Might as well be social. “So, what’s it like working on a timber crew?” I asked.
Ned gave me another meager smile, but said nothing. At this point, I assumed he didn’t understand English very well.
Ned pointed at a trailer of sorts. “Tree. Plant. Machine.”
Picture a low truck bed with a roof. Inside, a metal tractor seat faced a tiny Ferris wheel coming up through the floor. Ned motioned for me to climb inside.
You want me to get inside this? Self-conscious, I feared I’d look ridiculous towed behind the truck in this buggy-like contraption. Good thing Jonas left after all.I sat down with the wheel between my legs, facing backwards. Ned pointed to an open burlap sack behind the seat, filled with skinny little ponderosa pine seedlings—essentially a stem with needles and hairy roots.
“Place here,” he said, indicating the clamps on the wheel.
I figured asking for further details might make him uncomfortable, so I just nodded. How hard could it be?
Ned watched from the sidelines as the driver started up the truck and drove down the first row, towing me behind. The planter rode furrows hard, tossing me from side to side, jarring my teeth when it hit a berm sideways. Dust churned and rolled, smothering me in a thick cloud. Loud squeals and squeaks hurt my ears, and I regretted I hadn’t thought to bring ear plugs. All the while, the Ferris wheel turned, presenting me with open jaws, like begging baby birds. It took me a moment to focus. Oh! I need trees! I turned and grabbed a handful of seedlings, fumbling to untangle their roots. I managed to get one seedling free, then another, but the wheel was turning way too fast. I finally managed to stick one upright in a clamp, then one more, and one more—trying to find a rhythm to the madness. Movement caught my eye: Ned—jumping up and down, arms waving, yelling something—but I couldn’t hear him. I turned from him to view the row I’d just planted. Roots, not tree tops, stuck out of the ground. I’d planted the trees upside down! Doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down my cheeks, I pointed at what I’d done. Hiccups prevented me from catching my breath to reply, so I nodded vigorously to assure Ned that I understood. I solved the problem by reversing placement, but Ned still watched me like a hawk.
An hour later, the silly image of upside down trees popped into my head again. Once I started giggling, I couldn’t stop, tears running down my cheeks, blurring my vision.
Ten hours later my tail bone ached from the metal seat, my ears rang, and my whole body vibrated—even after I got out of the contraption. Ears still ringing, I rode with Ned back to the station, and then walked home, frazzled, exhausted, and still vibrating. I opted for a shower before dinner, taking off clothes so filthy that I left a trail of dirt all the way to the bathroom. I stared in the mirror: my face looked like I’d been doused with a bucket of water, followed by a shovelful of dirt—worse even than a week on a fireline.
The following Saturday, I endured more of the same. Weary, I trudged home, stopping by the trailer park office. Still no mail—but in my driveway sat Joe’s gray Chevy—with Joe sitting on my steps! My arms wrapped tight around his neck, squeezing tighter just to make sure he was real.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said, squeezing me back.
In bed that night, I thought about how comfortable we were with each other. But, maybe, too comfortable? Was that a bad thing? I missed the romance and excitement we used to have. Was this what marriage would be like? If so, I wasn’t sure I liked the idea.
Joe left in the morning, and I went back to tree planting. Ned never did say more than hello the entire month I worked with him, but he did finally trust me to plant trees right side up.
TREES PLANTED, I was back to a forty-hour workweek, which seemed strangely short after working several sixty-four hour weeks. But those fat paychecks made it worth every layer of dirt, a sore posterior, and ringing ears … times ten.
Somehow, we managed to get ahead on campground cleaning, so Charlie found other chores for us to do: fixing broken signs, slapping redwood stain on posts, and assembling outhouse kits. These tickled me. Who knew they came in a kit? Leave it to Jeff to have us in stitches during assembly, commenting that the “new car” smell would soon be gone forever.
A week later, volunteers from the Young Adult Conservation Corps (YACC) came to help for a day.
“How am I going to keep these yaks busy?” Charlie asked when we gathered around his desk. “Mormon Lake Trail needs work, but I don’t know anything about trail maintenance. Do any of you?”
Bingo. “I spent eight weeks on a trail crew last summer,” I said.
He beamed. I beamed. Another day of no outhouses.
Charlie said I would supervise “some” teens. When I met their bus at the trail head parking lot, and they filed off nonstop, I felt a ping of self-doubt. Twenty? Could I do this? Charlie thought I could. I paused to think: Make the large group manageable. Assign teams.
“Drag them out of sight when you’re done,” I told the strong-armed older kids who were sawing overhanging limbs.
“Dig out the toe-trippers,” I told the team of sturdy boys and girls. Their enthusiastic activity raised clouds of dust and tools chinked against rocks. Talk and laughter accompanied their work—boys flirting and girls giggling.
I noticed some trail erosion. “Go get some flat rocks and I’ll show you how to build a water bar,” I said to a team.
They scattered to accomplish the mission. How satisfying it was to watch them have as much fun as I did on trail. At the end of the day, their faces glowed with sweat and pride for a job well done. Mine, too.
In the morning, Charlie walked the trail with me. “Good job, Linda. This looks great.” At that moment, my not-quite-what-I-had-in-mind job felt quite worthwhile.
A few days later, Charlie made me suspicious when he placed fishing poles in the back of our truck.
“We’re going fishin’,” he said, grinning.
Jeff scowled. “Fishing? What are you up to Charlie?”
I didn’t trust the way-too-wide grin on Charlie’s face, either.
“Oh nothin’, nothin’. I’m just gonna take you guys fishing.”
An hour later we pulled up alongside a pond. A vile stench rose like steam from a hot spring. This “pond” was a sewage treatment lagoon.
Before we could utter a word, Charlie said, “I need you to fish out all the plastic bags, Pampers, and soda cans.”
