THE THUMP OF lowering landing gear woke me from a fitful doze, and I strained to see signs of where we were out the window, but it was pitch-black dark. Too bad I didn’t have a map. I have great memories of family vacations, when I watched my dad pore over our travel route, puffing on his pipe filled with fragrant cherry tobacco, marking sightseeing destinations. I’d learned to love maps from those trips.
It was pre-dawn in Medford when I stumbled onto a different plane headed to Eureka. Once seated, I scrunched up to take advantage of yet another catnap opportunity. At daybreak, I woke, stretched, and gazed out the tiny window at endless acres of forest. Idaho? Montana? Then I noticed large, treeless concentric circles dotting the landscape. The work of a gigantic cookie cutter? Alien landing sites? I asked Joe.
He leaned over me to see. “Clear cutting. It’s a logging practice.”
“Well, that’s ugly.”
“I hear it’s easier than selectively harvesting individual trees.”
His explanation didn’t change my opinion.
In Eureka they herded us like cattle onto a waiting school bus. A few jokesters in the group “mooed.” I snagged a window seat and leaned my forehead against the cool glass in fatigue. I watched another day end, then drifted off.
A cloudless dawn revealed a forest I couldn’t see for all the trees. Hunger pangs reminded me I hadn’t eaten since I left Florida, not even peanuts on the plane. When were they going to feed us? Our bus pulled into a parking lot amidst a group of rustic buildings. This Forest Service work center rivaled Florida: quaint, and possibly historic. A delightful thought occurred to me that I could apply there if I wanted to.
An employee led us to a mess hall, where I stood in line to place my breakfast order: scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. I filled a mug with coffee, which I’d just started to appreciate. That hot breakfast Glenn and Texas John made in June, on top of the mountain … was it really this summer, or last? It now seemed so long ago.
On the bus, I realized that this was how I envisioned the life of a hotshot when I’d first met them—traveling in scenic western forests to fight fires. The dense, fragrant woodlands of leafy hardwoods here reminded me of my former Upper New York State home. I bet there were many lakes out there, too. The swift Salmon River, tumbling beside the winding road, churned with whitewater rapids. An orange sun glowed through a distinctive brown haze, and sweet wood smoke drifted in through the window. We were getting close.
Green canvas tents, school buses, Forest Service vehicles, and rows of porta potties with their sickeningly-sweet scent, spread out across acres of open meadow, forming the fire camp. Noisy generators hummed; off-duty firefighters, support personnel, and venders milled around. We sat with our gear while Glenn disappeared to obtain our orders. The Forest Service, after all, is a government agency, full of red tape and formality. They considered firefighting a war—in fact, they’d been engaged in fire wars for over a century.
Glenn briefed us on the Hog-Fong Fire. “No containment yet of the nearly fifty-thousand-acre blaze. Embers have been starting spot fires miles ahead of the main fire. Hard to get a line around it.”
Miles ahead of the main fire? I’d no idea that was possible.
Hours passed before I climbed, at last, into the back of an Army open-bed transport truck and took a seat next to Joe. I was grateful to have both him and Glenn on this trip. Our convoy sped down a dusty logging road, which coated us with red, powdery soil rolling off the dual rear tires—suffocating. I tied a bandana over my nose. I wanted to see where we were going, but I had to squeeze my eyes shut to keep out the dust. It was oddly disorienting riding backward with my eyes closed, but at least I didn’t get carsick.
At day’s end, we reached the outlying spike camp. Stiff from the uncomfortable ride, I climbed out of the truck and instinctively brushed off dirt. Futile, of course. I didn’t bother to look at my face, figuring it matched everyone else’s.
Tools in hands, headlamps shining light along the way, we marched single file up and down endless, undulating hills. While these hills weren’t as steep as in the Santa Ritas, my leg muscles were feeling the uphill portions enough to appreciate the downhill stretches. After two hours, I started real work—chopping limbs and digging out brush to create a six-foot-wide line. All trimmings went outside of our clearing, away from the approaching fire, the one we hadn’t yet seen. No adrenaline—this was just plain hard work. Tools chinked against rocks, saw engines buzzed, spewing blue exhaust and wood chips, disrupting this peaceful forest. Did the trees know their fate? Did they know we were there to help?
