One Careless Moment

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  It takes a moment to build the courage to turn back.

  The top of an old ponderosa, snapped off by a blast of superheated air, smoulders and crackles several yards from Brashaw’s shelter. It was this mass of fuel that destroyed the side of his shelter, the wind-driven flames eating the thin foil. The underlying fibreglass mesh is blown in, leaving the side of the shelter fully open. As if that weren’t bad enough, the intact interior wall of the shelter reflected heat back onto Brashaw’s grotesquely burned body.

  I didn’t hear him screaming; I can only hope that means he went quickly.

  I retch suddenly, the force of it bringing me to my knees. It leaves me weak and I kneel on the scorched rock, stare blankly at the scene before me. Where there was colour there is now only austere shades of grey and black, like stepping into an old photograph. The slope at the back of the ridge — where Brashaw and I struggled uphill — lies exposed, a precipitous wasteland of carbonized poles, talc-fine ash, and drifting smoke. Somewhere down there is what’s left of the truck. As I search for it, I catch flashes of colour, tiny yellow forms working their way toward me.

  When they’re closer I stand; it seems disrespectful to be found just sitting here. Galloway comes first, puffing, her features anxious and strained. Others follow, moving a little slower. I walk around the fallen tree, meet her away from Brashaw’s remains. From here, you can see very little.

  “Cassel,” she says, breathing hard. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  I nod, frowning. She brushes sooty hair away from her eyes.“Where’s the other guy?”

  When I shake my head, Galloway winces. She takes a step toward the cliff and I grab her arm.

  “You don’t want to go up there.”

  She wrenches free her arm and stalks away, toward the cliff. I don’t want to return to the ridge and face what remains of Brashaw. Galloway’s entourage is almost past me when I turn and walk after her. I find her kneeling in front of the open side of Brashaw’s shelter, her head hung.

  “Jesus Christ,” she says softly. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Other boots scuff up behind us. I hear heavy breathing but nobody says anything. Galloway lets out a low, half-stifled sob and I lay a hand on her sooty shoulder. She looks up at me, her eyes anguished. “I didn’t see it in time,” she says. “I didn’t realize it was over the line.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It went so fast.”

  “I know.” I look around, toward the tail of the fire where the trees are still green; into the canyon where the fire still crawls — anywhere but at what’s in front of me. The way the two shelters are deployed, it’s obvious Brashaw’s shelter saved my life. “I’ll need your radio.”

  Mechanically, Galloway unsnaps her belt radio and hands it to me.

  “We should cover him,” a voice says behind me.

  “No,” says another, hushed. “We have to leave him.”

  I turn, look at firefighters who stand like nervous pallbearers. “You guys don’t need to be here. Maybe you could just back up, give us some room.”

  They back up, no doubt relieved. I key the mike.

  “Kershaw Lookout, this is Cassel on Incident 47.”

  “Kershaw here. Go ahead Cassel.”

  I pause. There’s no easy way to say this. “There’s been a burnover. We have a fatality.”

  For a moment the radio is silent, then Kershaw comes on sounding strained.

  “Cassel, this is Kershaw. Please confirm that you have a fatality.”

  I confirm.

  “Are there any other injuries?”

  “Negative.”

  “Stand by, Cassel.”

  “You hear stories,” Galloway says quietly. “See things on the news. You never expect —”

  Kershaw comes on abruptly, all business now. Help is on the way. So are investigators. Do not touch anything. No further radio communication regarding the whereabouts or identity of the injured firefighter. Is smokejumper Sue Galloway in the vicinity?

  Galloway looks up sharply, lumbers to her feet. I pass on that she’s in the vicinity.

  I’m relieved of duty. Galloway will be the incident commander until help arrives.

  I nod as though Dispatch were watching, hand the radio back to Galloway.

