A familiar voice came from the hotshot group. “So, Linda, how was your first fire?”
I’d met the hotshots last summer at Palisades Ranger Station, in the Santa Catalina Mountains, north of Tucson, Arizona. In my fire crew timekeeper role, I’d kept track of this elite firefighting crew’s hours as they’d battled fires all over the west. An impressionable nineteen-year-old, I was captivated by their flirting, camaraderie, travels, and fire adventure stories. I’d even dated a few, including the one who just spoke to me. By the end of the summer, I never wanted a desk job again.
Sidestepping the awkward moment (I’d just recently broken up with that hotshot), I smiled and addressed everyone.
“Great! I saw a slurry drop. And Joe and I were nearly overcome by smoke.”
Heads nodded enthusiastically. Only a true firefighter would brag about a near miss. I’d just been indoctrinated into the world of fire, and couldn’t stop my insides from dancing.
“So how was your first fire?” Mark asked Joe.
My head jerked up hard. What? First fire?
“Hot,” Joe said, generating laughter.
I scrambled to come up with reasons why I’d assumed he’d fought fires before, but couldn’t think of a single one.
The laughter died down, and Mark’s eyes smiled at me. We held each other’s gaze for a moment, and glanced away. Pleasant tingles filled my chest.
RESTED, WE NOW had to mop-up the fire, extinguishing every single hotspot so it wouldn’t restart later. Hard to get motivated now that the excitement was over. My legs were heavy, leaden; not surprising since I’d already slaved for nine hours.
Between charcoal-covered trees, over blackened rocks and scorched earth, I trudged through the aftermath, skidding and sliding on rough terrain. It didn’t help that on my back I carried what the guys called a “piss-pump,” a bag of water with a spray nozzle on the bottom. Quite handy for putting out hotspots, but a royal pain to carry. The weight of five gallons followed gravity, pulling me downhill. To compensate, I leaned uphill, even on a side slope. When the water started sloshing, I nearly fell over. Annoyed, I hiked back to the staging area and traded the now-empty bag for a shovel. Throwing dirt on a fire put it out by both cooling and smothering. Travel light and upright: My new motto.
Fourteen hours after dispatch, we were released. I dozed in the back seat, vaguely aware of the drive, waking fully when we rattled over the cattle guard rails at the entry of the complex. Giant oaks hung over the road, filtering moonlight through their canopies, creating mottled purple shadows. Florida (Flor-ee-da) Ranger Station, in the Santa Rita Mountains of Southern Arizona, my summer home and workplace. Built over thirty years ago by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), it had all the charm and character one could imagine: Quaint buildings, over a dozen of them, nestled in a canyon of giant white oaks. More white oaks and a few sycamores lined the ephemeral Florida Creek, which only flowed after snow melt or heavy summer rains.
“Report tomorrow at four o’clock,” Glenn said as we stumbled out of crew-cabs.
Four? I didn’t even want to think about it.
My summer quarters, one of those quaint buildings painted soft yellow with a green-shingled roof, looked better than ever. I sat on the edge of my swayback mattress and pulled off my boots. I placed them up high to keep scorpions from crawling inside and summoned up the energy to shower. When I pulled back the curtain, a scorpion, tail held high and ready to strike, attempted to climb up the slick tub.
“Eek!” I grabbed the nearest weapon, a boot, and smashed it to pieces. I’d never been stung, and had no desire to be stung. How did it get in there anyway?
Underneath the spray of warm water, I lathered up and rinsed. My long blond hair, filthy and matted with sweat, took two shampoos to get squeaky clean. I stepped out, snatched my towel off the rack, and dried off, only to see soot speckles remained on my calves. Too tired to do anything about it, I fell into bed, asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Dreamland: smoke, fire, flames, and planes—interrupted by a rude clanging. I rolled over and smacked the button on my wind-up alarm clock. Outside my window, light had barely begun to edge out dark. How could it possibly be time to get up? I threw back the covers and stood up. Ow. My quads let me know I’d overdone it. I shuffled to the bathroom and flipped on the light. Numerous blisters on my palms stung, with several open and bleeding. Wincing, I peeled away loose skin. Not much I could do about those.
