Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  Gary voiced what I already knew to be true. “Those two guys have to be the most worthless ones we’ve got.”

  Well, halleluiah! That incident, on top of everything else Paul did, must surely be grounds for dismissal. But nothing happened, not even a reprimand. What did you have to do to get fired from this outfit? Frustrated, I became silent and brooding. I didn’t realize anyone noticed until Mark commented that I didn’t laugh anymore. Why would I? Idiots for coworkers, no camaraderie, only a few fires, Joe gone and an unbearable roommate … I dreaded the rest of the summer.

  I CAME HOME from grocery shopping to find a party going on next door, so I popped over to join them. Glenn was there, which was unusual for him this summer, since he didn’t live at Florida anymore. I joined the group in the living room.

  Mark paced, flailing his arms. “ … and she said was going to file an EEO discrimination complaint!”

  I gathered that Mark meant my roommate, the only other “she” here.

  “Against who?” I asked.

  Eric turned toward me. “Against Glenn.”

  Glenn? Why that little … What audacity to accuse the last person on the planet that would ever discriminate against anyone, anywhere, at any time. I attempted to gauge Glenn’s reaction, but he just stared into his whiskey. I wanted to tell him that I would never do such a thing, and that I thought the woman was a lunatic.

  Heated discussion over, the guys shifted to another topic. Glenn stood up and took me aside. Cupping my elbow with his hand, he said, “Can we talk?”

  Minutes ago, I wanted this. Now, wary, but also wanting to hear what he had to say, I followed him outside for privacy.

  Glenn stood intimately close to me, his head lowered, and then looked into my eyes from under the brim of his Stetson. “You know, I think the world of you.”

  My inner voice screamed, No, no, no, he will only hurt you again! but the part that still loved him wanted him to kiss me, and I let him. However, the words I wanted to hear more than anything, that he loved me, weren’t spoken. Even though it wrenched my heart to do so, I pushed him away. Angry, he left. I stood there for a few minutes, reeling, near tears. How do you extract someone from your heart once they are firmly embedded there?

  About three a.m., I staggered home from two too many drinks. Flat on my back, I tried to sleep; but when I closed my eyes, the room spun. With eyes open the room spun. Somehow I made it to work the next morning despite a hangover so brutal, it hurt to blink. Good thing we had station duty; I could handle sweeping out the fire cache, but not much more. At eleven, I gave myself a pep talk. Only five more hours to go. That’s when Gary burst into the shop saying: “We’ve got a fire!”

  My headache vanished.

  It returned an hour later.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SMOKE-CLOUDS ROLLED and churned from steep, rocky slopes beneath the vertical cliffs forming Pusche Ridge, an area in the Santa Catalina Mountains known for its inaccessible terrain.

  Gary turned on the local radio station. “Today’s forecast calls for a temperature of one-oh-eight, so stay cool Tucson, and stay indoors.”

  Like that would happen. Tightening the knot in my stomach—not a single shade tree in sight. They aren’t really going to make us go up there—are they? I’d always made a concerted effort not to be a complainer about firefighting hardships; after all, I’d chosen and loved my job. But with that scorching forecast and those barren slopes, the fire posed less danger to me than did possible heat exhaustion, or worse, heat stroke. Too bad Brian had missed this fire. I would’ve loved to see him tackle this “piece of cake.”

  Fire camp, tucked into a grove of scrawny palo verdes, offered scant shade—that’s the desert for you. Gary returned with our orders: “We’ve got the night shift.”

  Working at night would be great, except we’d start now. I swung my fire pack onto my back, tied my canteens and fire shelter around my hips. Up we marched on a scree covered, ladder-steep slope. Noon-high blistering sun penetrated both of my shirts, searing my skin. I paused for a sip of water. What few plants grew here hugged the ground, except the notorious and well-armed shindagger agave. Midday glare washed out colors, leaving a palette of tan and muted greens in those areas not already blackened by fire. Bone-dry air sucked out any scents other than baked earth and wafting smoke.

  Gary stopped. “Crew coming through, step aside.”

  Men plodded by, faces drawn and withered from working in the blazing sun. One of the guys stopped in front of me. “Can you spare a canteen?”

