Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  Why did this have to happen to Tom? It was so unfair. Florida wouldn’t be the same without him. I’d miss his laughter, gentle teasing. Yes, I sure would.

  AT NINE A.M. on my day off, Glenn came to get me. “We’ve got another fire near Wrightson.”

  I didn’t want a day off anyway. I changed clothes, sped over to the fire cache, and hopped into the loaded crew-cab. There’d be no helicopter this time, which was okay by me. Heaven forbid should we get spoiled.

  Led by Mark, we pushed hard up to Baldy Saddle, loaded down with gear and tools for the long haul. Soon conversations ended: we were too winded to talk. This pushing so hard got a bit ridiculous. Sure, we were fit, but this was crazy. Of course we needed to get to the fire … but why wear ourselves out getting there? When some of us started to fall behind, Mark stopped for a quick breather; so short, we didn’t even sit down. Repeated several times, each break was just long enough to catch our breath. Last stop, a woman in her sixties rounded a bend.

  She smiled at the panting, sweaty firefighters, and said, “Hello.”

  “Ma’am, you need to turn around,” Mark said. “There’s a fire up ahead.”

  Alarmed, she quickly left. Pushing top speed, and a hiker at an even pace had overtaken us. A hiker forty years older than we were. How ironic was that?

  More pushing hard until we arrived at flames meandering through pine needles and lazy smoke drifting between trees. That’s when I felt a new burst of adrenaline kick in. Eric assigned one squad to start there and waved for me and another crewman to follow him across treacherous scree. Without warning, the rocks gave way, pitching me sideways into the slope. Whoops! I stuck out an arm to break my fall, but it twisted backward as I hit the ground. Pain screamed through my shoulder. In agony, I held the arm against my ribs, rolling from side to side, my breath coming in short, quick snatches. Meanwhile, emotionless voices discussed my fate, akin to talking about what they ate for dinner last night.

  “Guess we need to call a helicopter to fly her out.”

  “Yeah, probably should call a helicopter.”

  Mortified, I thought, Fly me out for a strained muscle? No! Even worse, the whole forest would overhear that I got hurt. That would be humiliating. Blind with pain, I rolled one more time, desperate to make it stop. Something I did helped. Maneuvering to my knees, I then stood. I couldn’t let them send me down. They’d label me a wimp, or blame me for getting hurt, or throw the “See, women don’t belong here” line at me.

  I sucked in a shaky breath. “I want to stay.”

  Eric and Mike turned to look at each other, and then at me, their faces blank.

  “Are you sure?” Mike asked.

  “Yes.”

  Jaw set tight, I followed them, determined to continue.

  Minutes later, a plane engine droned overhead, the C-47 swooping in low. No drop. It circled around and came back again. At a safe distance, I watched the belly doors open, spilling the dark pink retardant across the head of the fire. Flames knocked down, I dug in to scratch line. I kept my elbow close to my side, which allowed me to use the injured arm. “Rock!” a voice yelled from above. Where? Yikes! I scurried to avoid the dislodged stone tumbling end-over-end down the slope and watched it narrowly miss my leg.

  Daytime slipped sideways into evening. Ed mopped his face with a red bandana. “Doggone it, I wish that moon would turn it up a notch. Man, I’m having a Big Mac attack. When’s feeding time at this zoo?”

  Ed thought there should be a McDonald’s within fifteen minutes of his whereabouts on the entire planet. I had to laugh. “You are something else, Ed. Do you ever think of anything besides food?”

  “Is there anything else to think about?”

  Mark’s voice echoed in the darkness. “Hey, Ed, smile so’s we can see ya!”

  Ed roared. He knew exactly what Mark meant. I laughed, too, my fatigue adding to the humorous vision of a bright, floating Cheshire-cat smile.

  Later that night we contained the fire, and took a break. Army jacket zipped up tight, I vied for a spot next to a burning stump to keep warm. I found a position that rested my arm, and napped for a couple hours, turning over when the side opposite the fire got cold. Then the stump burned out. I shivered. It was freezing at nine thousand feet. Joe slept nearby, but he’d foiled my attempt to move closer, saying we shouldn’t show affection at work. His rebuff stung. What difference did it make? Besides, I thought, annoyed, sharing warmth makes sense.