  The helicopter, a silver A-Star, lands a hundred yards away on the ridge. It came in low and fast, banked once for a quick overview, then picked its spot, the skids sliding a little on the rock. There are two passengers, both wearing Forest Service brown. They duck as they exit the bird and run crouched, holding hard hats at their side. One of them carries a small duffle bag. We meet a dozen yards from Brashaw’s shelter. The older of the two, a short rounded man with white hair and a bushy white moustache, is Herb Grey, chief ranger of the Carson Lake District. I met him two days ago at the station. He indicates the man with the duffle bag.

  “Cassel, this is Wilfred Aslund. He’s our district investigator.”

  Aslund and I nod to each other; no one is in a hand-shaking mood.

  Galloway is introduced as the smokejumper-in-charge and by some general, unspoken consent we move slowly toward the crumpled fire shelters. Grey takes point and we give him plenty of room. He stands in front of Brashaw’s shelter for a few long minutes, intent, his moustache twitching, then crosses himself and walks carefully around both shelters.

  “You were in the other shelter?”

  I nod, although Grey probably already knew this.

  “You okay, Cassel? You burned anywhere?”

  I shrug. My hands and feet hurt, and there’s a line of fire across my back, but right now it seems insignificant. “I’m okay.”

  “You breathing all right?”

  He’s watching me carefully, like I might collapse. “I’m fine.”

  “No macho bullshit?”

  “No sir.”

  He stares a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “So what happened?”

  Behind us, the helicopter winds down like a toy low on batteries. When the pilot kills the rotors it’s suddenly very quiet and everyone is looking at me. I shift uncomfortably, remembering Brashaw’s nervousness in the truck when he realized where we were. Now, the curse seems too real, but as I tell the story it’s the one thing I leave out. I tell Grey about arriving at the fire, my concerns about assessing behaviour without an aerial perspective, finding the fusee cap and origin, the trip to the ridge. It’s the condensed version, but it’s fairly compelling. No doubt they’ll want the full, unabridged version later.

  “Arson,” he says, scowling. “Goddamn it. Brashaw was a good guy.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You didn’t see anyone headed out when you drove up here?”

  “No sir.”

  I’m talking like a Marine. Maybe there’s some security in the formal approach. Maybe I just don’t feel like talking. Grey must be able to see this. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Try not to think about this for a while,” he says, as if that were possible. “We’ll fly you back to town. You can clean up, get some distance from what happened here. We’ve got a psychologist on contract you can talk to, off the record of course. We’ll get your statement tomorrow.”

  Aslund looks disappointed. He’s tall and wiry, full of energy. By the way he’s been glancing around and shifting on his feet, he obviously has questions he wants to ask. Galloway keeps peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. I think she’s worried he might try to pin this on her.

  “I’d like to stay for a while,” I tell Grey.

  He gives me a hard look. “You sure?”

  I nod.

  “Okay,” he says quietly. “For a little while, anyway.”

  The radio barks. A sheriff ’s deputy and an emergency medical technician are at the tail of the fire and need transport to the fatality scene. Grey calls the pilot and tells him to get down there, pick those boys up. After the helicopter augers away, Grey turns to Aslund, tells him to do his thing, then stands away from the ruined shelters and looks d
ownwind, toward the head of the fire. On the south flank the fire has burned to the top of a parallel, lower ridge, throwing up a veil of smoke. The horizon, once occupied by mountain peaks, has been blotted out. While we wait for the helicopter to return, Grey makes use of his radio, leaving no doubt about who is in command.

  “Where are those goddamn bombers?” he barks at Kershaw Lookout.

  “Stand by Mr. Grey.”

  “Don’t tell me to stand by, goddamn it. Tell them we’ve got a fire rolling up the mountain here and we need resources. I need a full Type II Incident Management Team with air support. Order three more crews, two more dozer units, and two more engine modules. Tell them to start working on a base location and get someone in line to handle the media right away. And have them call the Missoula Technology Development Center, get some of their boys out here to check over the shelters and personal protective equipment. You got all that?”

  “Uh, yes sir.” I can almost hear her scribbling. “Just one thing Mr. Grey —”

  “Go ahead.”

  “They want to know when you’ll have a Wildfire Situation Analysis ready.”