  Give him my water?The guy must be sun-crazed. “Uh, well, I’m just starting a shift,” I said.

  “Okay, never mind.” He moved on.

  As I walked away, I felt a twinge of guilt. Should I have? Wait, no, he’s almost back to camp. I need my water.

  Stumbling over the rough terrain, we reached the slow-moving fire, which burned through succulent agave leaves, making a sound much like popcorn. At least agaves didn’t ignite like grass. No big threat here.

  Hours later, my muscles and patience taxed, I couldn’t tell if we’d made much progress. Sweat evaporated before I felt a single drop. I stopped to take a sip of my precious water. Not too much … make it last. I wanted to drink more, but fought the urge. I could be out here sixteen hours.I replaced the cap and screwed it tight—heaven forbid should any leak out. My head pounded; a combination of dehydration and a hangover. Dumb shit. No more drinking on weeknights.

  Gary suggested a break. Sitting in full, unrelenting sun, on ground hotter than the air offered no relief, though. We gave up after only five minutes.

  “Am I the only one who thinks building line here is futile?” I asked, back to chopping at plants wedged between rocks.

  Gary mopped his brow with a bandana. “Yeah, but this is bighorn sheep habitat. They’re worried about loss of food.”

  Okay, so we were saving habitat. Not much glamour, though. Without threats to life and property, we wouldn’t be making headlines for our efforts. That’s the news media for you.

  What a difference it made when the blistering sun ducked below the horizon. Although still in the nineties, relative to daytime heat, this cooler air made me feel downright perky. All night we chopped and scraped. Bugs danced around my headlamp, both distracting and annoying. My feet hurt from walking on sharp rocks, and I stumbled more often, from that and fatigue. Gradually, the midnight blue sky lightened to soft turquoise. Our shift ended.

  In gold morning light, we slid down the rocky hillside to camp before the sun threatened a repeat performance. Only a meager cup of water sloshed in one canteen. I let go of my guilt for not sharing with that guy yesterday.

  Burned out from the heat, hard work, and water rationing, I dumped my pack under one of those palo verdes and went in search of a cold drink. I filled a paper cup with DayGlo-green Gatorade from an industrial size Igloo cooler. Guzzling it all at once coated my dry throat with the sweet, icy-cold beverage. With eyes closed, I relished the flavor, texture, and dust removal. Damn that was good. I refilled my canteens with cool water. Under the scrawny tree, I spread out my paper sleeping bag and collapsed flat on my back, every drop of moisture sucked out of me—a desiccated carcass.

  Gary handed me a box. “C-rat?”

  I passed. I sat up, opened my pack, and nibbled some trail mix—but I wasn’t hungry. What I really wanted was a gallon of Gatorade, but I didn’t want to be a pig and drink it all.

  Laying spread-eagled on my sleeping bag, I prayed for a breeze. But there wasn’t even a whisper. I stripped down to underwear, but kept on my work shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a firefighter gawk at my bare legs. Unbelievable. How could anyone think of sex while sweaty, dirty, and beyond exhaustion? I shut my eyes. Flies pestered me, their annoying little feet tickling. Loud snoring and an occasional grunt came from the others. How could they sleep? All I did was doze off a few times.

  We were back up the hill one more time that night, but found no hotspots. Unlike many fires
, where rain helped more than anything else to snuff them out, this one starved itself out as it connected with those enormous rock outcroppings.

  “Why didn’t they drop slurry?” I asked Gary as we slid and skidded down the hillside.

  “They didn’t want to scare the sheep.”

  I hadn’t thought of how terrifying a low-flying plane would be to wildlife. I pondered the fate of the sheep residents, wherever they were hiding. They have amazing agility to navigate terrain no other animal dared to tread; Including humans, I thought wearily. My aching feet were nowhere near as tough as sheeps’ hooves.

  When we pulled into the station, I felt a renewed appreciation for Florida’s cool, woodland setting. And although the Santa Rita Mountains had steep slopes, at least there were trees.

  A WEEK LATER, Glenn pulled up alongside us at the fire cache as we unloaded at the end of the day. He stepped out, paused, stared at the ground, and shook his head. “Well, it’s official. District’s out of money. We can’t keep you guys on any longer.”