Dressed in Nomex fire-resistant clothes, I went to fix breakfast. After pulling down the door handle of the 1950s fridge, I reached for the milk. Inside, the shoe-box freezer held two ice-cube trays encrusted with frost. I frowned. Must defrost that one of these days. After cereal and toast, I walked to the office, ready to report for firefighting, day two.
The office screen door creaked on its rusty hinges when I entered, and the evaporative cooler, perched in a window, blew moist air into the room, enhancing the telltale musty odor of old building. Standard government issue furnishings here, collected for function, not aesthetics. I stiffly took a seat in one of the gray metal chairs.
Glenn half-smiled. “You know, the best cure for aching muscles is to work out the soreness.” He winked at Eric, our crew foreman, who grinned widely at me.
How could more hard work make me hurt less?That didn’t seem possible.
“We’ve got the Safford Prison crew coming to help mop-up today,” Eric said as he drove us out of the station.
Prisoners? We’re working with prisoners? Would I be safe? After all, these men were in prison for a reason. Plus, they hadn’t seen a woman … in what, years? Would they try to escape? Nervous, I made plans to keep my distance.
Hours of hard, gritty work later, I sat with my crew on a break. Sweaty, ash-smudged prisoners joined us. Glancing at my crew, I noticed I wasn’t the only one a little apprehensive about these men. Everyone sat quietly, except for one prisoner, who introduced himself, offered cigarettes, and after lighting one for himself, quipped, “Man, these aren’t the Santa Ritas, these are the Steep-a-ritas!”
I laughed with everyone else and relaxed. These prisoners were simply men with a sense of humor and an amazing work ethic, just like us.
The mop-up process couldn’t be rushed and required great patience. I scanned the charred forest, searching for wisps of smoke or red embers, listening for whistling, popping. Across a wide rockslide, a burning stump required my attention. Before stepping onto the slide, I tested it with the weight of one leg. Seems okay. I ventured out. The slide gave way, carrying me downslope, as I struggled to balance as though on a surfboard. Frightened, I worried I’d face-plant a tree at the bottom if I couldn’t stop. But the rocks quit moving, and I took a calming deep breath. Venturing farther caused more sliding, until I made it to the other side. Cursing under my breath, I used saplings to pull myself back up the slope, praying they wouldn’t rip out of the ground.
Upon reaching the smoldering stump, I next scraped around for dirt. One foot felt a little warm. Then very warm. Then downright hot. I leapt to one side, nearly losing my balance. Where I’d stood glowed red-hot. No wonder we weren’t allowed to wear steel-toed boots. I could only imagine how catastrophic that could be. For the rest of the shift and until the fire was declared out, I carefully checked where I put my feet before doing a darned thing.
FOUR
AFTER WORKING TEN days straight, I finally had a day off. Mark and Scott came over at lunchtime to visit, and as Mark was leaving, he said I should get with him later so I could assemble a new fire pack to replace the one that got torched. Late that afternoon, I met him in the fire cache.
“Let’s get you squared away,” he said.
As I repacked my gear, he stood close by and watched. “You know, I’d come over to see you, but you’ve always got someone there.”
Surprised me for a moment. I do? Then I realized, I did.
Mark then said, “You’re quite the influence on everyone here. Plus, you’re so damn cute.” A war
m smile crossed his face.
Self-conscious but flattered, I tucked a strand of stray hair behind my ear and continued packing. Most everyone teased and flirted with me—harmless fun which I didn’t take seriously. Why would I? I never thought I was pretty, but Mark made me feel that way. He had a way with words. I liked that. However, my radar went up. I thought he could be handing me a line.
“You think I’m bullshitting you, don’t you?” he asked.
I admitted it had crossed my mind.
“Well, I’m not.”
Could I believe him? I wanted to. His attention felt good. Really good.
At six that evening, Mark asked if I’d like to see the old Florida dam. The thought of being alone with him sent my heart fluttering. Maybe he’d say more wonderful things to me. A cool, woodsy-scented breeze drifted down canyon. Florida Creek trickled with the last of snow melt, a hatchery for the clouds of gnats floating around our heads. I waved my hand to disperse them.
