Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  “Excuse us,” the man said, his arm tight around the woman, who seemed to need his support. “We saw your Forest Service truck, and my wife insisted we stop.”

  Puzzled, I smiled and waited for him to explain.

  “We were evacuated last night,” he said. “We just wanted to thank you for protecting our home.” His wife sniffled, dabbed her red eyes with a sodden tissue, nodding.

  All of my fatigue, crankiness, and anger disappeared. Their gratitude made my day. Heck, it made my whole summer.

  Mid-morning, with another shift over, I walked to a long table with basins of water, soap, and towels. I scrubbed my face, lower arms, and hands in the cold water, and dried off. In line at the mess tent, I let them fill my plate with whatever and ate mindlessly. Back to a clean basin to brush my teeth. Now for sleep. But my mind would not shut off. Visions of fire, smoke, homes in danger—all kept me awake. By noon, it hit ninety degrees. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead; I wiped it away, only to feel another one form. Insects buzzed around my face. Five minutes felt like sixty. At last, time to go back to work. Better than lying there waiting for sleep that didn’t want to come.

  Our final night out, we patrolled, creeping along in first gear. I kept nodding off, lulled by the slow going, fatigue, and darkness. Our motion stopped. Did we run out of gas? I turned to Texas John. He’d fallen asleep, head lolled down.

  I shook his shoulder. “John! Wake up!” His eyes flickered open.

  “Huh? What?”

  “You fell asleep. Why don’t you let me drive for a while?”

  “I wasn’t asleep,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “Just resting my eyes.”

  Liar. He didn’t want me to drive. Or Rico either, for that matter.

  Late in the morning, fire officials released us. Rico said the Florida and Nogales crews were battling a huge fire in the Huachuca Mountains, east of the Santa Ritas. I worried all the way back about my precious mountains. What if we had a fire? Who’d put it out?

  Late evening, we arrived at the empty Florida complex. No lights shone in the windows, no government trucks were parked in their spots—a blanket of silence covered the entire station. Had time frozen while I’d been away? For eight solid days, I’d been traveling to, fighting, or returning from, fires. Those eight days felt like three weeks. And fire season had just begun.

  FIRST THING, I replenished my fire pack, exchanged dull tools for sharp, and cleaned out the tanker. When I reached behind the seat to pick up trash, pain ripped through the shoulder I’d hurt before, rendering me incoherent. Gasping for breath, I held my arm to my side and waited for the agony to subside. Damn, strained it again. By now I considered all aches and pains the price I paid to do my job. I’d just have to be more careful.

  EXTREME FIRE DANGER required extreme measures. The entire Coronado National Forest was closed to the public in mid-June. Glenn assigned me to the roadblock on Madera Canyon Road and asked Mark to loan me a uniform shirt so I’d look official. My bathroom mirror reflected an image I liked. Forest Service green might become my new favorite color.

  Skinny Wilson and I manned the roadblock—a barricade placed in the travel lane. We sat on the side of the road, baking in the truck’s cab, watching heat rise from the asphalt in visible waves. Kind of like sitting next to a blast furnace. Not many cars came up here in the summer, making for a long, long day. Skinny Wilson’s smug comments made it seem even longer. If I mentioned the intricacies of tuning a saw—oh, heck, he’d perfected that years ago. Bring up the art of tool sharpening, he’d perfected that years ago, too. Because Skinny was only eighteen, I figured he must’ve learned this stuff in kindergarten.

  At last, a car approached. I didn’t mind talking to John Q. Public and strolled out to greet the driver. Skinny stayed in the cab engrossed in a Playboy magazine. A middle-aged couple, dressed in matching khaki shirts, with binoculars hanging around their necks, returned my “hello” with a smile. Their disappointment over the road closure turned into sympathy for our hot job, and they offered us cold drinks from their cooler. Those were the nice folks. Another car approached. This time, four overweight men, beers in hand, eyed me skeptically as I explained the situation.

  The driver’s round face reddened. “Hell, I pay for these facilities with my tax dollars. In fact, I pay your salary.” Guffaws came from the passengers.

  “I’m sorry sir,” I said. “If you’d like, I can give you the phone number for the district ranger.”

  “I ain’t calling no stinkin’ district ranger,” the man said. He made a U-turn, and, thank goodness, drove away.

