Dragon legends play a powerful role in mountain folklore. In European tales of yore, a dragon often dwells in a remote lair, which is nestled deep in a timbered and rugged landscape that towers high and secluded above town. However, when provoked, the dragon uses its power to fire scorch the lands below his domain, consuming everything that dare cross his path.

On Monday, the dragon that sleeps in the mountains above my town of Boulder, Colorado awoke with a vengeance. Most days, even most years, he sleeps peacefully and lets us live, play and love in the thickly wooded mountains that ground our place in space and time. However, officials confirmed this morning that he ravaged at least 95 structures, consumed more than 7,000 acres and is still uncontained.

The truth about conservation is that some of the best work is done by intelligent folks sitting in front of computer screens, tied to a global community by a tangle of phone and internet lines, or in a board rooms surrounded by like-minded Patagonia- and Carhartt-clad colleagues. Several years ago I made the commitment to surrender to the requisite technology, frequent meetings, plane trips and long days indoors that are needed to make effective conservation happen; however, I also vowed to live within the wild archetypal landscapes I work hard to conserve.