  No cooked breakfast greeted us this morning. A cold C-rat filled my empty stomach, but left me craving pancakes with maple syrup, bacon, and steaming black coffee. Ten minutes later (that’s all it takes to scarf down a C-rat), I joined Joe for mop-up. I threw a shovelful of dirt onto glowing coals and turned when Joe whistled.

  “Look at that,” he said.

  All that remained of the beheaded Douglas fir was a tall, ragged, three-foot-diameter stump. This was not a lightning strike. This poor tree got a full-brunt slurry hit. Good thing I never felt the urge to purposely place myself under a drop in order to claim bragging rights. Back at my hotspot, I chopped apart the smoldering log to aid in cooling. Time for a heat check. I removed a glove and held my hand over the charcoal. Still warm. Back to dumping soil on the coals, chopping and scattering pieces.

  Another twelve hours slipped away; daylight to dusk, dusk to dark. Nightfall helped a great deal with mop-up. Hotspots virtually screamed, “Over here!”

  “Found one,” I said to Joe.

  He finished his heat check. “Okay, be right there.”

  Joe shoveled out and scattered hot coals; I chopped at the charred stump, breaking it into pieces.

  “How’s the shoulder?” he asked.

  “Just a strained muscle. It’s not too bad.” Which was a big fat lie—it hurt like hell. But I appreciated that he’d asked. So far, he was the only one who had.

  On break, I curled into a fetal position to nap, shivering in my damp clothes. When I awoke, daylight had crept into the sky, turning it turquoise and gold. No chirping birds welcomed the sun this morning. Smoke, fire, planes, and humans had frightened them off to safer places. Once the sun cleared the horizon, the cloud-free sky deepened to cobalt blue, and temperatures soared. Hard to believe an hour ago I couldn’t get warm.

  Glenn declared the fire controlled, but with the helicopter busy elsewhere, we’d have to hike out. Well, so be it. Five miles that would feel like ten. At least my shoulder pain had reduced to a dull ache. Down, down, down we zigzagged on seemingly endless switchbacks, past huge granite outcrops painted with multi-colored lichen: orange, chartreuse, sea-foam green. This trail was a rough one, and I tried to step on flat rocks to avoid the painful poke on the bottoms of my feet. I focused on the rhythm of my steps, the thump of my boots striking dirt, and then on rewards at the end … real food, a shower, and bed—maybe in reverse order.

  Those stairs to my quarters must have grown taller the past few days. I fell onto the couch—did that ever feel good. What would feel even better required me to move. Yeah, I should shower. I sat up, tugged off my boots and sweat-soaked socks, and fingered my poor little aching toes. Two were red and blistered. The bottoms of my feet were also red and burned like I’d been walking barefoot on hot asphalt. If I stank, I couldn’t tell. Everything reeked of smoke. Amazing how I never noticed that until I got home. My pants and shirt were so stiff with multiple layers of dried sweat, they could’ve walked to the laundry basket on their own. I stood under the blast of warm water, savoring the removal of several day’s accumulation of filth. Being that dirty always gave me a whole new appreciation of being clean.

  Refreshed, I enjoyed that wonderful feeling of mission accomplished. Even my shoulder felt better. Now for dinner and an early bedtime—all of which wouldn’t happen because someone pounded on the front door.

  SIXTEEN

  “FIRE CALL TO the Kaibab National Forest,” Eric said. “You’re going with John and Rico.”

  Tired? Not anymore. I stuffed clothes into
my duffle bag. What would it be like going off-district with Texas John in charge?He yakked more than he worked. Rico, the tanker foreman in Nogales, had taken Tom’s place, and I’d no clue what to expect from him. But, it’s a fire, and I’m raring to go. And different from any fire I’d battled so far—not only off-district in an unfamiliar part of Northern Arizona, but also to what the Forest Service calls a “Project Fire.” From what I’d gathered, this meant “a really big one.”

  Before leaving, I slapped together a cheese sandwich to eat along the way. A couple hours later, Texas John exited at a rest stop lit up like a used car lot. People milled around, stretching, walking dogs. Children squealed and chased each other, releasing pent-up energy. Returning from the bathroom, I found John talking to a tanker crew from the Catalinas who were headed to the same fire. Instant comrades. I stood back while John bragged about our busy season. He always managed to monopolize a conversation, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to one of the guys I knew. Too bad I couldn’t ditch my crew and ride with the Catalina guys.

