Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  We left early in the morning.

  “Don’t want to drive over it,” Joe said as we crept toward the cutting site. He hit the brakes. “There it is!”

  What a relief it showed no damage. I think I aged five years that day.

  WITH POST CUTTING completed, we returned to district maintenance. There was always something to do: Repair fence, paint or replace signs, and pick up trash. Tom, Eric, and I took leftover sign posts up to the bone yard, our outdoor storage area. Just as we finished, moody, charcoal-gray clouds gathered, blocking out the sun. Thunder rumbled. A stiff, rain-scented breeze delivered a few huge drops, raising tiny puffs of dust as they hit the ground. Then a deluge fell like an overturned bucket, sending us dashing for shelter underneath a small ramada. We were huddled close to stay dry, when something crawled across my boot. Shrieking, I grabbed Tom in a vain attempt to get my feet off the ground.

  “What the … ?” Tom stared at the crazy woman latched onto his arm.

  My voice quavered. “Did you see that?”

  “See what? What are you talking about, Linda?”

  “The centipede!” I squeaked out, hyperventilating. “I’m not kidding, it was at least a foot long!”

  “Uh-uh, not me. Did you see it, Eric?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t imagine this, Linda?”

  I did not imagine it. It looked like the creature in The Tingler, a terrifying movie I watched as a kid. Cold shivers traveled up and down my spine. Snakes? I hadn’t seen one rattlesnake all summer. Scorpions? A boot stomp works great. Centipedes? My weakness: I turn into a screaming banshee.

  NINE

  “THERE’S A WORKSHOP you have to attend,” Glenn said to me after the crew left to start the day. That got my attention. Just me? He brought a mug of coffee to his desk and sat down. “It’s for three days, paid.” In his rough, calloused hands he held a letter, offering it with a gentle smile. “Sounds like a vacation to me.”

  I’d love a vacation. I read:

  The Federal Women’s Program will hold a three day workshop at the Stage Stop Motel in Patagonia, Arizona. All female employees will attend …

  Assertiveness training, conflict resolution, career advancement. What’s assertiveness training? Never heard of it. Conflict resolution? Why did the Forest Service think there was conflict to resolve? What I didn’t know was the Forest Service hadn’t allowed women to work on fire crews until last year. This rocked their male-dominated world to its core, prompting the formation of this program. For me, this workshop was just a little getaway on the government’s dime and nothing more.

  Jodi had already left for college, so the next Monday Glenn dropped me off in Nogales to join Wanda, the district secretary, and Lourdes, her assistant, for the trip.

  Wanda’s petite stature belied her firecracker personality. “Chica!” she said, once we hit the road. “Whatever possessed you to want a man’s job? Working around all those machismo men. Don’t they get fresh with you?”

  Her perception made me laugh. “Wanda, it’s not at all what you think. I enjoy the work, and I’m friends with the guys. Well, most of them. I love my job.”

  “Well, I don’t know how you do it. Seems to me they would get out of hand.”

  Lourdes was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. Not beauty-queen beautiful, but what is that anyway? Although her lustrous black hair, light-cocoa skin, and chocolate eyes were all to be admired, her beauty came from within, manifesting as self-confidence and grace. If anyone needed to worry about guys getting fresh, it was Lourdes.

  She leaned over from the back seat. “I’m so impressed by what you’re doing. Men need women around to show them how to do things right the first time.”

  Wanda and I giggled deliciously. We were in for a great time.

  We sailed along State Route 82 as it swept through grass-covered rolling hills. From the south, Mt. Wrightson’s profile differed significantly from the one I viewed daily. Here, it had no vertical cliffs, with pines extending all the way to the top. Wanda had hit up a tortilla factory on the way, and we nibbled the warm flatbread, laughing and chatting about clothes, good Mexican food, and gossiping about the men on the district.

  In tiny Patagonia, so small that if you blinked once you missed it, we pulled into the Stage Stop Motel, a rustic two-story building with, to my delight, a swimming pool. Good thing I’d thought to bring my swimsuit. After checking in, I took a seat in the conference room with thirty-six other women. The facilitator, Jan Qwill, casually sat on the table in front of the room, with legs crossed and shoes kicked off. With a welcoming smile, she asked us to introduce ourselves.

