His non-supportive response sucked the joy out of me. Why couldn’t he just say he didn’t want me to leave? Then there was the other half of my hurt feelings. What I’d wanted to happen, hadn’t happened. Glenn had secured a transfer for Joe to Florida, but there was no job offer for me. More than anything, I wanted to matter to Glenn, and apparently I didn’t. Hurt and angry at both him and the Forest Service in general, I thought, I’ll never have a Forest Service career. Men get all the breaks. I wish I’d been born a man.
But, dammit, the clock was ticking. A week later, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer for BLM to come through. I accepted the job on the Coconino. Recreation work at Florida hadn’t been all that bad. We often did other things besides cleaning. Most likely it’d be the same up there. Additionally, with all of my fire experience, maybe they’d let me transfer to a fire crew. Why wouldn’t they?
TWENTY-SIX
Summer of 1979: Lake Mary District,
Coconino National Forest, Flagstaff, Arizona
ON A BRIGHT, sunny Saturday, I made the seven hour drive to Flagstaff. Only two blocks from the district office, I rented a 1950s trailer in an antiquated RV park snuggled among towering ponderosas. It wasn’t as cheap as Florida, but it worked for me, especially because I’d have no roommate, except the furry kind. Before I’d left Tucson, Bev offered me a kitty she’d rescued from coyotes. I’d nuzzled Calley’s short, brindle coat and immediately adopted her. My mom agreed to cat-sit if I ended up on a fire crew.
Monday morning I woke up way too early, excited about a new job, a new place, and new people. In the back of my mind, though, I still held out hope for a BLM position or a switch to a fire crew, but first things first.
“Oh, hi, Linda,” the receptionist said when I introduced myself at the front counter. “Charlie’s waiting for you.”
She led me down a long corridor to the back of the building and stopped at a cubicle in the corner. A heavy-set uniformed man sat at his desk, occupied with paperwork.
“Charlie, Linda’s here.”
Charlie spun his chair to face us. “Well, hello Miss Linda,” he said with a wide smile. He stood up to shake my hand. “Pull up a seat.”
I slid a chair closer to his desk and sat down. Charlie’s phone rang, and, raising a finger indicating a need to answer it, he lifted the receiver. I studied the framed photos on his wall while he handled business. The photos displayed many happy faces in outdoor settings. I assumed they were probably former crews.
Charlie hung up and faced me. “So, I see you’ve got a lot of fire experience.” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and interlacing his thick fingers in front of him. “What brings you here?”
His tone sounded genuine and friendly, so I answered honestly: I liked firefighting, but needed a change from the Coronado.
Charlie’s laugh hissed through his teeth. “You actually like firefighting? Whoa, girl, that’s too much for me. I don’t give a hoot if I ever go on a fire again.”
I smiled, not at all offended.
“Well, if it ain’t Mutt and Jeff …” Charlie said to the figures who appeared behind me.
Jeff, the tall, skinny one with a bushy mustache, snorted a laugh. “This our new gal?” He extended his hand. “Welcome to our wonderful world of recreation!”
I grasped his hand and smiled tentatively, unsure if he was teasing.
Charlie laughed again. “Now, don’t go scaring her away on her first day.”
Hutch (“Mutt”) chuckled. His eyeballs flitted between Jeff and Charlie, as though checking for permission to laugh. I kept a smile plastered on my face; as the newbie, laying low seemed like a good idea.
Up walked a rather scruffy, lanky guy, carrying a daypack with a large thermos poking out of the top.
“Hey, Walter,” Charlie said. “You’re the last of the suckers, ahem, I mean, new hires.” He covered his mouth and snickered. Jeff bent over and howled. Walter and I exchanged puzzled looks and smiles. I liked these guys already.
Like on all first days on the job, I filled out tons of paperwork and retested to renew my government driver’s license. I’d work weekends, something I’d learned to enjoy a long time ago. If anything, it meant fewer people in the grocery store when I shopped during the week.
After lunch, Jeff gave us a tour of the district facilities. Again, I sat in the middle, this time with plenty of legroom, with the truck an automatic. Walter poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos. We started our drive south of Flagstaff.