After twelve hours, we marched the two hours to spike camp for food and rest. By the time I’d stood in line to eat, stood in line for a disposable sleeping bag, and stood in line to wash up—only six hours remained, and I planned on making the most of them.
Disposable sleeping bags? Who knew you could make sleeping bags out of paper. Multiple layers of tissue, topped with a waterproof surface, provided warmth, but offered little padding against the hard ground. My damp clothes would make for a cold night, so I wiggled all the way inside the bag, and removed my socks, pants, both shirts and my bra. How to do that without exposing any skin? I decided I didn’t care. The guys never tried to take a peek at me undressing anyway—at least as far as I knew. Fire clothes wadded into a pillow, I curled up on my side, willing my body to relax.
If I slept, I didn’t remember doing so. Glenn made the rounds with our wake-up call—a nudge with his boot. I dressed inside my paper bag, more challenging than it was to take my clothes off, and changed only socks and underwear—the essentials.
Next, I stood in line for my sack lunch (dinner, breakfast, whatever meal it was). After tossing the bologna, which I detested, I ate the bland white-bread-cheese sandwich and washed it down with apple juice. I tucked the orange and Snickers bar into my Army jacket pocket and strapped on my fire shelter and canteens.
“We’re going to help with a backfire today,” Glenn announced.
Backfires burn out vegetation in front of an advancing blaze to starve it of fuel—fighting fire with fire. I’d learned about it in training, but never had the opportunity to see it in action. At least it would be more exciting than building line for a fire that we hadn’t actually seen yet. Swept up by a storm of anticipation, I stood with my crew, ready to take it on.
Again in single file we marched through the powdery soil, stirring up our own dust clouds. Soon, I stood with my crew, awestruck, before a dramatic scene of men and machines, working like a colony of ants, to clear a thousand-foot-wide fireline: man versus nature.
Mark’s jaw dropped. “Holy moly! Look at that!”
Two massive D-9 Caterpillar bulldozers created billows of red dust as they ripped towering fir trees from the ground. Deafening clanks and squeaks from equipment drowned out our voices. Diesel exhaust fouled the essence of freshly turned soil. Sawyers added to the cacophony, running chainsaws at full throttle, as they, too, downed the tall trees. Unable to match the efficiency of the dozers, I overheard the sawyers were asked to leave. In less than an hour, a swath of evergreens was turned into immense stacks of slash at the inner edge of the fire break, ready for ignition. I’d never seen anything so destructive happen so fast. Next, several men went about setting those piles ablaze.
Drip torches worked better than lighter fluid, with slash igniting as though it had been soaked in gasoline. In an out-of-body experience, I watched myself watch a wall of flame grow as tall as a twenty-story building. I turned away, raising a gloved hand to protect my cheek from the intense heat. Fear formed in the pit of my stomach as flames leapt into canopies, searching for more fuel, turning majestic pines into giant torches. Smoke boiled and rolled hundreds of feet above the forest canopy. The sky turned red. With the wind at our backs working like a bellows, the inferno uttered an unearthly, guttural roar, engulfing entire trees in seconds. Alarm grew exponentially in my chest with each passing second. How much worse is this going to get? My instincts told
me to run, but my feet remained firmly planted. Ash collected on my clothes and drifted to the ground around my boots like gray snow, never to melt. My thoughts turned to the fire shelter I carried around my waist. Bile rose into my throat. I sure hope the men in charge know what they’re doing. If they screw up, we’re all dead.
Glenn cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled for us to follow him.
Reluctant to walk away from the spectacular fire show even though the magnitude of what I just saw frightened me, I had to force myself to move. Although alarming, the fire was also captivating.
Glenn pointed at me and eight of the men. “You go with Arnie. The rest, follow me.”
