I skip the check-in protocol, walk north along the road. I pass the area where I think I found the fusee cap, spend a few minutes looking around. Everything looks different. Trees have been pushed back to make room for parked equipment. A few minutes of searching between the black knuckles of burned tree roots yields nothing. If there was anything here, it’s gone, turned to ash. I leave the burn, stand on the narrow road, picture an approaching vehicle. The road dead-ends, so somewhere up ahead the vehicle would have to turn around. The arsonist would likely do this before starting the fire, so he would be positioned for a quick getaway. There may be tracks up ahead, where the vehicle backed off the hardened trail. Looking ahead, I cross the creek — the washout repaired with a new culvert — pick up the start of the game trail, and enter the burn.
Ahead, the origin beckons, marked with yellow crime scene tape.
I duck under the tape, look around. Despite the attention this area has received, there isn’t much here. Ash has been trampled into the ground in a brownish patchwork of trails. A red pin flag is planted where I located the origin for Aslund. More pin flags are scattered throughout the area — other possible origins identified by Noble? Or evidence markers? I inspect the flagged sites, examine char patterns, search the ground. Nothing but trampled ash. The char patterns are more confusing than the first time I looked this area over and I spend an hour walking in ever-widening circles, not sure what I’m looking for, frustrated the physical evidence has vanished. Someone tore down my flagging, perhaps by accident. Removing the fusee slag is another thing — firefighters all have basic training regarding origin protection. It makes no sense that a firefighter would deliberately sabotage the origin. It had to be the arsonist, hidden in the trees, watching the fire. He sees me hang the flagging, waits for me to leave, and quickly pulls it down, pocketing the fusee slag.
But why take the risk when a fusee is so common?
And how did he get out of here? We didn’t encounter any vehicles.
I look around. There are only two ways out of here: the road or the forest. The timber is dense with understory — perfect cover for a getaway. The arsonist could have been on horseback, on foot, or had an all-terrain vehicle stashed somewhere. There must be trails and cutlines through the forest, same as anywhere. Or the arsonist didn’t have far to go, I think, looking at the smoky outline of the northern ridge. But what motive would the squatters have? A fire this close could risk burning them out.
I head back to the road. It’s time to meet the hippies.
The road drops around the toe of the northern ridge, then slowly begins to rise again, meandering like a riverbed among the tall trees. There are enough gullies and rills to discourage a hunter, and I can scarcely imagine anyone travelling this route frequently. But maybe that’s the idea. I watch for some indication that a vehicle was turned along the trail, but find nothing. No broken branches, no tread marks, but there are several spots where a vehicle could have turned without leaving evidence and I drive on. A half-hour of thumping and rattling and I reach a crude gate, built of heavy poles. Pieces of plywood have been painted into signs with homey messages like: KEEP OUT, VISITORS NOT WELCOME and THIS MEANS YOU. The road beyond the gate bends so I can’t see how far the old wellsite might be and I hesitate. What was it Brashaw said when I suggested we evacuate them?
“You can try, but you might get shot.”
The road doesn’t go much farther, so I park and continue on foot. The gate is positioned to block the line of sight into the small settlement. They probably didn’t need to bother — the sight of this place would turn back all but the most intrepid. Three old trailers are set on blocks along one side of the clearing. The trailers are well past their prime, aluminum siding peeled back like half-opened sardine cans, pink fibreglass insulation hanging out like ragged tissue from a wound. Several vehicles are in various stages of demolition, one riddled with bullet holes. Empty tin cans and scraps of wood are littered everywhere. In the centre of the clearing is an old wellhead, next to which sits a toilet, spray-painted gold and propped on an immense chunk of ponderosa. A bathroom sink, complete with cabinet, has flowers growing in it. You know you’re on the fringe when bathroom fixtures serve as lawn ornaments. I wander toward the wellhead and I hear voices — children playing in the dirt next to an old truck. They see me and stare, then scramble to a woman on the far side of the clearing, working over an old stock tank. I’m surprised I didn’t see these people before; they sort of blend in with their surroundings.
