by Bev Prescott
Zoe pulled on the harness and cinched it tight. The hot wind from the fire bore down on her and reminded her that time was of the essence. With or without an air tank, she was going up into that tree. She sat down on the ground, attached the climbing spurs to her boots, and secured the leg straps. As she reached into her bag for her helmet, Rob and a firefighter raced toward her. The firefighter carried a small oxygen tank and mask.
“I hope that’s for me.” She stood.
“Yep, but you’d better hurry,” the firefighter said. “That fire’s getting closer, and the blowing embers could start another blaze any place in front of it wherever the wind takes them. You don’t want to be up there in that tree if it catches fire.” He hoisted the tank onto Zoe’s back.
It felt heavier than she’d expected. She turned to face Rob and the firefighter, adjusted her helmet, and placed the tank mask over her face. The firefighter tightened the tank’s straps and turned the cylinder on.
Rob shook her by the shoulders. “Be careful.”
“We’ll be right here in case you need us,” the firefighter said.
Zoe nodded and sucked in a big breath of oxygen. It made her feel a little light-headed.
“You okay?” Rob asked.
She gave him a thumbs-up.
“Keep your breathing slow and steady, so you don’t get dizzy,” the firefighter said. “Focus on the task at hand and get back down on the ground as quickly as possible.”
“She’s like a laser beam when it comes to focus,” Rob said. “She borders on being one dimensional.”
Zoe shook her head. Just like Rob to take advantage of her not being able to speak. She heard his laughter over the fire and the noise of the firefighters. She stepped in front of the tree and attached one end of the flipline to a carabiner on the left side of her harness. She tossed the other end around the back side of the tree and caught it with her right hand. She clipped that end onto a second carabiner hanging off of the right side of her harness and adjusted the length of the flipline to fit the tree.
Damn it. Her climbing gloves were still in the bag. There wasn’t a second to spare to wait for Rob to get them for her. They didn’t fit her well anyway. In a split second, she decided it was better to have good dexterity and get moving rather than wait for skin-saving gloves that might slow her down.
Zoe raised her arms to eye level and adjusted the flipline, letting it catch the back of the tree above her. She raised her right leg high and dug the spur attached to the inside of her boot hard into the bark. It went in deep. She lifted the other leg and did the same, sliding the flipline up as she went, essentially walking up the trunk.
The weight of the tank on her back helped keep her torso away from the tree so the flipline stayed tight. After several rounds of sliding the flipline and walking her way up the tree, the muscles in her thighs and shoulders burned.
Her breathing was heavy, in part due to the exertion, but also because of how unnatural it was to breathe with the tank and mask. She couldn’t allow herself to pass out from the exertion or too much oxygen. “Slow down, Zoe,” she muttered.
Looking down, she saw Rob and a small group of firefighters gathered below her. She looked up. She had another forty or so feet to climb with several branch whorls in the way.
As she reached each one, she climbed into it, undid the flipline to get past it, and reattached the line. Ignoring the pain in her legs and arms, she closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping her wits about her. Sweat in the palms of her hands and her tight grip on the flipline had already caused the beginnings of blisters.
She willed herself to keep moving one step at a time, and in a climb that seemed to take forever, at last made it to the base of the nest. She’d have to detach the flipline to get over the edge of the nest, and the only things stabilizing her would be her handhold on the nest and whatever purchase she could find with the spurs. Dwelling on that fact would only cause her to hesitate, which she couldn’t afford to do. Don’t think about it. Just do it.
She reached over the edge of the nest with her left hand, but she couldn’t climb any higher with the spurs. If she did, she’d end up parallel to the ground with her belly against the bottom of the nest and nothing to keep her from falling. Damn these short legs. She stepped down a couple of feet. Her only option involved holding herself with one hand at the edge of the nest, keeping her spurs dug into the tree, and unclipping the flipline.
Her legs shook as she undid the flipline and reached up with her other hand. She took a deep breath and held on tight to the nest as she let her feet go. She had to lift not only her own weight into the nest but the weight of the tank as well.
“Those chin-ups are about to come in handy, Kimball,” she said under her breath.
Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she pulled herself into the nest. Her heart sank at what she saw. The eaglet lay on its side, barely moving.
On her hands and knees in the nest, she scrambled for the canvas bag in the pouch of her harness and placed the limp eaglet into it. She zipped the bag closed and slung it over her back. Now she’d have it and the tank to contend with.
If she was going to fall, this would be the time. She scanned the branches that secured the nest, looking for good handholds. She needed to hold herself steady while she worked to dig her spurs into the trunk. The smoke made it difficult to see. The only good news was that the fire seemed to have slowed its forward momentum. It didn’t reach nearly as high into the sky as it had when she and Rob arrived.
In the tangle of branches that held the nest, she spotted two thick branches close to each other. She lay on her belly, letting her feet dangle over the side near the two branches. Carefully, she scooted her body over the edge of the nest until only her arms held her. She kicked her feet, hoping to make contact with the tree, but the effort was futile with her short legs. Without hesitation, she gripped one branch and then the other, and hung by her arms a foot and a half below the nest. She raised her knees and slammed her feet hard into the tree. The spurs sank in deep.