“Over there’s Lower Lake Mary,” Jeff said.
A dry lake bed, with its silty bottom a mosaic of cracks and tall patches of decaying, musty grass on its edges, was holding not one drop of water. Hard for me to imagine it ever held any.
“Well, it’s Lower Lake Mary when full,” he said, maybe noticing my skepticism.
We continued to another long, narrow lake, this time holding water.
“This is Upper Lake Mary,” Jeff said. “It’ll only spill over the dam into Lower Lake Mary if overfull. Been dry this year.”
We made a circle around a large picnic area with multiple tables and outhouses.
“This one’s heavily used by fisherman, not that I would eat anything from this lake.” Jeff wrinkled his nose. “Fish here taste funky.”
“Can you swim in it?” I asked. So far I hadn’t found a lake in Arizona I wanted to get into—I’d been spoiled as a kid by the sandy beaches of Lake Ontario. The murky water and slimy bottoms here gave me the creeps.
Jeff cringed. “I wouldn’t.”
We swung back onto Lake Mary Road, and soon Jeff again turned off the pavement. “Amherst is a rare natural lake. An improved recreation area with grills, running water, outhouses. No power, though. It’s hysterical how some people consider that roughing it,” he said with a laugh. “Campground-host-Bob lives here for free. Keeps an eye on everyone. We’ll visit him often. He and Charlie are buds.”
It was a much bigger campground than the one in Madera. Might take a full day to rake around all those tables.
Parked next to a rocky shore also not conducive for swimming, Jeff fished in the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt for a cigarette. Walter poured more coffee and lit a cigarette of his own. The cab filled with smoke, and my eyes watered. I used to put up with this, but not anymore.
“You don’t mind if I smoke,” Jeff asked with cigarette pressed between lips, “do you?”
I nodded, waving Walter’s smoke out of my face. Jeff complied, and returned it to the pack with a frown. “Charlie said you fought fires …”
Delighted he brought this up, I expounded on how much I loved the excitement, the prestige. How I’d miss it this summer. Sadness smothered my heart for a few moments, constricting my throat. I missed Florida, the way things were. Why did everything have to change? A deep breath. It’ll be okay … give it time.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like it here,” Jeff said. “I’ve worked for Charlie a long time. You couldn’t ask for a better boss.”
Our tour continued through dense conifers interspersed with open, grassy meadows. Yellow, purple, and pink nodding wildflowers flourished among the grasses. Clean, cool air and pastoral scenery—no wonder the Coconino attracted big-city dwellers on vacation. How lucky I was to have a job where I could satisfy my “nature fix” simply by going to work.
The scenery changed from pines to water. “This,” Jeff said, pulling off to the side of the road, “is Mormon Lake.”
Still not a swimming lake, darn it. Swells lapped at the muddy, cattail-lined shore; the air fragrant with a mixed bouquet of wet plants, fish, and decay. A few sailboats skimmed across the surface effortlessly, taking advantage of the summer breezes.
“It’s the largest natural lake in Arizona,” Jeff said, beaming. “When full, it’s six hundred acres. It’s only ten feet deep, though, so no motorboats allowed.” We passed an RV, waving back when a man raised his hand in greeting.
“Campgrounds here and
at Pinegrove are the only ones on our district with flush toilets. Luxury, Forest Service style. I don’t know about you,” Jeff said, “but to me, one other camper means it’s too crowded.”
Nice to meet someone who shared my camping philosophy, but I felt a bit uneasy. There were at least a dozen campsites here.
We turned at a redwood sign for Kinnikinick Lake Recreation Area. Another one? What had I gotten myself into?Over the lake’s rough road we bounced, with me gripping the dash, the rear tires struggling for traction. Jeff cursed. “Gutless wonder. I told Charlie not to rent automatics.”
My thoughts turned worrisome. “Jeff … I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“How long does it take to clean all these sites?”
“Oh, about seven days.”
Seven days? I couldn’t say Joe hadn’t warned me I wouldn’t like this job. This was not what I bargained for, but what could I do?
After a quick look at the last facility, we returned to the station for more orientation.