“Hello,” I say, raising a hand in greeting.
The woman stares at me — not an encouraging stare. She’s sturdy, has the ageless look of rough living. Her long hair is pulled back in a ragged ponytail and she sports a pair of immense rubber boots. She’s been doing laundry and wipes her hands on an apron as the kids cluster around her.
“Could I have a word with you?” I ask, walking closer.
She watches me approach, her expression stony. The clearing is wide enough she may not have heard me and I’m about to repeat my question when she shoos away the children, who dart under a trailer like frightened moles. With a few quick strides she makes it to a nearby trailer, yanks open a door and heaves herself inside.
Friendly people. I stand near the old wellhead wondering what to do.
It occurs to me, as I’m gazing at the wellhead, that there are hoses and tubes hanging from it. Crude fixtures have been attached, connected with sections of bicycle inner-tube and green garden hoses that snake across the dry ground to the trailers. They’re running natural gas here, which is ingenious but more than a little frightening — if there’s a leak, or one of the kids pull out a hose, the northern lights will be awfully bright around here. As I look around, I realize this isn’t the only adaptation — there’s a satellite dish mounted on one of the trailers, which means they’re getting electricity from somewhere — a generator probably. All the comforts of home, which makes me wonder how long they plan on staying — and where they get their money. Social assistance? Or something a little less social?
I’m admiring the lawn fixtures when a trailer door slaps open and a creature steps out. He’s wearing army boots, dirty sweat pants, and a tattered plaid shirt that hangs over his belly. Brown hair reaches to his elbows, braided into an immense beard. And he’s big, in height not just girth.
“What’d’ya want?” he bellows.
I’ve come face-to-face with the Sasquatch, and he’s armed. A sawed-off, double-barrelled shotgun hangs in his greasy hand. Maybe he thinks I’m going to steal his golden toilet. “I was working on the fire,” I say, careful to enunciate so he doesn‘t misinterpret anything. “I just wanted to stop by and talk for a few minutes.”
“Talk?” He scowls. “Your people already been here.”
“I need to ask you a few questions anyway. It won’t take long.”
“I don’t feel like talkin’. Best you just get going.”
“Is there someone else I could speak with?”
His eyes widen and there’s a dangerous silence. I watch the gun, dangling along his leg. He shifts on his feet, tightens the grip on his gun. If I’m going to ask him anything, it has to be now.
“Has anyone been up here recently? Even just to turn around?”
“Best you just back yourself outta here and leave us alone.”
He gives me his best intimidating look, feet planted wide, shotgun a little farther forward. It’s pretty convincing. Behind him, a row of curious dirty faces peer from under a trailer. In a window above them, I see another face — a woman, younger than the laundry lady and strangely familiar. Our eyes meet and she ducks out of sight.
“Go on!” he says, stepping forward, trying to shoo me away.
It takes a little resolve — or maybe stupidity — but I stand my ground.
“I’m not messin’ around,” he says, hefting the shotgun.
“Look, there’s no need for alarm. I’m not with the government.”
He frowns, his expression
uncertain. Then his eyes narrow.
“I’m from up north,” I say. “I was working —”
Suddenly, there are two very big holes staring me in the face. The gun is an old coach style weapon with double hammers, and when he cocks both hammers I begin to walk backward as quickly as I can, my hands lifted in a sign of surrender. “Listen — just relax buddy —”
The Sasquatch takes a step forward. “You’re goddamn stupid, comin’ up here.”
“I don’t know who you think I am, but I have nothing against you people.”
I put the wellhead between myself and the Sasquatch. Hopefully, the risk of blowing himself up will deter him from firing, but he doesn’t lower the weapon and I keep backing away. With the sawed-off barrels, the greater the distance, the safer I’ll be.
“You come back,” he hollers, “and I’ll bury you.”
I reach the road, walk quickly along the rutted trail. At the curve I glance back.
The Sasquatch is still there, watching.