  My heart plummeted.Laid-off in July? I hadn’t made anywhere near enough money yet. What would I do the rest of the summer?

  “Catalinas have an opening on the hotshots and several on the trail crew,” Glenn said. “Let me know if you want a transfer and we’ll fill out the paperwork.” He drove away.

  Hotshots? Hey, maybe this would work out just great.

  “I want the hotshot crew,” I said, parking in front of Glenn’s desk.

  He took a drag on his cigarette. “I don’t see why not; you’ve got the most fire experience of all the seasonals here.”

  That made sense. Maybe he could pull some strings for me, too. He’d do that for me, wouldn’t he? Ecstatic I’d be on the hotshots, I also rejoiced in no more Paul, Brian, or Miss Prissy. Yes, I still loved Florida. But I had to get away from here, and, I thought sadly, from Glenn.

  “I’m going to the Catalinas,” I said to Miss Prissy, placing my hardhat on the dining table.

  “Me too,” she chirped from the kitchen.

  “You are?” Damn.

  She sashayed out the front door. “I’m off to Pete’s.”

  I sighed. Why couldn’t I get away from her? But she’d never make the hotshots, so I’d be good. In the kitchen, I noticed she’d already started packing. Wait a minute. In the boxes were many familiar items—familiar, because they were mine! Furious, I stomped over to Pete’s to confront her.

  “Hey! Your boxes are filled with my stuff!”

  “Oh really? I couldn’t remember what was mine.”

  “So you took everything, just in case it was?”

  She flipped her bangs. “Whatever.”

  Arghh! I stormed home to retrieve my belongings.

  In the morning, Glenn came to my quarters as I finished packing.

  “They offered you trail crew,” he said.

  Crushed, I asked why.

  “Hate to say this, you know … but … they said no women allowed. Greg got the job.”

  What? I fumed. I had more experience than Greg. That job belonged to me. But, trail crew beat getting laid off, so I took it. Furious, though, I couldn’t stop thinking, They didn’t give me the job because I’m a girl.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  PUSHING THROUGH TUCSON, with its stop, go, stop, go heavy traffic, reminded me of one big reason I loved my job—living and working in nature. When I left the madness behind and began climbing up the Catalina Highway, I turned off the AC and opened my window to enjoy cool, pine-scented air. Dramatic granite cliffs lined the road, with tall ponderosas perched high above. At the Windy Point overlook, entertaining rock formations called “hoodoos,” balanced as though a sneeze would knock them over. A faint outline of the Baboquivari Mountains on the western horizon rose above the Tucson haze. Every twist and turn in the road brought back memories of working at Palisades Ranger Station in 1975 as a fire crew timekeeper. Look at me now, I thought with pride.

  I parked Skyler in front of the Helitack base at Sollers Point. I’d always admired this homey two-story redwood house, with its hand-laid rock walls and white shuttered windows. A steep, green-shingled roof shed occasional heavy winter snows. Another flood of memories, and a particularly happy one: the walk on the shortcut trail winding through the forest to have dinner with the Helitack crew.

  Lofty pines stood as sentinels, their needles sunlit and shimmering, rustling in the breeze like wheat in a field. No sign of life outside, so I knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal a small, slender woman, with eyes so vividly green that I found it hard not to stare. She introduced herself as Bev, formerly of the Helitack crew. Although her frame was petite, her arms were strong. She’d already gained my respect, and would soon gain my friendship.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said. “I’ll be staying in Tucson on weekends, so pick any room you want. You’re the first one here.”

  Hardwood floors and pine paneling lent warmth to the living room. A long blue couch and two padded armchairs faced the giant stone fireplace. In the galley kitchen, I recognized the huge stove for large-scale meal preparations. I ran my hand over the smooth, shellacked surface of the pine dining table, where I’d enjoyed taco night with Al, Tim, and the guys back then. They’d always welcomed me, made me feel a part of their “family.”

  I picked a bedroom on the first floor and unloaded my car. After I unpacked, Bev and I chatted about our respective jobs. I told her I’d really wanted the hotshot job, but Glenn had said they wouldn’t take women.