  A pretty woman with fair skin and long dark hair smiled at me from the across the room. “I’m Donna, and I work on a tanker crew at Rustler Park, in the Chiricahuas.”

  When it came my turn, I introduced myself, proud to announce my position on the Santa Rita Suppression Crew at Florida Ranger Station. At the end, I found it surprising that only three other women were firefighters. Why so few?

  Jan Qwill spoke passionately about women finding their place in the Forest Service, and she wanted to know if we’d encountered any obstacles.

  “The guys are outwardly mean and degrading,” Donna said. “If we get a fire call, they make me sit with the truck. One day they intentionally left me at the station. I hate it there.”

  How awful! During a break, I asked her, “Isn’t there anyone backing you up?”

  She shook her head with conviction. “Either they ignore what’s going on, or make it clear I’m not wanted.”

  What could I say to make her feel better? “It’s not like that everywhere. I love my job, and the guys don’t give me a hard time … okay, there’re a couple chauvinist pigs, but I get along great with the others.”

  Her eyes brightened. “You’re so lucky.”

  At the end of the three-day workshop, Jan asked us to interview our male coworkers and document their opinions of women on fire crews. We’d regroup later to discuss our findings.

  Easy! I’d return to report my crew supported me one-hundred percent. Well … minus two, but I had no doubt I’d be the envy of the group.

  At Florida, I explained my assignment to Glenn.

  “Well … okay,” he said, pursing his lips. “Catch everyone before they go out first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll need to interview you too, you know.”

  Glenn’s eyes met mine for a moment. He lowered his gaze, shook his head, and with one corner of his mouth lifting slightly, said, “I figured as much.”

  Per Glenn’s request, everyone hung out in the office in the morning, while I stood, paper and pen in hand, ready to start. I pushed past my sudden nervousness and asked for a volunteer to go first.

  Silence.

  “Okay, I will.” Glenn sat down and everyone else left.

  Although skeptical of me the first day we met, checking my hands for calluses, my arms for strength, what did he think now? “You’re doing just fine and you’re a good hand.”

  By far the best compliment he could’ve given me. That’s what I wanted to be. A good hand. Put me squarely in with the other hard-workers.

  Both Robert and Joe said that as long as I could handle the work, I had just as much right to be there as any man. Robert’s additional take on women crewmates differed in one significant way. “The guys work harder to impress her. She’s working twice as hard to prove herself. More work gets done.” He shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”

  Next Eric sat opposite me, avoiding eye contact. Forest Service cap in hand, he nervously turned it in circles as he spoke. “Heh, heh, you know the first time I heard women would join fire crews, I thought, ‘Are you kidding me’?”

  I waited for him to say I’d changed his mind.

  “I still don’t get it. Women don’t belong on the fire line.”

  What? I’d been first on the line, initial attack, on both the Kent and Box Fire. I’d chased sotols all night with him on the Nogales blaze. It to
ok a second for what he said to register, to feel the punch of his words. I’m not wanted here.

  After Eric left, I stared at Mark, shocked, when he, of all people, said I had no business on a fire crew. Days earlier he’d said we were drifting apart, and he wasn’t sure if he still loved me. In my mind, our relationship had ended that day. This was pure revenge. Damn him. He betrayed me.

  When Texas John came into the room, he used getting a cup of coffee as an excuse to avoid facing me. “Women are too weak,” he said.

  Coward. I trembled in outrage. “Give me one example of when I didn’t hold my own, John.”

  A vein popped out in John’s neck, his face crimson. “What if I fell and broke my leg on a fire? You couldn’t carry me out! I’d die!”

  Say something, anything. What about Skinny Wilson, the guy everyone calls a ninety-pound weakling? I gritted my teeth. “John. No one person on our crew can carry out anyone who weighs over two hundred pounds. I mean, look at Skinny Wilson!”

  He scoffed at my defense.