I’m a little distracted on my drive back to town; it’s been a while since someone shoved a gun in my face. Now I understand Castellino’s reluctance to force the squatters off public land — you’d need a swat team. It would also create bad press: government versus the little guy. Best to leave them alone, which is why I doubt they started the fire — the last thing they want is a lot of attention. Maybe someone wanted to get rid of them and thought a fire would force their evacuation, or at least draw enough attention that they’d leave on their own. But why? There’s nothing out there but empty, rugged country and a cursed canyon.
I’m still puzzling over this when I pull through the gates of Lakeside Estates. Aslund is waiting for me, his ball cap pulled low. I’m needed at the ranger station, so I follow Aslund’s truck with my own borrowed unit. The Carson Lake Ranger Station is a few miles north of town and the drive doesn’t take long. The parking lot is full; I hope they’re not all here for me.
It’s a nice ranger station, modern open-beam with lots of dead animals. A stuffed cougar menaces a strutting grouse. An elk head stares blankly at me from above the door. Fibreglass trout swim in a case below the reception counter. We walk through an area of open cubicles where people pretend not to notice us, then down a flight of stairs to the ready room. The last time I was here, I was playing cards with Brashaw and his men. Today, there’s a different crowd.
“Thanks for coming,” says Grey, seated at the head of the table.
Another inquisition. I pull up a chair and look around. Noble gives me a slight nod. His jacket is off, his tie loosened; he’s ready to liaise. Aslund rummages for a pad of paper. There are two new faces; an older guy with wispy white hair and a short, intense-looking fellow of about forty-five.
“This is Don Turner,” Grey says, indicating the older guy. “Don’s with mtdc.”
Turner must read my blank expression. “I’m with the Missoula Technology Development Center,” he says. “We look at the equipment you used in the burnover. The Nomex clothing and the fire shelter — those sorts of things, to see how they performed.”
Not well enough, I’m thinking. At least for Brashaw.
“And this is Neil Ursulak,” says Grey. “Neil’s with the Fire Center in Missoula.”
Ursulak gives me a curt little nod.
“The purpose of our meeting today,” says Grey, looking at me, “is to discuss events pertinent to the entrapment of Bert Brashaw and yourself. We need to hear from you what happened, to supplement what we already know, so we can prevent this sort of catastrophe in the future.” He glances around. “Sorry about having so many bodies here — we usually interview with only one or two people, but we thought it best that everyone concerned heard you out right away. So we don’t have to keep you here any longer than necessary. I’m sure you’re anxious to get home.”
The faces around the table are expectant. I nod, perhaps to reassure them; I’m not sure. In the centre of the table is a tape recorder. I take a minute to collect my thoughts, steady my voice — I keep seeing the black mummy in Brashaw’s shelter.
“When I arrived at the fire, smokejumpers were on-scene and fire behaviour was moderate, with vigorous ground fire and some candling. In my opinion, direct attack was not feasible, so I started the dozers on line cutting along the rear flanks, with engines and personnel in support. Approximately forty-five minutes after this, the wind picked up and so did fire behaviour. I needed a better look at the fire and requested a helicopter, but was told none were available.”
Noble raises an eyebrow toward Ursulak, who ignores him.
“Without aircraft, I had no way of knowing what the fire was doing. The smokejumpers had jumped-in to a ridge along the south flank, which they assured me had good visibility. Given wind direction and terrain, the ridge appeared safe, so I decided to use it as a vantage point. An old trail along the backside of the ridge provided partial access. Brashaw and I drove as far as we could, then hiked the rest of the way to the jumpers’ landing zone.”
“Why did you take Brashaw with you?” says Ursulak.
“I thought he needed an overview of the fire.”
“But you had a radio. You could have called him. Why separate him from his men?”
Despite his small stature and slim build, Ursulak has an aggressive air about him. His hair is unnaturally black for his age and his cheek muscles keep clenching. Coming from Missoula Dispatch, he has a lot of his own concerns to defend — the denied helicopter and the bombers that took so long to make it to the fire.