  “Tell them they’ll get their damn analysis when I get my bombers.”

  Kershaw copies. Grey glares at us, his moustache twitching. No one meets his eye.

  “Where are the rest of your men, Galloway?”

  Galloway briefs him on the status and location of resources presently on the fire. Dozerline cut nearly to the cliff, but overrun. Three of the four engines gone to refill. I wander away, no longer part of the command structure. I’m a witness now. A survivor. The helicopter returns, coming straight in this time. But it doesn’t land, hovers alarmingly close, rotorwash rippling Brashaw’s shelter, threatening to blow it away. It’s a different helicopter.

  Grey snatches up his radio. “Get the hell out of here,” he hollers, pointing at them.

  The helicopter swings up and around, over the ridge. I can see the cameraman hunched in the front seat, pivoting to follow the action. In the back seat, a woman in a blue business suit cranes her neck. We’re probably live, beaming into every living room in Montana, maybe the entire country.

  “Listen up,” Grey hollers into the radio. “We’ve got a tfr on this fire.”

  The pilot acts dumb, buying video bytes. “Come again?”

  Grey’s face is red. “A temporary flight restriction. Five thousand feet and five miles.”

  There’s a brief pause, then the pilot acknowledges and the machine begins to rise.

  “Assholes,” Grey grumbles, watching them go. High above us, the helicopter begins to circle. Grey checks Brashaw’s shelter, shaking his head. The whap of our own helicopter grows louder. The deputy sheriff and emt join the growing crowd on the ridge. The deputy’s name is Wayne Compton. The emt is referred to simply as Hal. Everyone seems to know everyone else. Except Galloway and me — we hang back a bit, beyond the inner circle. Our importance in the grand scheme of things continues to diminish.

  “Let’s clear the site,” says Compton, waving a hand.“No non-essential personnel.”

  A few firefighters, the ones who came up with Galloway, are shooed farther back. The deputy and emt approach Brashaw’s shelter, the emt crouching beside the body, checking vitals. Given the state of the corpse, it’s a formality. “Gone,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. Compton flips open a small notebook, checks his watch. His uniform is dark green with a crest on the sleeve, his rank in yellow bars. sheriff is printed in bright yellow letters across his back. He’s very crisp, very clean. Not for long out here, though.

  “Can you confirm the deceased’s identity?” he asks Grey.

  “Bert Brashaw,” Grey says curtly. “Crew boss. One of my men.”

  Compton nods, looking around at each of us. I’ve seen the look before; he’s taking a photocopy, a reasonable facsimile, storing us away for later reference. That done, he crouches next to the body, pulls on white surgical latex gloves. When they’re snapped in place, he begins to examine Brashaw, peering, gently moving aside scraps of clothing. Aslund crouches over him, breathing in his ear. Compton stops, looks back at him.

  “Need a hand?” Aslund asks.

  Compton pulls a roll of yellow crime scene ribbon from a pack.“Here, flag off the scene.”

  Aslund hesitates, obviously wanting to get in on the real action. Personally, I’d prefer a little distance. Aslund frowns and starts stringing the ribbon. Since there are no trees here he lays it on the ground, anchoring it with slabs of shale. The deputy reaches across and under the corpse, turning him onto his side. Brashaw rolls over like a burned log.

  “You looking for anything in particular?” Grey asks.

  Compton doesn’t look up from his work. “It’s just procedure.”

  “You don’t seriously think there’s foul play here do you?”

  “You never know.”

  Grey draws himself to his full stubby height but the effect is lost on Compton, who continues his work, looking for knife wounds or whatever. Grey coughs, grumbles under his breath.

  “Perhaps there’s something you can do,” says Compton.

  Grey scratches under the brim of his hard hat, smoothes his moustache. Clearly, he thinks this is a Forest Service affair. He stares at the back of the deputy a minute longer, then turns toward me. “Come on Cassel, let’s go for a look at this fire.”