  I dozed during the long drive, waking on occasion to read signs indicating how much farther we had to go. John swung into fire camp near midnight. Generators hummed, charging floodlights strung between trees to keep darkness away. People scurried between tents; a truck driver unloaded his rig of supplies. Cardboard signs hung on trees, designating sleeping areas for the many crews. Branches, serving as clotheslines, sported socks and underwear. Prone figures sprawled under canopies, engaged in the kind of deep sleep that comes from total exhaustion.

  We ate a late dinner at one of the many picnic tables inside a circus-sized tent. My stomach a bundle of nerves, I had no appetite and ate little. From a trash can filled with ice, I helped myself to a can of orange juice for later.

  Mealtime over, off we went to patrol a bulldozed fireline for hotspots. At the first one, Rico unrolled hose, and Texas John started up the pump. I took a Pulaski and headed over to chop at the smoldering log.

  John grabbed the handle of my tool. “I’ll get this.”

  What the hell? “Let go,” I said, tightening my grip. “I’m getting this.”

  After a brief tug of war, I won, but that didn’t end the battle. John was on a mission to keep me from working. If this included getting me to sulk in the truck, well, that would never happen. Rico stayed out of the conflict, so I was mad at him too. Some time passed. Certain the shift was about over, I pulled out my pocket watch. Only one o’clock? Unbelievable. I had to stop checking.

  Sixteen hours after we’d begun, I spread out my sleeping bag on ground and collapsed. Texas John disappeared to do who-knows-what. He returned too soon.

  “Woo-wee,” he said, standing over me.

  I squeezed my eyes tight. Go away.

  “Just imagine that.” Cellophane crinkled.

  I sat up and sighed. “What?” Would he ever leave me alone?

  “I just heard a guy got hauled off to the hospital because an ant crawled in his ear.” He lit his cigarette. “’Bout drove him crazy.”

  In his ear? Alarmed, and now wide-awake, I flipped my sleeping bag over, sweeping pine needles aside to look for ants. None, but I never did get any sleep. Every little tickle jolted me upright to brush off imaginary insects. Thanks, John.

  After another long night mopping-up, we returned to camp. I plopped down on my back. Sleep deprivation often led to more sleep deprivation. I draped an arm over my eyes to block out the sun.

  “Hey, lookie over there,” Texas John said. “That’s the all-women Indian crew. Supposed to be really somethin’. Call themselves the Apache 8.” He snickered and made a Groucho Marx face. “Woo-wee, wouldn’t I like to be on that crew.”

  Ugh. “You’re sick, John.”

  What he said registered. All women? I sat up. Some carried shovels and Pulaskis; several balanced chainsaws on their shoulders, all with long black hair contrasted against yellow fire shirts. They seemed so strong and confident. I flopped back down. Do they have it better than me? I wondered. Am I as good as they are?

  Snatches of sleep were interrupted by helicopters, truck engines, and generators. Four hours later, I was getting ready to start another shift, when Rico rushed up. “We’re leaving! Flagstaff’s got a big one on Mt. Elden, and they need us right away.”

  There went our plan to sneak in a visit to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. I doubted we could’ve pulled that off anyway.

  Off we sped, heading south on a three-hour drive to a city in crisis. Drowsy, my head lolled to the right. I woke with a start, my head resting on John’s shoulder. That had to stop. An elbow poked my side.

  “Lookie there,” Texas John said.

  The tall, mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke on the horizon filled my stomach with dread. Oh. My. God. Is that Flagstaff burning?

  SEVENTEEN

  RICO TWISTED THE dial to a Flagstaff radio station.

  “The Radio Fire has consumed over four thousand acres of heavy timber and is growing. If you are in an evacuation area, get out now!”

  Evacuations. What were we getting into? Far more danger than I wanted to take on with these two guys. How much I wished Joe or Glenn were here.

  On the horizon, orange flames formed a necklace around Mt. Elden’s ridges, writhing like solar flares. The sky glowed an iridescent orange, as though it, too, was on fire. Captivating. Breathtaking. A chill shimmied up my backbone. Frightening.