“I customarily orient my crew leaders to the overall fire situation.”
“Really? And what did Mr. Brashaw think of your trip to the ridge?”
I hesitate. “He had a few reservations.”
Concerned glances are exchanged across the table.
“He was superstitious,” I add quickly. “He was afraid of the canyon.”
“Afraid?” Ursulak gives me a skeptical look.
“Some people believe the canyon is cursed,” says Grey, coming to my rescue.
Ursulak isn’t pleased. He tries to press the point but doesn’t get a chance.
“Was visibility adequate from the ridge?” says Grey.
“Yes. We had an excellent view of the canyon.”
“What did you do, once you were on the ridge?”
I sigh, ordering my thoughts.
“I assessed the fire and requested a bomber drop across the canyon.”
“And what response did you receive?” says Grey.
“The bombers were tied up on a higher priority fire.”
“But you did get the bombers,” Ursulak says quickly. “We promised you a drop.”
“Yes. After several requests. Unfortunately, they didn’t arrive in time.”
Ursulak bristles. “That wasn’t our fault.”
“No one said it was,” Grey says evenly. “Did you order any other resources?”
“No. We were doing all we could on the ground. We needed air support.”
Noble shoots Ursulak another critical look. Ursulak passes it on to me. Grey watches this exchange and chews his lower lip. “When did you first become aware that the fire had jumped the dozerline below you?”
“I received a call from Sue Galloway.”
“You didn’t notice anything before that?” says Noble.
“No. Our attention was on the fire in the canyon.”
There’s a pause as notes are taken. I can picture what they are writing — all actions on a fire are weighed against established operating procedures: the Ten Standard Fire Orders and Eighteen Watchout Situations. Like every firefighter, I have them memorized. Now, they’re writing up my mistakes. Failing to post a lookout. Failing to determine safety zones and escape routes. Allowing unburned fuel to come between myself and the fire. My only defence is the fire seemed unlikely to pose a threat to the ridge. Today, it doesn’t seem like much of a defence.
“What did you do after Galloway’s call?” asks Grey.
&n
bsp; I picture the curling fist of smoke rising above the treetops, how we stood riveted to the ground, held captive by its power, but it doesn’t seem like a good thing to mention. “On the way up the ridge, I’d flagged a route back to the vehicle. We began to follow this downhill.”
“But you were found on the ridge,” says Ursulak.
“Yes, if you’ll allow me to finish — we started downhill. Brashaw twisted his ankle and we had to reassess. Given the speed and direction of the flame front, it now became apparent the only safe location might be on the ridge, in the open, where we could deploy shelters. I assisted Brashaw and we returned to the ridge, where we deployed.”
There’s a lengthy pause. No one is clapping me on the back today, calling me a hero.
Ursulak breaks the silence. “What experience do you have, fighting fire in mountainous terrain?”
“I’ve been on several mountain fires in Alberta.”
“I see. Is the terrain comparable?”
“It’s similar.”
Ursulak frowns, refers to a notepad. “You mentioned previously, in an interview with Mr. Noble and Mr. Grey, that you were unable to determine the origin of the fire strictly from the burn indicators on the trees.” He looks at me, his expression intent. “Is that correct?”
I nod, with a sinking feeling. I know exactly where he’s taking this.
“Given the inconclusive nature of fire travel patterns in the canyon,” he says, giving me a severe look, “did it occur to you that the wind direction in this area was unpredictable? That it was possible the fire could spread to the ridge?”
Strike four — unfamiliar with weather and local factors influencing fire behaviour.
“Apparently, I failed to take that into consideration.”
“Apparently,” says Ursulak.
There’s an uncomfortable silence. My head is throbbing and I’d like to shoot Ursulak. But the worst of it is, he’s right. In his shoes, I’d be asking the same questions. Grey clears his throat. “We’re not trying to assign blame here. We’re just mapping out the sequence of events and contributing factors. The emphasis is on developing recommendations to prevent future occurrences.”
One Careless Moment Page 9