“Here’s where we keep toilet paper, disinfectant, garbage bags,” Jeff said, unlocking the supply room. “We keep the door locked so no one will steal the toilet paper. We also lock the outhouse dispensers.”
“Isn’t stealing TP kind of self-defeating?” I asked, incredulous.
“Oh, just you wait. You’ll see just about everything imaginable around here.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
TWENTY-SEVEN
AT HOME, I ate dinner in front of the TV, Calley curled up beside me. One thing about Florida—I could always find company whenever I wanted it. “What do you think, kitty? Should I take a class or something?” She purred her reply. I decided to sign up for a welding class at the community college. I’d always admired Joe’s welding skills. This would be good for me.
On the first day of class, I arrived early. Three guys scurried in at the last minute, giving me the once-over. A scholarly-attired man dashed in, smiling. Four faces smiled back.
“There probably aren’t enough of you to make the class a go,” the instructor said, “but since you’re here, I’ll teach you as much as I can.”
A woman in a welding class didn’t faze him, and in no time, I’d welded my first piece. Fun—no wonder Joe liked to do this. With hopes high that somehow the class would continue, I returned the next week, but the note on the door said: “Class cancelled.” It was too late to sign up for something else. Rats.
On Monday, I arrived at work to find everyone gossiping about a breakin over the weekend. What in the world would anyone want to steal? It wasn’t like we had a safe full of cash.
“It’s a real puzzle,” Charlie said. “As far as we can tell they didn’t take nothin’.” With a thoughtful expression, he stared at the ceiling. “Funny thing, though. An amateur job. Made a mess with a cutting torch tryin’ to get into the garage.” A big grin spread across his face. “You know, it fits the M.O. of someone who might’ve taken just one welding class.”
It took me a moment. “You don’t think I did this do you?” Would I need to defend my whereabouts over the weekend?
“So. What were you up to this weekend?” Jeff asked, squelching a smile.
“I did not break into the office!” Although I laughed, they had me going there for a minute. They continued to whoop it up all the way to the trucks. Typical guys. But I didn’t mind. Guys tease people they like.
On the way home, I stopped at the trailer park’s office to collect my mail. My mom had written, but there was nothing from Joe. Disappointed, I hoped for a letter from him tomorrow.
ALTHOUGH I LIKED my coworkers, this job wasn’t what I wanted. What to do … ? I wanted to fight fire. Could I ask, and not offend Charlie? I decided to go for it.
His eyes grew huge. “Whoa, I’ll check, but I’ve never seen a woman on the hotshots.”
That didn’t sound promising.
Charlie had an answer the following day. “The foreman made some lame excuse why he won’t let you … but, well … I’ve never experienced racism in the Forest Service, but being black has affected me in other ways, so I get how you feel. And, if you really want to fight fires, I’ll do what I can, hotshot crew or not.”
While I appreciated Charlie’s offer, I wondered if I should file an EEO complaint. Then I remembered what had happened the last time with Frank. I had no support then, and couldn’t trust I’d have any here. Forget it.
ANOTHER BUSY MORNING loading our trucks with the tools of the trade: disinfectant, garbage bags, toilet paper, rubber gloves, and foil pouches of the Forest Service’s industrial deodorizer, which we poured down the holes of outhouses. The first time I emptied a package into the toilet, the updraft spewed it back into my face. Later, when I blew my nose, the tissue turned blue. Were my lungs blue, too? The experience was scary enough that I decided to wear a mask.
Amidst our activity, the hotshots gathered for their morning workout. I’d checked out the fitness trail they used in back. It was shady, with an easy-on-the-feet cinder track and a dozen exercise stations. I wanted to stay fit and keep my Red Card current, so I decided to ask Charlie later if I could use it.
Workday over, the hotshot bus parked next to us and the crew spilled out. I smiled and said hello. Not one returned my greeting. Embarrassed, I turned away. What in the world had I ever done to them?
“What’s with those guys?” I asked Jeff, as we tossed bulging garbage bags into the dumpster.
He snickered. “They think they’re too cool for the likes of us rec-techs.”
“But, Jeff,” I said, “there has to be more to it than that.”