  Texas John left to check in at the fire command center. Rico watched fire camp activity. I worried myself sick. I’d never been to a fire that threatened homes before. Would they make us put out house fires? I’d no idea how to do that. Making my fears worse, the faces all around me were grave, their concerns extending well beyond saving trees.

  John returned with our assignment.

  “They’ve got everyone evacuated,” he said, rummaging for a cigarette from his pocket. “They want us on patrol for spot fires.”

  Texas John took the wheel. Rico offered to sit in the middle, which I appreciated. Down the twenty-foot-wide line we crept. Fire on our left, homes on our right. I rolled up my window to keep smoke from filling the cab, but it still worked its way inside. Our headlights bounced back off the swirling smoke, making it impossible to see where we were going, so John turned them off. Radiant firelight made our surroundings appear surreal and otherworldly.

  “I’d be heartsick if that was my house,”I said, as we crept by a two-story structure.

  “We aren’t supposed to put out house fires,” Rico said.

  Oh, thank goodness.

  Firelight cast strange shadows onto the walls of the home—sinuous figures that danced and waved. As smoke drifted through the backyard, the silhouettes of a swing-set and a bicycle floated in and out of sight. Smoke engulfed our tanker like fog rolling in from the ocean.

  Texas John hit the brakes. “I can’t see a durned thing.”

  For five long minutes, we sat, engine idling. Texas John lit a cigarette. Great. Just what I needed. More smoke. A breeze cleared our view, and we continued. A puff of wind, created by the superheated air, rustled through the trees, spurring flames. Instinctively I cowered away from the window when a tree flared brilliant orange. Despite the fiery display, the line held. We advanced slowly, never reaching a speed worthy of second gear. I watched in and among the homes for spot fires to our right; Rico watched the fire on the left; John focused on the bulldozed fireline ahead.

  An hour past midnight, a Forest Service truck approached from the opposite direction. Texas John parked and jumped out to talk to the driver. Rico napped. I decided to get out and stretch. I leaned against the truck to watch fire do its thing—turn matter into carbon. Moments later came a change in the wind, and a change in the fire’s behavior. Alarmed, I realized the line might not hold. If it didn’t, no way did we have enough water onboard, or enough time, to stop the flames from overtaking us. I yelled at John. He glanced at me, but kept talking. I yelled again, pointing to the approaching flames.

  “What? Oo
ps. Guess we oughta get going,” he said, sporting a sheepish grin.

  “Jesus, John, what were you waiting for?” I said as we hustled back into the vehicle. The other driver did the same, and sped off.

  Rico sat up straight, startled by slamming doors. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  I pounded the dash with my fist. “Go John! Go!”

  “I’m going!”

  Rico paled. “Shit! Go, go, go!”

  With flames licking at the side of the truck, John pressed down on the gas pedal, hitting rocks and ruts hard. I clung to the dash, tossed against the door, against Rico. By the time we reached safety, I trembled, and blood pulsed in my ears. Oddly, though, my first thought was, I wonder if the paint blistered? Even odder, my second thought was, Who’d explain to Glenn how that happened and why?

  “Whassa matter, Linda Lou? Fire a little too close for ya’ll?” Texas John said, chuckling.

  Acid dripped from my voice. “It seems to me you’d know that fire and gas tanks don’t mix.”

  John smirked. Rico said nothing.

  We circled around into the neighborhood and checked to see if the line had held. It had.

  “Well, since we’re out here, might as well fill up the gas tank,” John said.

  I glared at him. Yeah, so you can blow us up royally next time.

  Texas John pulled into an all-night service station, started the self-service pump, and went inside for coffee. I plugged two quarters into a vending machine. No Snickers? Darn. I chose a PayDay instead. Took me thirty seconds to devour it. Tasted pretty darned good. I bought another and ate it just as fast. Not quite as good. My body hummed from the sugar overload. I leaned against the tanker, needing the support, and debated on buying a third one. I talked myself out of it. What I really needed was sleep, not more sugar. A car pulled up beside our tanker. Out stepped a man, his forehead deeply lined in concern. He opened the passenger side door, offering his hand to a very distraught woman. They walked over to me.