She took a brief rest, holding steady by her feet to take some of the burden off her exhausted shoulders. The end of the flipline hung down at her left side. Her next crucial step would be to let go of one of the branches so she could attach the flipline.
Before she could make her move, the right branch gave way. Zoe instinctively tightened her grip on the left branch and felt a jolt of pain in her hand as a sharp piece of bark cut into her flesh. Her shoulder felt like it was being pulled from its socket by the weight of her body, the tank, and the eaglet strapped to her back. She reached across her chest for the end of the flipline attached to a carabiner. “Don’t fucking drop this thing, Zoe.”
On autopilot now, she unclipped the flipline, for once grateful that the department hadn’t splurged on the more expensive locking carabiners that required two hands to open. With this one, all she had to do was unscrew it by pushing the locking mechanism with her thumb several times.
Once she had the carabiner undone, she held it tightly and clipped it onto the right side of her harness. Her shoulder burned and her legs ached. She grabbed the free end of the flipline and wrapped her arm as far around the trunk as she could reach.
She pressed her body against the tree, bounced slightly on the spurs to make sure they were still dug in, and let go of the branch. Her left hand tried to meet her right around the back of the tree, but the trunk’s diameter was too great. Maintaining a bear hug grip on the tree with her right arm, she flung the flipline around with her free hand until she was able to grab it with her fingers. She pulled it down to the right side of her harness and clipped it into the carabiner, slid the flipline up the tree, and let it catch on the bark. Only then did she lean back into the harness saddle for a sweet moment of rest.
A long rest wasn’t an option if she hoped to save the dying eaglet. Sweat drenched her clothing, and the inside of her hand burned. Blood streaked the flipline where she held onto it.
Sh
e moved so methodically down the tree, she didn’t notice a television film crew had arrived on the scene until her feet touched the ground. Ignoring them, she unclipped from the flipline, dropped to her knees, and tried to catch her breath.
Rob knelt next to her. “You okay?”
Zoe threw off her helmet and the oxygen mask. “Open the bag, Rob,” she said, panting.
Rob unclipped the bag from her back, laid it between them, and unzipped the top. Zoe reached into it to retrieve the bird. It wasn’t breathing. Remembering a recent story about a veterinarian who had successfully performed artificial respiration on an adult eagle, she leaned over, covered the bird’s beak with her mouth, and breathed several times. Finally, the eaglet moved slightly and squeaked in a breath of its own.
“Thank you.” She fell back onto her butt. “We have to get it to the raptor rehab facility in Lewiston.”
Rob took her hand and turned it over. The palm was covered in blood and dirt. “I’ll take the eaglet. You stay here and have the paramedics look at your hand. You might need some stitches.”
Zoe was too spent to argue. “How’s the fire?”
“Better than when we got here. They’re still working on it but finally making progress. You going to be all right?”
“Yeah, go. Don’t make climbing that tree be in vain while you fret over me,” Zoe said.
“You still have your smart mouth. Now I know you’re fine.” Rob wrapped the eaglet in a towel.
Zoe watched him whisk the eaglet away through the crowd of onlookers. Someone thrust a microphone in her face.
“That was an amazing thing you did,” the person said. “I’m a reporter for the local news. Can you describe what it felt like to climb that tree with the fire heading toward you?”
“Hot,” Zoe said, pushing the microphone away. “Please, I’m no mood to talk right now.”
A paramedic knelt down next to her and placed a first-aid kit on the ground. “Do you mind if I have a look?”
The reporter interrupted. “People care about what you did to save something as precious as an eagle. It’s our nation’s symbol, after all.”
Zoe held her injured hand out to the paramedic. “Seriously? From what I can tell, people only care if there’s a dramatic story involved that doesn’t harm their interests. It’s hot news when a wildlife biologist climbs a burning tree to save an eagle. But I’m vilified when, in order to save an eagle, I prevent someone from building a parking lot.”
“The public has a right to know about this story. Do I need to remind you that the tax-payers of this state pay your salary?”
Zoe bit back a response. What she wanted to say would surely get her into trouble with her boss. She’d love to remind the fickle public about its hypocrisies that were too many to count. Things like America being the land of the free and home of the brave, unless one was gay or lesbian, of course.
“Hmm,” she said with a grunt.
The paramedic took a piece of gauze out of the first-aid kit. “She said she’s not interested in talking. Why don’t you give her some space?” He placed the gauze over the cuts in her palm.
“Man, that hurts,” Zoe said.
“Yep, that’s why we’re taking you to the hospital to get it cleaned and stitched up.” He taped the gauze in place and helped her to her feet.
The reporter stepped out of the way. “Can we catch you later for an interview?”
“We’ll see.” Zoe had no intention of talking to any reporters. “I have an appointment this morning that I’m already late for. Today is out of the question.” She walked with the paramedic to a waiting ambulance.