  The following week, Mark took Skinny Wilson’s place. Last summer, Mark’s company would’ve been great, this summer, not so great—in fact, awful. Not sure how we got on the topic, but Mark brought up the subject of women on fire crews, saying they belonged in the office, not on the line. Arguing would have made things worse, so I spent the day giving him the silent treatment, which he reciprocated. That he’d loved me last summer, but hated me now, was something I blamed on myself. If only I’d made a decision about us sooner, maybe things wouldn’t be this way.

  The rotten day with Mark put me in a rotten mood once home. Joe rode past my house on his motorcycle.

  I waved him down, yelling, “Take me!”

  I straddled the seat, wrapped my arms around him, and let him whisk me away. Parked in the desert to watch the sunset, Joe took my hand, laced his fingers between mine, and said I was beautiful. That he repeated this often didn’t make me believe it one iota, but the pleasure that he thought so lingered for hours. There wasn’t any place else I wanted to be other than with him, right there, right then.

  THE OFFICE SCREEN door squeaked when I opened it in the morning and banged when it shut behind me. I peeked into my inbox. A letter from Mom! Inside, she’d stuffed newspaper clippings about out-of-control blazes reaching from California to Alaska, designating the summer of ’77 the worst in recent history. Why didn’t we get to go anywhere? So far, nothing but false alarms; and in one instance, three days in a row. Each time, we scrambled to the trucks and raced out of the complex, only to turn right around. Boy was that disappointing.

  It wasn’t the same as going to a fire, but when we started a spring improvement project at Kent Springs, I figured that at least it would distract me from all the fires we were missing. We bounced up the access road with far less urgency than last summer’s haul-ass trip en route to the Kent Fire. Understandably, I’d missed the beauty of this idyllic forest setting on the crazy ride with Scott that May morning. Tall, gnarled sycamores with white and green mottled bark lined a musical creek in the deep, shadowy canyon. Water tumbled between and spilled over boulders; spiky, golden columbines nodded on the edges; limpid pools beckoned me to plunge in—maybe I would this weekend.

  Lacy, bright-green bracken grew in abundance where we would build the wildlife watering trough. A V-shaped trench filled with concrete would funnel water into a concrete spring-box. White-tailed deer, black bears, squirrels, and coatis would soon appreciate a drink here.

  Texas John and I unloaded sacks of cement. We’d add gravel and water to make concrete. Plenty of water here.

  “Head down the trail a ways,” Mark said. “There’s a rockslide with gravel just the right size.”

  Rock is extremely heavy, even when it comes in small pieces—not that I didn’t know that, but I’d never backpacked rock before. I held an old fire pack open while Texas John shoveled, and shoveled, and shoveled.

  “Geez, John, you’ve got it overflowing!” Even if I could lift it, I’d lose the top third carrying it. He took some gravel out, grumbling about weak girls. Then he filled his pack half-full. That figures. With a bit of a wobble I carried the pack to the spring. Many trips later, a suitable pile had formed.

  Mark crawled out of the trench, and in a voice thick with sarcasm, said, “Are we having fun yet?”

  Maybe he wasn’t, but I sure was.

  “Your turn,” he said to me, av
oiding eye contact.

  Fine, don’t look at me, I thought. But this treatment hurt. Despite all that happened between us, I didn’t hate Mark. I sincerely regretted the awful mess we got into, but just because everything fell apart, didn’t mean he had to be such a jerk.

  I slid into the trench, fully immersed in the earthy scent of rich, black humus. My boots sank deep into the mud. Rats. I hope they don’t leak. I forced the shovel into the muck with my foot, then strained to lift the load. The heavy clay resisted, then a sucking sound accompanied the successful scoop. I tried to fling the mud off the shovel, but it wouldn’t budge. Beating the shovel on a rock accomplished nothing. Mark handed me a second shovel to scrape the mud off the first one. Meanwhile, Texas John bailed out the trench as water seeped in from the spring. At four o’clock, we called it a day.

  After a week of digging and bailing, we mixed concrete. As I sloshed the mixture forward and back in the wheelbarrow with a hoe, my thoughts wandered. Last night Joe had slept over. While I curled up next to him, he whispered that he loved me more than anything. On one level, I thought I loved Joe more than I’d ever loved anyone else, but would I never love anyone else but him? I wondered if that was possible. I’d loved before, but it didn’t last. Would this?