“We used to come swim here last year,” Mark said. “Now it’s silted in. We should get the crew up here to dig it out.”
I gave him my best smile. “We’d need lots of beer!”
We laughed heartily at the odds of that happening, beer or no beer. Our laughter died down—a sudden moment of shyness settled between us.
“To tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid of you,” he said.
My heartbeat skipped. Of me? My hands trembled, and I lowered my eyes. Will he kiss me? He scooted closer, pulled me to him, and pressed his lips to mine for the most fantastic kiss ever. I melted into his arms, oblivious to everything around me. Our kiss ended, and he held my hand during the walk back. “I’d do a lot more for you than you think I would, Linda.”
I lay awake for hours that night, thinking about what his comment might mean.
Next day, an enthusiastic group filled the office for our morning meeting.
“I hear it’ll be a busy fire season,” Eric said.
Mark’s eyes caught mine for a moment, and my heart rate doubled. He filled a cup with coffee. “Catalina District already had two.”
Sounded great to me. The hard work? Forgotten. Sore muscles? Gone. When would we go to another fire?
The screen door creaked open, slammed shut. Glenn hung his Stetson on the coat rack and sat at his desk. “From now on you guys from Tucson need to stay at the station overnight. Stick around on the weekends, too. It’s fire season, you know.”
I kept my eyes lowered, grateful he wasn’t speaking to me.
NOW INTO MY fourth week, I discovered working on a fire crew didn’t mean that’s all I’d do. Which was fine by me—I liked the variety of projects we did.
Madera Canyon Road didn’t belong to the federal government, but Glenn still took pride in its upkeep. When the County bladed the bar ditches, overturning trees in the process, he sent us to drag them out of sight. On the way, Eric noticed trash on the side of the road and pulled over. I leapt out and tossed a soda can and beer bottle into the back. People are such slobs, I thought, when we found more trash just up the road.
We parked and piled out of the crew-cabs. Cicadas buzzed in this open rangeland which native mesquites and tawny grasses called home. A herd of cattle turned our way and then moseyed off to their watering hole. I removed a bandana from its storage place under my hardhat webbing and folded it into a sweatband. Leather gloves protected my hands. Grasping a half-buried mesquite limb, I tugged hard. It refused to budge. I tugged harder. It broke free, delivering me a face full of thorny branches and dirt. This would not be easy.
At lunchtime, I crawled under a scraggly mesquite, the only shade available, and removed my hardhat to dry out my sweaty hair. Flies buzzed around me, landing on my moist skin for a drink. I sipped some hot canteen water, which took care of dehydration, but didn’t quench my true thirst. Inside my lunch bag, cheese and crackers had morphed into a cheese melt; my apple had baked one degree from turning into applesauce. When lunch hour was over, no one had the motivation to start working. Shimmering heat waves rose from the sand, the air motionless and stifling. We sat, drained of energy, silent. Glenn’s truck swung in behind our vehicles. Uh-oh. Caught sitting on the job. Guilty, I jumped up.
Glenn brought over six-packs of soda. Many hands reached out to accept one, but I hesitated. I never touched regular soda. Calories, you know. But I couldn’t turn it down, the cans were so cold, they perspired. Just holding the can cooled my body by two degrees; or at least it seemed that way. The lid popped with a fizztz. After three deep swallows, I shook the can. Rats, empty.
Reenergized from the sugar rush, I reached for a branch to drag. That’s when I noticed a half-buried bottle glinting green in the stark afternoon sun. Tempted to ignore it, my conscious chastised me for not picking up trash. I plucked it out, and brushed off the dirt. Coca Cola. I looked at the bottom. 1929! From that moment on, my boring, hot job became a treasure hunt, which sure made the day fly.
A few days later, Glenn switched us to a new project.
“You’re working the Old Baldy Trail today,” he said. He squished his second cigarette of the morning into a Smokey the Bear ashtray. Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires, it read.