I stood with my squad while Arnie gave directions. “We’re working in pairs, a couple hundred feet apart. You need to stay awake and alert, and watch for spot fires.”
Texas John, with arms folded across his barrel chest, narrowed his eyes at Arnie. “Hey, Hoss, so what’re you gonna do all night?”
“Me? I’m gonna walk up and down the line to make sure no one is sleeping on the job.”
“Well, awright, then,” Texas John said, apparently satisfied Arnie wouldn’t be slacking off. What arrogant nerve.John wasn’t exactly Mr. Hard Worker.
Arnie left Greg and me at a large rock outcrop, which served as a fairly safe place to watch—rocks are, after all, noncombustible. I’d no idea what time it was—time had no meaning on a fireline. You worked until it was time to stop working, and often beyond that.
I sat facing the backfire to watch for a wind change, which could make the fire jump the line. Greg had our backs, watching for a spot fire, which could entrap us. We turned off our headlamps to conserve batteries. Sparks floated and danced like forest fairies, snuffing out as they cooled; a phantom tree, consumed by flames, crashed to earth, echoing inside the deep, dark woods. When a tree falls in the forest, and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Greg’s voice drifted from above me. “How’s it going?”
A human voice, amidst all of the forest and fire sounds, at that moment sounded strange, incongruous. “Fine,” I said after a pause.
“Wasn’t that backfire something?” Greg asked.
More than something. “All I could think about was what a joke our fire shelters are. And hoping that nobody screws up and gets us killed.”
We both agreed; even knowing it probably meant a death sentence, if it came right down to it, we’d run like hell before we’d ever deploy.
Our vigil continued: watching and listening for any sounds or sights signaling a problem with the fire. It was hard to stay awake—I rubbed my eyes, hoping it would help. Snapping twigs and thumping against rocks startled them wide open. Bear?
“Hey guys.” Arnie shut off his headlamp so he wouldn’t blind us. He sat down on the ground near me. “Things are quiet. They’re predicting light winds tonight.”
We talked for a few minutes, and Arnie stood up to go check on the others, assuring us he’d be back later. His footsteps faded as he made his way down the fireline.
I listened to the fire dwindle to a gentle crackling, nodded off, then jerked awake. I stood up and stretched. My movement stirred Greg.
“Wow, I’m beat,” he said in the middle of a yawn.
My yawn echoed his. Awake for more than twenty four hours, I was beyond tired. My body felt foreign and unwieldy, like it belonged to someone else. We conversed a little to keep ourselves awake. Greg had just joined our crew this summer. What a way to start out.
“So far,” he said, “ I love it.”
I could relate.
Arnie returned at two o’clock. “This section’s looking good, so we’ll be relocating. I’ll gather up the squad, then come back for you.”
“Don’t you want us to come with you now?” I asked.
“Nah, stay put.”
Although it didn’t make sense to me, I didn’t question him.
At my post, exhaustion won. I drifted off and awakened with a start. Damn. How long did I sleep? “Hey, Greg, what time you got?”
“I’ve got …” He flipped on his headlamp. “I’ve got four-thirty.”
“That’s what I’ve got! Where the heck is Arnie?” Panic rose in my throat. What now?
Greg slid down from his perch, sending loose rocks tumbling. “So what do you think we should do?”
I couldn’t see the point of sitting there any longer. “Let’s try to find them.”
Following the cleared line, I mulled over our dilemma. Maybe they found a spot fire. Or got lost? Geez, if they got lost, where does that leave Greg and me?
Two figures approached us from the other direction.
“Have you seen Arnie?” I asked Texas John and a Nogales crewman.
“Not since he told us to wait,” John said. “They must be further up the line.”
Positive they were ahead, the four of us trudged onward. Not convinced John knew where we were going, I worried we were hiking the wrong way. Then I heard voices, and multiple headlamps shone through the trees like tiny search lights. Another crew.
“We can’t seem to find our people,” Texas John told the crew boss.
What? He’s making it sound like we got lost!