Chapter 8
The shower after her early morning run rejuvenated Alex. Running in the hour before sunrise had been particularly peaceful. Maine at dawn was breathtaking in its silence except for the sounds of birds waking to the day. The rising sun under the clouds painted the sky in fiery oranges. Normally, she would’ve run earlier, but she’d wanted to make sure she was available when Zoe arrived.
Now standing at the top of the stairs in the home she grew up in, just across the street from the camp, Alex looked at the pictures filling the space along the staircase’s wall—photographs of the Marcottes who’d lived in the two-hundred-year-old saltbox through the years. She ran her palm along the length of the smooth balustrade as she made her way down the stairs. Years of polish and oil from human hands left the wood silky soft to the touch.
A framed photograph of her family hung near the bottom of the stairs, taken when her brother was still alive. Jake had always disliked getting his picture taken, but in this one, his head was thrown back in laughter. It always amazed her how much they looked alike. He was the male version of her with thick dark hair, brown eyes, and a long, lean frame.
Alex smiled and touched the glass that held the memory. Her mother had promised them both a stop at the local creamery for ice cream if they cooperated with the photographer. To ensure that her brother kept his end of the bargain, she had told him a joke that always made him laugh, timing it right before the photograph was taken. Tears threatened to replace her smile when she thought of the sound of her brother’s voice. She finished making her way to the landing at the bottom of the staircase.
Her grandmother’s prized possession, a colonial era mirror, held its place along the wall. Rather than her physical appearance, Alex’s reflection in the milky, warped glass resembled what she felt on the inside: a ghost of the girl she used to be. She also had a resemblance to her mother that seemed to become more prominent as she aged.
Voices coming from the living room suggested that her father was up and watching the morning news program. For as long as she could remember, his day started before dawn, and he always took a morning break in his chair in front of the television with a cup of coffee as soon as the news came on.
She made her way toward the sound and stopped in the doorway of the living room. Sure enough, he was sitting in his chair, sipping coffee, and getting lost in the cares of the world broadcast by the local news network. She surveyed the room. The thirty-six-inch digital television set was the only modern piece of furniture in a house filled with antiques.
“Good morning, Dad,” she said.
His eyes never left the TV screen. “How was your run?” he asked.
“Great. It’s a beautiful morning. The fresh air in Maine is so much nicer than southern California.”
He placed his coffee cup on the end table and turned to her. “We could’ve used your help this morning. I hope we’ll be able to count on you at least some of the time while you’re here.”
“All you have to do is ask. I’m happy to adjust when I run, as long as I get one in.”
Daniel gripped the armrests of his chair and hoisted himself up, taking several seconds to find his balance on unsteady legs. “I shouldn’t have to ask.”
Guilt and resentment toward him battled for prominence in Alex’s heart. There was so much she wanted to say to him. The voice of the television news anchor intruded.
“We interrupt this broadcast for breaking news. As firefighters battle to control a brush fire in Castor, State Wildlife Biologist Zoe Kimball made a daring climb this morning up a sixty-foot-tall pine tree to save one of this year’s eaglets from the encroaching flames.”
An image of Zoe sitting on the ground, covered in soot and sweat, while a paramedic examined her hand flashed across the screen.
“She successfully performed artificial resuscitation on the bird after it was overcome by smoke. Kimball sustained a minor injury and has been taken to a local hospital for treatment. The eaglet is said to be doing well at the raptor rehabilitation facility in Lewiston. Stay tuned for updates on the news at noon.”
“I was supposed to meet her later this morning,” Alex said.
“Her supervisor called while you were out. One of Ms. Kimball’s colleagues will be dropping off her truck and equipment later this afternoon. He said we should still expect her this morning. She’s insisting on
keeping her schedule. I admire her dedication. Please show a little by sticking around until she arrives.” Daniel moved toward where she stood.
She didn’t budge from her place in the doorway, effectively blocking his path. “Are we going to do this the whole time I’m here?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Not talk to each other.”
“That’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it? If you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead of me. Our first group of campers is coming in tomorrow, and I have to help James get things ready.”
“You know that’s not what I mean by talking.”
“I’ll tell you what I know. You left me all alone to take care of this place and your mother. You never once looked back. It’s as if your family never even existed. You’ve been here more than a week, and you’ve yet to consider going to see your mother. I don’t expect we have all that much to talk about until you stop being so selfish.”
It didn’t matter that Alex was a successful thirty-year-old professor of history. In her father’s presence, she struggled to be more than a twelve-year-old girl. The doorbell rang. She stepped aside.
As Daniel pushed past her, he asked, “Will you get that, please?”
Anything she might say remained tangled in a mess of competing emotions. Her aging father still loomed large. She despised herself for not being able to follow through with standing up to him. She went to the door and opened it, finding a tall, skinny, teenager.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I’m Eric, one of this year’s camp counselors. You must be Mr. Marcotte’s daughter, Alex.”
“Yes.”
“It’s good to meet you. James wanted me to let you know Zoe Kimball is here.” Eric pointed over his shoulder toward the camp’s main building. “Did you hear about what she did this morning to save the eaglet? That is so wicked cool. The kids are going to love getting the chance to meet her.”