My first trail duty day. Excited, I tucked a brown-bag lunch into my pack along with a poncho and jacket, in case it turned wet or chilly. Since the Kent Fire incident, I carried a gallon canteen, plus two extra quarts of water—more than anyone else. Heavy as heck, but for sure I’d never be thirsty again. I chose a Pulaski, just as good for trail maintenance as it was for building line. With my eyes on the boot heels in front of me, I marched up the trail. A few guys sang, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go …” Too self-conscious to sing along, I instead rolled my eyes at their off-key crooning.
Deep in this ponderosa pine forest, I inhaled the heady, sun-warmed scent. Every bit as wonderful as the forest around my home in Prescott, a small community in Northern Arizona. Not that I always felt that way. My parents moved our family from Syracuse, New York to Prescott in the middle of my senior year of high school. It took me a while to forgive them, but I did, and I grew to love living with a forest all around.
My job hunt began right after graduation. I’m guessing I must have known I needed something unconventional. I only lasted two days as a waitress, a month as a receptionist. I applied at the phone company and was tremendously relieved when they didn’t hire me. One job, where I made “authentic” Indian jewelry, had potential— but it ended when my employer was thrown in jail for tax evasion. Then last year I got in with the Coronado National Forest. Although I worked indoors, the Forest Service ranger station sat up high in the Santa Catalina Mountains. At first, it seemed perfect. Then I decided I wanted to work outdoors.
The call came in late April from the Coronado’s Nogales District Ranger. “I’ve got a firefighter position open in the Santa Rita Mountains, thirty miles north of Nogales.”
Firefighter! But in Nogales? Are there forests in Nogales? I had no idea. I didn’t want to fight brush fires like the ones they had in Southern California.
I hesitated, then asked, “Are there any trees?”
With suppressed laughter, he replied, “Oh, yes, there are trees.”
Maybe I should be more specific. “I mean, are there pine trees?”
He outright laughed. “Yes, there are pine trees.”
South of Tucson, I stared out the bus window at several mountain ranges in the distance. Not one of them appeared to have any trees, much less pines. Anxiety rose in my throat. Had he lied to get me to take a job no one else wanted?
THE OLD BALDY trail shot straight up to Mt. Wrightson, at least that’s how it felt to my leg muscles. Glenn scoffed at the Forest Service’s requirement for physical training (P.T.s), saying that if we did our jobs we wouldn’t need P.T.s. Panting and breathless, I had to agree.
At the end of the trail, we spread out. A few guys cut overhanging branches so a rider on horseback wouldn’t get whacked in the face and dragged trimming
s out of sight. I worked with the rest, chopping grass and shrubs growing into the trail, removing those annoying “toe-trippers,” pointed rocks and protruding roots, from the tread.
A short ways down, I recognized a drainage problem. I’d need to build a water bar. Collecting the right rocks took some time. I scouted uphill first, using gravity to help move them. Soon I formed a pile, and started assembly of the angled diversion channel to steer water aside, and keep it from running down the middle of the trail. My activity disturbed an ant den, which emitted an unpleasant, pungent odor. I monitored the swarming ants carefully. Their bites hurt like heck. Rocks tamped in tight, I stood back and admired my handiwork. Way more fun than cutting branches.
“C’mon,” Mark said after work. “I’ll take you to dinner in Tucson.”
Thrilled by the invite, after I showered I stood in front of my closet. Easy to decide what to wear—I’d only brought one dress. I eyed myself in the bathroom mirror. Did I look okay? I frowned and twisted my hair into a bun. A deeper frown. I let my hair fall, brushed it smooth, and called it good enough.
After a lovely dinner filled with great conversation, Mark pulled off on a side road below the station and parked. “You’re all I can think about,” he said, running his hands through my hair, pulling me close, and kissing me deeply. All my reservations about him flew out the window, my stance on not getting involved right behind them.
Back home before dawn, I lay awake, worried that Mark and I were heading into trouble. I didn’t want to be responsible for his marriage falling into ruin, even though he’d made it clear the marriage was already failing. I told myself that in time, I would know the right thing to do. But I really needed to know what to do at that very moment, and I didn’t.
Summers of Fire Page 2