“Haven’t seen anyone but you,” the man said. “But you can’t stick around here. We’re getting ready to backfire. They’re probably looking for you, maybe they’re farther down the line, or, you could go back to camp. That way,” he pointed behind us, “you’ll walk right into it.”
Insanity! Why did Arnie walk off and leave four people behind? Worse yet, why didn’t anyone else notice we were missing? Because we didn’t have a radio, it made more sense to return to camp. My headlamp lit only the ground in front of me as I stared at my feet following the path. Beyond the beam it was pitch-black, ominous, and silent. The conversation tumbled around my tired brain cells. The crew boss had said they were getting ready to backfire. Backfire! They could’ve burned us up! I had no desire to die, even in the line of duty, but to die because of someone’s incompetence? I clenched my fists, livid.
Anger gave me plenty of energy for the hike to camp. Early morning light filtered its way through the smoky haze, making it appear as though we were camped by the ocean, with the fog rolling in. It should have smelled smoky, too, but I’d been breathing it for so long, that I didn’t notice anymore. Texas John tiptoed through the many sleeping crews, looking for ours.
Returning, he said simply, “They’re here.”
“What do you mean … our crew? Here?”
Texas John stared at the ground. “Yeah, they’ve been here a couple hours.”
I lost it. “Unbelievable! So where are they?”
He gestured.
On the way to confront anyone and everyone, I ran into Mark first. He turned to glare at me. “So where the hell have you guys been?”
My voice shook. “We waited for over two hours for Arnie to come back for us, like he said he would. But we never saw him again!”
“Well, I don’t know what happened, but Glenn’s pretty PO’d at you guys.”
I stormed over to Glenn, but before I could say a word, his steel-blue eyes flashed in anger at me. “Don’t you ever get separated from the crew again.”
Tears welled up; my throat clamped shut. To have him mad at me hurt more than I could cope with right then. Too exhausted to defend myself, I stomped off, dropped to the ground, and curled up in a ball. Don’t you dare cry. I closed my eyes and commanded myself to go to sleep. Something hit the ground, close, and my eyes popped open. In a heap next to me lay a sleeping bag, and Mark was walking away. Too tired to analyze why he’d done something nice for me, I crawled inside the bag, reliving the confrontation under closed eyelids. I never mentioned the incident again. Neither did anyone else.
NINETEEN
EVERY DAY, I went through the motions of working with my brain turned off—a firefighting zombie: hike two hours in, build line, chop limbs, scrape ground, hike two hours out, eat, try to get some s
leep—until I didn’t know what day it was, nor how long I’d been out there.
On day “whatever,” I awoke to a raw throat that hurt so much to swallow, my eyes watered. Damn. What a lousy time to get sick.
“Better go get checked,” Glenn said. “We sure don’t need you going out tonight if you’re sick.”
I pulled on my boots and dragged myself over to the first aid tent. I waited my turn, watching two medics treat nasty blisters and poison oak. Poison oak? Thank goodness I didn’t find that.
“Let’s take a look,” the youthful white-shirted man said to me. He reached for a tongue depressor and a flashlight, and peered down my throat. The light clicked off. “Smoke inhalation. I’ve seen dozens of cases today.” He handed me a package of lozenges. “Sorry, but it’ll get worse before it gets better.”
Great. I swallowed hard, flinching.
“So what’s the diagnosis?” Glenn asked when I returned.
“I’m not sick,” I said, unable to speak above a whisper.
“Stay here and rest anyway.”
I sulked, worried what the guys would say about me staying behind. Would they call me a wimp? How would I ever live this down?
When everyone returned, I overheard stories about getting stung by ground-nesting bees. Not that I wished I’d gotten stung, but I didn’t like missing out on anything.
The next shift, I returned to the fireline, glad to be back, despite my sore throat. At break time, I huddled around a burning stump with Joe and Pete on this stone-cold night. Deep in the bottom of my pack, I found a few packets of instant coffee, which I shared. We perched our canteen cups on rocks near the flames, waiting for the water to boil. Unwrapping my Snickers bar, saved from lunch, caught Pete’s attention.
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