  Fires appear different when seen from the air. They’re silent and look smaller against the surrounding forest. They can appear deceptively benign, almost beautiful in their own way. But there’s nothing beautiful about this one. It’s a killer, belching flames and poisonous fumes.

  A real dragon. The helicopter banks and we circle to the beast’s spiny tail.

  Two engines have returned and sit on the narrow bush road like bright red and green toy trucks. Men in yellow stand next to the tankers. Others walk along the dozerline — now surrounded by black on both sides — as if trying to figure out what happened. The dozer toils up the south flank, cutting line along the new fire perimeter. It looks disorganized down there. In my headset I hear Grey giving directions, getting things rolling. He pauses and I see his head shake.

  “Damn,” he mutters through the intercom. “What a cluster.”

  He’s in the front seat and I can’t read his expression, but he must not think much of my leadership abilities, letting something like this happen. That makes two of us. I wait until Grey is done giving orders from his lofty perch before asking to set down at the tail. I want to look at where the fire jumped the line, but Grey shakes his head.

  “Negative, Cassel. As soon as they’re done with you, you’re headed out of here.”

  We fly in silence for a few minutes. The bombers arrive, a group of old Navy P2Vs. We rise to five thousand feet and the fire looks smaller, more abstract. Grey talks with the lead plane, a small Cessna which flies ahead of the three bombers, guiding them in for their drops. I stare down at the canyon — from here it looks much steeper as it rises up the side of the mountain — and think of other fires I’ve heard of where more than trees were burned. Mann Gulch. Storm King. Winthrop. Over the years, hundreds of firefighters have been killed on the line, in dozens of notorious fires.

  Now there’s another name to add to the list — the Holder’s Canyon Fire.

  Brashaw mentioned squatters at the end of the road and I strain to make out buildings beyond the north ridge. I catch a glimpse of something shiny, like a signal mirror from the trees. Then it’s gone. So are the bombers, headed back for a refill. A long red streak across the canyon ahead of the fire attests to their work; a line of hope, drawn on the forest canopy. They’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. Our fire is now priority number one.

  “Have you had other arsons like this?” I ask over the headset.

  “No,” says Grey. “Nothing like this.”

  The radio squawks. My presence is requested on the ridge and the machine swings wide, giving us another view of the crushed little shelters. When we
’re down, I get out. Grey doesn’t. The machine augers away and I’m left at the edge of the cliff with no radio, my ears still buzzing from the turbo whine of the engine. I trudge along the ridge toward the shelters. A half-dozen firefighters huddle a good distance back. I recognize Galloway, shorter and slimmer. I want to talk to her again, find out more about the excursion that burned us over, but as I pass Compton and Aslund, standing by the border of yellow crime scene tape, Compton waves me over.

  “I’ve got a few questions for you, Cassel, if you don’t mind.”

  I nod, mentally brace myself for the start of a painful inquisition, but Compton is in no hurry. He checks the recording on a small video camera, kneels to stow it in his pack. I get a good view of the holstered pistol on his hip, then he stands, takes out a little flip notebook. “You’re from Canada, right?”

  “Yeah. Alberta.”

  “And you’re here as part of the US Forest Service command structure?”

  “Yes. Upon arrival at the fire, I was assigned command.”

  Compton frowns. “So, you’re responsible for what happens here?”

  Normally, this is a simple yes or no question, but today it seems a little leading.

  “Yes, I’m responsible for the safety of the men under my command.”

  “I see.” Compton scribbles something in his notebook. “What are your qualifications?”

  Qualifications are a matter of record; he could get the information from the Forest Service, either here or back in Alberta, but I remind myself that Compton is not part of the Forest Service. He deals with criminals, which takes a different style. “I’m a certified Type II Incident Management Commander.”

  “And how did you end up on the ridge?”

  A simple question, loaded with significance; I’m sure I’ll hear it more than once. They’ll want to know if my actions followed procedure, or if they were careless. They’ll question my judgment — I don’t blame them, I’m starting to do the same. If I’d listened to Brashaw and his superstitions, this might never have happened. But you can’t fight a fire that way.