He shrugged.
Were they annoyed I dared ask to be on their crew? Now I wanted to use their fitness trail even more.
“Whoa, girl!” Charlie said, when I asked for permission. “You really are serious about this firefighting gig, aren’t you? I don’t care, but you’d better check with the crew foreman. It’s kinda theirs.”
Positive that the foreman noticed me waiting for him to finish his conversation, my jaw dropped when he turned to leave without so much as a glance my way. I called out his name, and he stopped. I managed to stay civil, despite feeling otherwise. “May I use the fitness trail after work?”
Lips tight, stare icy, he looked to be considering saying “no,” but he couldn’t think of a good enough reason. “Well. I guess. Just don’t use it when my guys are.”
“Okay, thanks. I won’t.” I gave him my best phony smile, thinking, You’re not God’s gift to the Forest Service. Jerk.
Incredulous that I wanted to exercise afterworking all day, my crew called me nuts when I changed into the shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers I’d brought with me. I laughed them off; but it tickled me that they hung around just long enough to see me change clothes. Men.
BY THE SECOND week, we had our cleaning routine down pat. I pulled up to the first outhouse on our circuit. Jeff ducked inside to remove the toilet paper so it wouldn’t get wet.
“Whoa, Nellie!” he said, pinching his nose. “This is a ripe one. Get me a shovel.”
Disgusting.No matter how hard we tried to keep outhouses clean, someone always refused to sit on the toilet seat. You’d think they were afraid they’d fall in.
Walter perched his cup of coffee on the tailgate and started the pump on the truck, while I unrolled a hose and dragged it over. Jeff held the door open and turned his head. “Let ’er rip!” With the nozzle on full blast, I sprayed the interior with disinfectant, its pine scent strong enough to knock down both me and E-coli. On to the next one. There, Jeff produced a wadded-up baby diaper held between two gloved fingers. “They stuck it behind the door. Better than down the hole, though. Plugs up the shit-suckers.”
A crappy job required a good sense of humor. Jeff’s huge repertoire of recreation jokes kept us in stitches so much of the day, you’d think we loved cleaning outhouses.
“WANT SOME OVERTIME?” Charlie asked me Friday morning.
Extra money? �
��You bet I do.”
“Aren’t ya gonna even ask what you’ll do?” he asked, chuckling.
“Okay, so what will I be doing?” I said, knowing I’d still say yes.
“Timber crew’s got a Semi full of baby pine trees that need planting ASAP.”
Something besides cleaning outhouses. Let’s go.
Although the timber crew shared the same office as us recreation folks, they were rather elusive, usually in the field by the time I arrived at work. I wondered about their job. What did timber crews do all day?
“Let’s go talk to Jonas,” Charlie said, rising from his chair.
Charlie introduced me to a cute coal-haired Ken-doll. His clear, blue eyes met mine for a moment, and he flashed a smile. My eyes gravitated to his left hand: no ring. How could this guy not be married? We exchanged pleasantries, and he said I should report Saturday morning at five a.m.
Brrr … it was downright cold at four-forty-five a.m., even dressed in three layers against the mountain chill. Hard to believe that later in the day I’d peel off all but one layer.
Jonas and I drove for an hour, got tossed around on a rutted logging road for another hour, arriving at the clear-cut harvest site about seven. Sadly, where a once great forest of tall pines had stood, were remnant stumps and orphaned pine boughs. In the process of dragging trees to waiting trucks, all understory plants were trampled into oblivion. One cleared area had been plowed into deep, reddish-brown furrows, fragrant with freshly turned soil. I took solace in the fact I’d be planting a new generation of pines.
“You’ll be working with Ned, here,” Jonas said, addressing the man of Navajo descent. I smiled and extended my hand. Ned offered a hint of a smile and a limp handshake. Jonas drove away, leaving me to my planting duty. Darn. I’d hoped he would stick around.
Ned asked, “Ever plant?”
I shook my head “no,” not sure if he meant plant trees by hand or by machine, not that it mattered. I’d never planted trees before, period.
Ned motioned for me to follow him.
Summers of Fire Page 17