  Her eyes widened. “You should go talk to McKelsey’s assistant, Frank, about that.”

  Bev’s shock at my news got me thinking: maybe Glenn had misunderstood. My confidence renewed, I decided to straighten it all out with Frank.

  Palisades Ranger Station had changed little over the past three years. I approached the pert, college-aged woman behind the counter and asked if I could see Frank. Head held high, she walked purposefully to the back, stopped in a doorway, and spoke softly to someone inside.

  Returning, she said, “Frank will see you.”

  Once inside the dark-paneled room, a man in uniform waved me over to the chair in front of his desk. Burgundy leather squeaked when I sat, and the brass tacks on the armrest felt cool under my fingers. A wiry man with a meticulous goatee stared at me with chilling gray eyes that matched his thinning hair.

  “So, what can I do you for?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and propping his black leather boots on his desk with a thump.

  Disturbed by his unwavering gaze, my bravery faltered. What’s the best way to say this? “Umm, well, I’m confused why I didn’t make the hotshots. I have three years fire experience.”

  Frank lowered his feet and leaned forward, forming a teepee with his fingers, frigid eyes locked on mine. “I don’t want women on my hotshot crew.”

  The walls closed in on me. “But … I … I’m qualified,” I said, surprising myself with the audacity to talk back to someone older than me, much less someone older and a man.

  “Qualifications have nothing to do with it. Women don’t belong on hotshot crews.”

  His matter-of-fact tone staggered me. Perspiration formed on my upper lip, my face flushed, but still I managed to say, “That’s not fair.”

  He shrugged.

  Angry, embarrassed, and insulted … like an idiot, I just sat there. I couldn’t seem to make myself leave.

  He took the opportunity to fill in the silence. “So, do you want the trail position or not?”

  I kept the job because I needed the work. On the return to Sollers, humiliated, my face burned and a few tears fell. Okay, so I’m on a trail crew. Bev said we’d work until September. That’s longer than the hotshots will work, so that’s a good thing. But this is discrimination—isn’t it?

  Bev’s green eyes narrowed when I told her what had happened. “You should file an EEO complaint.”

  What would happen to me if I did file a complaint with the Equal Employmen
t Opportunity Commission? I considered calling Jan Qwill from the Federal Women’s Program for advice and support. Wasn’t that what the organization was for? But no, I could handle this; however I needed to hear from Joe. I checked my inbox. Still no word. I wrote another letter, telling him what happened, asking him to write soon.

  The following morning I took a chair into the living room for our staff meeting. Miss Prissy hadn’t showed up, yet. Good.

  “Tim’s our supervisor, but he won’t be going out with us,” Bev said. “He wants us to finish as many trails as possible before funds run out.”

  The front door opened and slammed. Miss Prissy swept into the room, flipping her bangs from her eyes with a toss of her head. “Sorry, running a little late.”

  Bev squared her shoulders and blinked hard. “Yeah. Right. Be on time tomorrow.”

  But the next day, Miss Prissy banged in late again, offering Bev a phony smile. “Traffic.”

  Bev again firmly told her, “You must be on time.”

  Yes! Finally, someone put the twit in her place.

  Our discussion about finding potable water sources while on trail for five days continued.

  “We’ll get water from springs,” Bev said. “It can’t be trusted, though. It takes so long for water to boil and sterilize at high elevations, make sure you bring iodine tablets.”

  Up jumped Miss Prissy, who then flounced off into the kitchen.

  Bev mouthed at me, “What the heck?”

  I smiled and shrugged. Five minutes later, Prissy returned with a bowl of cereal, sat down, and scooped it into her mouth, oblivious to the stares directed at her from everyone in the room.

  Bev, like me, could not believe this. “You need to eat breakfast before you come to work.”

  Vindication. Miss Prissy would not get away with anything here like she had at Florida. I wondered how she’d fair camping out all week. I never found out, though. She transferred to another district within a week, and good riddance. Soon after she left, I thumbed through my albums to play one in particular. It was not there. Panicked, I flipped through them. At least five were missing. Furious, at first I wanted to write and demand she return them, now, but that might backfire. Instead, I toned down my anger, and wrote her to please return what she’d taken by mistake.