  Now for the hard part: hauling the concrete uphill to the trench. The terrain made using a wheelbarrow impossible, so we filled five-gallon buckets instead. I started out with one, but all the weight on one side threw me off balance. Two were heavier, but easier to carry—although after many trips, I wondered if my arms had lengthened a couple inches. Late afternoon, I watched Mark smooth the surface with a trowel.

  “We should add a date, like the CCCs did,” I said, proud of our work.

  “You are not writing in my fresh concrete!” Mark gathered tools and stomped back to the truck.

  Spoilsport. I should’ve done it anyway.

  TWO WEEKS CRAWLED by like drunken snails, and still no fire calls. What a letdown. The action earlier this summer had spoiled me. I wanted more excitement. I wanted to go to another fire. Instead, I got culverts. Roadway culverts were something I’d never known existed, but Glenn changed that forever.

  Flash floods from sudden rains washed sand and debris into the corrugated metal pipes along Box Canyon Road. If “someone” didn’t clean them once in a while, water backs up and washes the road out. Glenn’s “someone” would be Texas John, Skinny Wilson, and me: A long day ahead with two annoying companions. Yeah, I really wanted to go on another fire.

  After arriving at the first culvert, I slid down the steep embankment to reach the opening. I crouched low, extended my shovel into the three-foot diameter pipe, dragged out a load of sand, pitched it downhill, and then went back in for more.

  Texas John lit a cigarette and waved out the match. “Ya know, Linda Lou, you could crawl inside and push that sand out.”

  I flung the load off my shovel. “Fat chance, John, be my guest.”

  He chuckled. “I’m too big.”

  Again, what could I say?

  “Watch out for snakes,” he said as I leaned into the pipe.

  I turned to glare at him. “Thanks.”

  A car with out-of-state plates pulled over to the side of the road next to our parked truck. The man, dressed in a shirt and tie, walked up to us with an “I’m lost” expression on his face. With a sly smile and a wink in my direction, Texas John asked how he could be of assistance.

  The driver said, “I tried to take a short cut, and must’ve made a wrong turn. Where am I?”

  Texas John didn’t skip a beat. “Well, Hoss, you’re in Texas.”

  The man’s mouth formed a perfect “O” as it registered that somehow he’d driven through the entire state of New Mexico without knowing it. John continued stringing him along for at least five minutes; after which, I couldn’t stand it one second longer.

  “John’s just joking with you. You’re still in Arizona.” I sent the relieved man on his way with directions to the interstate.

  With hands on hips, John said, “Why’d you have to go and spoil my fun?”

  “Because enough is enough! You were being mean.” I let out a huge sigh. Only thirteen more miles of culverts to go …

  I INVITED JOE on a long weekend in Prescott. Not only did I want to spend quality time with him away from work, but I wanted my parents to meet him. Quite unnerving, though, when I introduced a very shy Joe to my folks: a polite handshake with my dad, a smile and hello to my mom. When I walked in the kitchen to see Joe and my mom chatting away, I was so relieved. I should’ve known she’d work her magic on him.

  Early Saturday, Joe and I explored the local swap meet, finding a few treasures. That night he took me to dinner at a swanky restaurant, where we lingered over good wine and conversation. Sunday, we hiked to Wolf Creek, making love to the sounds of rushing water. Late afternoon we headed back to Florida, with me in disbelief our three days together were already over. I almost didn’t want to return to work.

  WHAT A LONG Monday. In addition to having the post-vacation blues, rumors flew that funding was running out, and we’d be laid-off soon. I lowered and folded the American flag around 5:15, a ritual I enjoyed. Neat bundle in hand, I entered the office to stow it away. Hearing Glenn on the phone, I stopped. He acknowledged my presence with a nod and motioned for me to sit. I poised on the edge of his desk. He finished the call and placed the receiver in the cradle. My inquisitive eyes met his steady gaze. From that connection I knew: we had another fire.

  “You’re going to Northern Arizona,” he said.

  He reached out, and gently squeezed my hand. My heart squeezed. Confused, and frankly a bit scared, I waited to see what he’d do next—which was to let my hand go and pick up the receiver to make another call. The warmth of his touch lingered.