  Near tears, fuming and shaking from the confrontation, next I had to face Opie Taylor. I braced myself—he was still mad I wouldn’t have sex with him.

  “What are you doing here?” he said with a sneer. “The only reason they hired you was to fill their “woman quota.” You should quit—you make more work for everyone else.”

  Even though I expected this, the cruel words falling from his mouth stung like wasps. My throat closed, hurt. I sputtered some stupid, meaningless words, and he left, laughing at me.

  While I struggled to compose myself, Tom sat down and eyed me curiously. I sucked in a deep breath before asking him the same question, certain he’d be on my side. But no, he didn’t want me to go to fires either. He said he worried I’d get hurt. But I didn’t want him to worry. Any of us could get hurt. I knew the risks. We all did.

  After the interviews, I sat alone in disbelief. Only Glenn, Robert, and Joe approved of having me on the crew. Did the others feel threatened? Why? I did not take this job to prove I was as good as the men, I took it because I thought I’d enjoy the work. What hurt the most was that I thought these guys were my friends. All of the fun, sharing hard work … We were a team, or so I’d believed. I’d confused being liked with being accepted—not remotely the same thing. My wonderful world stood still.

  On the road, I stared out the truck window and relived the whole event. What were the guys saying behind my back? That I was some weak, frail girl, who wanted to be a firefighter, but who was better off getting married and raising babies? Inside I was a tangle mess and invisible hands choked my throat. Should I quit? But then what would I do?

  Ten minutes before five, everyone hung out by the shop, except me, poised to get the hell away from there. I hadn’t said a word all day, impatient for the day to end so I could go home and cry.

  Glenn called out to me. “Linda. I need you to load two Cubitainers into the back of my truck.”

  What an odd request. However, I picked up the square water containers, one in each hand, lugged them over to his truck, and hoisted each forty-two-pounder into the bed. I turned around to see everyone watching me.

  In a gruff tone, Glenn said, “Let’s not have any more doubts about who can handle the work around here.”

  A test. I guessed I passed. Embarrassing, but having Glenn stick up for me did help me feel better.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. After many hours of ceiling watching, I gave up and flicked on my bedside lamp. I opened my journal and started writing:

  September 25th, Saturday

  I really want to fight fires. I want to be able to withstand the pressures and the physical strength it takes—but am I willing to put up with this? I really thoroughly love being on fires—the glamour … it is so worth it to me. No one, including me, will ever know until I am presented a dangerous situation, what I will do. But dangerous situations can happen anytime, anywhere, on all types of jobs.

  Two weeks later, I attended Jan Qwill’s follow-up workshop. Wanda, Lourdes, and I drove to Tucson, then east an hour on Interstate-10. There wasn’t as much talking this time. I kept quiet, feeling thoughtful and not yet up to sharing. Exiting in Wilcox, we headed north and pulled into the Buckskin Guest Ranch mid-afternoon.

  Tucked away in a remote area at the base of the rugged Galiuro Mountains, the guest ranch’s adobe buildings were surrounded by scattered junipers and pinyon-pines. Peaceful, pastoral. I wistfully envisioned myself walking to the distant mountains and never coming back. At the front desk, I discovered I’d have my own room this time. After all I’d been through, I deserved it.

  We gathered in a lobby filled with western décor. Saddle blankets and cowboy art decorated the walls; the life-size stuffed cow in a corner made me smile. Only at a guest ranch. It was good to see everyone again. I hugged Donna and whispered we needed to talk. All of us sat on overstuffed, brown leather chairs, or cross-legged atop giant pillows on the polished wood floor, to discuss our interview results. After a deep breath, I told everyone that only three of the guys approved of me on the crew, and those who I thought supported me, in fact, did not.

  Jan asked me what I’d do. Venting must have helped. I said, “I’m not afraid of hard work. I love my job. I want to keep my job.”

  “Don’t let them bully you into quitting,” Jan said. “You know you can do the work because you’ve been doing the work.”

  After the meeting, Jan pressed a piece of paper with her phone number into my hand. Although I’d never see her again, our connection, and her advice, got me through more tough times yet to come. But now, back to Florida to face the men who didn’t want me there.

