribed burns as prevention. Southern states led the way: Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina burned between 250,001 and 1 million acres through prescribed fire in 2020 alone. The practice is now standard in Oklahoma, Kansas, and Texas. Nebraska, particularly in its east and central regions, has embraced it too. The Nebraska Prescribed Fire Council estimates that 2025 saw the most acres burned by prescribed fire in a single year in recent history.
But in western Nebraska's Sandhills, the practice provoked fierce resistance. Keystone-Lemoyne Fire and Rescue Chief Ralph Moul recalled the moment a prescribed burn group tried to establish operations near Tryon and Mullen. "They almost lynched that group," he said. "They said 'No, we do not want fire in the Sandhills,' because there's nothing to stop it up here."
The fear is understandable but increasingly at odds with the science. When done correctly, prescribed burns prevent catastrophic wildfires by consuming volatile fuels like cedar trees that have invaded Nebraska's native grasslands after a century of fire suppression. The ecological benefits extend far beyond fire prevention: prescribed burns replenish soil nutrients, boost plant and wildlife diversity, and produce grass that cattle prefer, saving ranchers money. "The wildfires you've seen here in Nebraska the last few years are also a consequence of removing fire from the landscape," said Kent Pfeiffer, program manager for the Northern Prairies Land Trust. "You don't get rid of fire, you just change the nature of it."
About 92 percent of Nebraska's fire departments are volunteer-based, meaning the responsibility for this delicate balance falls largely on community members. As climate change brings more extreme conditions and a mild, dry winter set the stage for spring blazes, Nebraska faces mounting pressure to choose: continue suppressing fire and risk catastrophic wildfires, or embrace controlled burning and accept the small but real risk that comes with setting intentional fires. The state's 2025 season suggests the answer may be written in ash.