  After he finished, I dialed my mom to let her know I’d be off-district again. She answered the phone upset and crying.

  “We lost Tabitha,” she said, sobbing.

  In horror, I listened as she explained that our kitty had been hit by a car and had to be put down. Tabitha, dead! I hated that I couldn’t console her very long, or let her console me. Right now, I had to get to a fire.

  With raw grief, I stared into the dark outside the truck window in a trance. Tabitha had come west with us, spending the five days driving cross-country on my lap. Although she was the family cat, she’d favored me. When I realized that just last Saturday she’d slept on my bed, tears poured down my face, and I stifled sobs so no one could hear me cry.

  Preoccupied with my loss, somehow I blotted out the entire experience on the Hualapai Reservation. Weeks later, I’d hear Mark tell all of the screw-ups on this fire: how we’d wandered around for hours in the dark, looking for the tools left for us to pick up and not finding them; how rhythmic drumbeats had kept us awake when we tried to sleep; how the crew boss had insisted that east was north, even after the sun came up in his “north.” I have no memory of these events.

  What do I remember? I remember being in incredible emotional turmoil: Tabitha was gone, leaving a gaping hole in my heart; I loved both Joe, and, unfortunately, Glenn; Mark and I were at odds with each other, but he did noticed that something was wrong with me. He didn’t pry—which was fine. I doubted I would’ve felt comfortable bawling on his shoulder. And I also remember those eerie, obscure, crashing sounds echoing in the night air deep within the dark forest. Downright spooky.

  “What is that?” I asked Mark, my nerves tingling.

  He glanced over at me. “Trees falling.”

  Oh.

  Later that night, I heard a creak and faint snap—close—very close. I burst into a dead run, heading for who-knows-where. Heart pounding, out of breath and hopefully out of the way of a falling tree, I waited. Nothing happened, but I remained on super-high-alert the rest of our shift.

  TYPICAL OF THE way most major fires end, Mother Nature waved her magic wand and delivered rain. I have no memory of the drive back to Florida.

 
; Up the stairs I trudged to find Jodi in our kitchen, stirring something on the stove. She turned to me. “Welcome home!”

  It was good to see her. I peeked into the pot. “Whatcha fixing?” Anything not canned would be great.

  “SpaghettiOs!” she said with glee.

  Last summer Jodi had admitted she couldn’t cook, so no surprise here.

  I opened the fridge to investigate options. After a sandwich, time for a shower.

  I rubbed my scalp with my fingertips to begin untangling hair kinked and matted from week-old sweat. Determined to remove all the soot with only one shower, I spent extra time scrubbing. Momentarily refreshed, I sat on the couch to share my fire adventure and see what Jodi had been up to. She got two sentences out before someone knocked on the door. We stared at each other with raised eyebrows. Another one?

  EIGHTEEN

  ERIC STRODE INTO the living room, removed his cap, and turned to me with a sheepish smile. “Are you up for another fire?”

  I guessed he thought I’d reply, “Are you nuts?” But I’d already forgotten I’d just returned from one a few hours ago. I gave him my best “I’m not tired” smile, and sat up straight. “Sure, where to?”

  “Northern California. The Klamath. Pack fast, plane’s waiting.”

  Jodi watched as I stuffed clothes into my duffel bag, disappointed she couldn’t go with college starting next week. Who knew how long I’d be gone. We hugged goodbye.

  Glenn rounded up a crew of eight, and for the first time since I’d worked there, said he would join us. “They’re so desperate for bodies, next thing you know they’ll be hiring people off the street.” Eventually, they did.

  Soon, I stood next to Joe and the rest of my crew in the Forest Service’s terminal at Tucson International Airport. Blinding white, florescent lights charged up my body’s dead batteries. Other crews milled around, with not another woman in sight, but I’d gotten used to that. Although a bundle of nervous energy, I figured I must be tired. If I’d learned anything about being a firefighter, it was to sleep whenever possible. I curled up on the floor, using my pack for a pillow, but the cold concrete made my shoulder and hip ache, ruining my nap attempts. We waited, and waited some more. Hurry up and wait—typical government way. At last, nineteen men and one woman boarded the chartered plane. From my window seat, I watched Tucson’s lights fade as we headed to the northwest.