  TEN

  WHAT TO SAY, what to do? I hurt inside, like I’d swallowed poison not quite deadly enough to kill me. Glenn must have noticed, because he took me aside and said he had confidence in me. I nodded and tried not to choke up. But my tears fell after he left. Self-doubt lingered. What else had I misunderstood? Afraid to find out, I second-guessed every spoken word and action, questioned motives, skeptical of almost everyone. How much worse could things get?

  A week after the workshop, I awoke early on Saturday morning to find Donna sitting by my front door. “Donna! You spent the night on my porch?”

  “I wasn’t sure you were home,” she said. With a deep sigh, she added, “I quit my job.”

  My jaw dropped, and I inhaled a sharp breath. “You what? Why?”

  “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted to stop and tell you how much I appreciate your support.”

  My heart ached for her. With Saturday a work day, I couldn’t talk long. After she drove away, I stewed. One thing for sure, I wouldn’t let the jerks here make me quit.

  Later that week, Wanda paid Florida a surprise visit, at least for those of us who didn’t know she was coming.

  “We’re having sensitivity training today,” Glenn said, the lines in his face more pronounced. He took a seat behind his desk, removed his Stetson, and set it in front of him. Poor Wanda stood against a wall, doe-eyed and nervous, a notebook clutched to her chest, waiting for everyone to sit.

  One quick scan around the room at the somber faces, and I thought, Sensitivity training for a bunch of macho guys? Hilarious. Oh, yeah, this will go over just great.

  But training? No, this turned out to be nothing but a bitch session, which Opie Taylor and Texas John capitalized on to the fullest. However, their protests about women now sounded foolish, even childish. Afterwards, I laughed to myself. Why did I let those guys get to me? What a bunch of whiny babies.

  October 11Th, Monday

  295 90lb bags of cement went through my hands today!

  “We’ve got a Semi-truck arriving with a load of cement,” Glenn said Monday morning. “Stick around and help unload.”

  I stood with five crewmates, staring inside the eighteen-wheeler, speechless. Eric decided forming a human chain would make the job easier. Tom passed one to my waiting arms, I turned and passed it to Skinny Wilson, and
so on. Each time I took one, I swore it gained a pound. The heavy bags sagged in the middle, threatening to buckle and break open. For hours, we passed sack after sack, from person to person, stacking them in the hay barn.

  After work, I ran a hot bath laced with Epsom salts, a trick my mom taught me to prevent soreness. I immersed myself into the soothing water and soaked for half an hour.

  At morning coffee, several guys moaned about being sore.

  “Really?” I said. “I’m not!”

  Tom chuckled. “You got the lighter bags, that’s why.”

  Eric joined in. “Yeah, Linda, the bags we gave you weighed nine pounds, not ninety.”

  I grinned at them, keeping my secret remedy secret.

  MY FIRST FIRE season came to a close. Daytime temperatures hovered under eighty, and autumn rains fell. Sun rays slanted from the south, emphasizing the depth of the canyons, the steepness of cliffs, casting longer indigo shadows. This time of year always brought on a feeling of nostalgia for my childhood autumns. A touch of color appeared below Mt. Hopkins, Wrightson’s sister peak.

  “What kind of trees are those?” I turned to Joe, pointing to the patches of yellow contrasting the dark-green pines.

  “Aspens,” he replied.

  “Really? I didn’t know there were aspens up there.” Now I felt homesick for the aspen grove I often visited in Prescott.

  Funding for my position would run out on the twenty-first of October. Sad that my job would soon end, I arranged to return to Prescott for the winter.

  At the end of my last day, Glenn made an announcement. “We need to throw Linda a party!”

  “Hear! Hear!” Came the enthusiastic response. I smiled. These guys did like me, even if they thought I shouldn’t fight fires. Although not yet five o’clock, everyone headed to the bunkhouse. Hard liquor of every kind imaginable worked its way around the room. Joe arrived late, about six, and we were already far ahead of him in drinking. And boy did he look handsome. I wanted to find a way to get him alone.