what does fire smell like when it heals?

on the edge of the boreal forest in northeastern minnesota, tribal stewards light ishkode, the ojibwe “good fire,” as a force of renewal. for generations, ojibwe used intentional burning to open the understory and keep the forest resilient. fire was a conversation with the land, ensuring that every being who relied on the forest, including mooz, the ojibwe name for moose, had what they needed to survive. now, ishkode may be the key for mooz survival in minnesota.

along the northern shore of lake superior, an area known to many as the arrowhead, the grand portage reservation is one of the last strongholds in the state for mooz, a species that has seen sharp population declines in recent years. 

for the grand portage band of lake superior chippewa, protecting mooz is both a cultural responsibility and a treaty duty. under the treaty of la pointe of 1854, the band retained the right to hunt, fish, and gather across the lands of northeastern minnesota, rights inseparable from the responsibility to care for the species that share them. today, that stewardship includes minnesota’s only active moose-collaring program, where gps collars transmit location, movement, and survival data to researchers, blending western wildlife science with indigenous ecological knowledge.

in 2005, the mooz population in minnesota numbered over 8,000 individuals, but is now estimated to be half that number. biologists across minnesota have explored many possible causes of the decline, from predators to habitat loss. but another, more elusive culprit stands out: a parasitic worm known as brainworm, or parelaphostrongylus tenuis.

brainworm: a silent killer

parelaphostrongylus tenuis is a parasitic nematode which commonly infects white-tailed deer. in deer, it is very unlikely to cause disease, but in mooz, infection is almost always fatal. once inside the mooz, brainworm invades the brain and spinal cord, causing disorientation, difficulty walking, and eventually death. recent research suggests that up to 45% of dead mooz in minnesota had parelaphostrongylus tenuis present in their brain.

mooz have no natural defenses for the parasite given they have historically been unexposed to brainworm thanks to one key characteristic of northern minnesota: cold winters. mooz are highly adapted for life in the deep snow and bitter cold. deer are not. as winters grow milder and snow cover decreases, white-tailed deer are expanding their range into areas historically dominated by mooz. 

“we’re seeing more overlap between deer and moose habitats than ever before,” said anna weesies, a wildlife biologist with the grand portage band of lake superior chippewa who studies moose health and survival. “because deer carry brainworm without being affected by it, their growing presence in moose territory is creating a dangerous situation for moose populations.”

but this left researchers like weesies wondering, how are mooz getting brainworm from white-tailed deer?

slugging through the brainworm puzzle

scientists have long understood the broad outline of brainworm transmission. infected deer shed larvae in their feces. snails and slugs ingest the larvae. mooz eventually consume those gastropods while feeding. but where those encounters occur was less understood. through gps collar data, the grand portage team began noticing mooz returning to the same muddy depressions.

“we began to identify mineral licks, or these naturally-occurring areas with valuable and needed minerals like salt and calcium, where mooz and deer would visit often.” weesies said. “we think these could be hotspots for transmission, where mooz ingest infected snails and slugs.”

local community members had long known mooz frequented these spots, knowledge passed down in families well before gps collars existed. the data illuminated what traditional ecological knowledge had observed: mineral licks may be key hotspots where mooz ingest infected gastropods.

with this understanding, the tribe is now mapping more licks, monitoring patterns of use with camera traps, and identifying which snail species pose the highest risk. it is a clear example of how indigenous knowledge and western science strengthen one another, revealing ecological relationships that neither fully captures alone.

more than a species

for the ojibwe of grand portage, mooz are far more than a species. mooz are relatives, teachers, and providers. there is an old saying that when there are no more mooz, there will be no more ojibwe. the relationship is ancient and intimate. antlers carved into tools. hides sewn into warm clothing. mooz hair embroidered onto cradleboards and ceremonial regalia. as mooz decline, this cultural inheritance frays.

“mooz are a big part of the winter protein for our family, friends, and community. it is a great way to bring everyone together to help process the harvest and tell stories,” said poe deschampe, a life-long grand portage resident and wildlife technician. 

as brainworm spreads and mooz are lost, relationships and responsibilities carried across generations are disrupted, turning attention back to the land and what it has long been teaching.

a path forward

recent research now supports what ojibwe teachings of ishkode have always held. prescribed burns reduce snail and slug populations, lowering disease risk and renewing the land in ways beneficial to mooz. what western science presents as a new management tool, indigenous people recognize as the continuation of a much older conversation with the forest.

this is not a choice between tradition and science. it is the place where they meet.

in 2025, minnesota’s mooz population rose slightly to an estimated 4,040 animals. it is a small sign that tribal-led stewardship and the return of good fire may be slowing the decline. yet the pressures remain. 

for the grand portage band and other tribes across northern minnesota, protecting mooz is about more than preserving a species. it is a fight to safeguard cultural heritage and to ensure that future generations can inherit landscapes rich in life, resilience, and meaning.

i have watched what brainworm can do to a mooz. i have stood over the animals we lost and walked the forests of those still holding on. even with all we now understand, i keep returning to the same truth: our best path forward comes from listening to western research, to indigenous knowledge, and to the land itself.

so the question remains.

what does fire smell like when it heals?

to me, it smells like hope.