I so wanted to believe that at any moment, he’d bust out laughing and tell us it was all a practical joke. But he didn’t.
“Oh, Charlie.” Jeff’s eyebrows pinched together. “You’re gonna owe us big time for making us do this. You are staying to help, aren’t you?”
Charlie hopped into his truck. “Tee-hee-hee. Nope. Got things to do. Toodles!” And off he went.
Jeff, Walter, and Hutch cast lines to snag the putrid trash, I held plastic bags open for them to deposit each disgusting, brown sludge-covered item. Although I wore industrial strength rubber gloves, I feared catching some despicable disease. I tried breathing only through my mouth, but that’s hard to do for very long. Walter kept up with his many coffee breaks. How could he stand to do that? On the way back, we schemed and plotted our revenge. Charlie owed us, big time.
All my clothes went into the wash. Should I disinfect them? Should I disinfect me? I ran the hottest water I could stand and used so much soap I stood in a sea of suds.
Thank goodness back to normal chores the next day—which, compared to our fishing task, now seemed far less odious. Jeff and Hutch drove off. Walter watched them, turned to me, and complained that he never got to drive. At that moment, I forgot why I hadn’t let him drive before, so I turned over the keys. No sooner had we hit the winding Lake Mary Road, did Walter turn to reach behind the seat for his thermos.
Oh yeah, that’s why. “Let me get that.” I said.
“Nah, I got it.”
My alarm grew as I watched him hold the steering wheel with his knees, open the thermos, and, cup in one hand, thermo
s in the other, pour his coffee. My eyes darted from him, to the road, to oncoming traffic. Positive he’d run us into the ditch or cause a head-on collision, I braced myself with a hand on the dash. An upcoming S-curve was more than I could handle, though, and I reached for the wheel.
Defensive, he scowled at me. “I got it, Linda, quit worrying so much.”
Coffee poured and thermos put away, Walter put one hand on the wheel and sipped. “See, I told you I could manage.”
Gripping the armrest with leftover terror, I decided from now on I’d do the driving no matter how much he complained, to save not only my life, but everyone else’s.
We managed to get in a few hours of work before a monsoon downpour sent us seeking refuge with Bob-the-campground-host at Amherst Lake. A wiry, withered old man with yellow teeth, tobacco-stained fingers, and a rattling smoker’s cough—Bob could’ve easily been a poster child for an anti-tobacco campaign. Squeezed together at his tiny kitchen table, everyone but Hutch and I lit cigarettes. I coughed and waved my hand, but they ignored me. I thought about sitting in the truck, but I wanted to hear Bob and Charlie’s hilarious stories about crazy summer visitors. Nobody could make this stuff up. But after a half-hour, feeling headachy and choking on the fumes from four chain-smokers, I had to leave.
Seated in our truck, I stared out the windshield at scenery blurred by sheets of rain. No book, no radio, and no fun. The passenger door flew open and Hutch jumped in.
“I don’t like the smoke either.” He wiped rain from his face. “You’re the first to ever protest.” He opened the glove box and produced a deck of cards. “Poker?”
At least it passed the time; but I could hear hearty laughs coming from Bob’s trailer. I didn’t like paying the price of feeling left out simply because I didn’t want to suffocate from second-hand smoke.
When my mom pulled into my driveway Saturday, I dashed out to hug her. This was a big deal: her first road trip alone, and our first weekend together with just the two of us. We explored Wupatki National Monument, an Anasazi ruin, stared into the humbling Sunset Crater and ate tuna sandwiches under a park ramada. As I waved goodbye Sunday morning, homesickness tugged hard at my heart for the first time in a while. Lonesome, I decided to check my mail. Not a darned thing. Dejected, I went to bed early. My tiny trailer felt empty—missing both my mom and Joe.
MORNING ROUTINE: RALLY around Charlie’s desk, check whether anything new was on the agenda, and go load our trucks. I was about to leave, when Charlie asked me to stay a minute. Jeff and Hutch glanced at Charlie, then at me. I shrugged; I didn’t know what was up either. They left.
“Want to go on a project fire?” Charlie asked.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“A FIRE?WHERE?”My mind raced in circles. I’d have to get a fire pack together, get a neighbor to feed Calley …
Charlie put up his hand. “Hold yer horses. They’re looking for timekeepers in Montana.”
The bottom fell out of my enthusiasm. Timekeeper.
“Hey, it’s a chance to get outta here, make some overtime.”
And no outhouse cleaning. “Okay.”
My first fire without a crew—this would be different. At the Flagstaff airport, I boarded a Cessna and made brief conversation with a woman from another district. In Missoula, I took a seat on the bus and people watched. A twenty-something brunette just couldn’t sit still, leaning over the back of her seat to talk to the people behind her, walking up and down the aisle, chatting with almost everyone. I’ve no idea why she fed my insecurity. Why couldn’t I be outgoing like her? One of those people that everyone admired … didn’t they?
Just outside of town, smoky haze turned the sun burnt-orange, and I felt that twinge: I wanted to fight the fire, not be a timekeeper.
Once at fire camp, resigned, I stood in front of a long table where women flipped through lists. More women sat at tables in the back, shuffling papers.
“Who are you, where are you from, and what’s your assignment?” a woman asked, her tone clipped. I told her.
“Timekeeper? You’re here as a timekeeper? Who the hell requested more timekeepers?” she asked over her shoulder.
A voice from the back said, “I haven’t a clue. As far as I know, we have plenty.”
An awkward moment passed. Without even looking up, the woman said to me, “We’ll get you if we need you. Next.”
I gulped. Now what do I do? A touch on my elbow made me turn.
“Don’t mind her, she’s overwhelmed,” a kind-faced woman said. “Follow me, hon, and I’ll get you settled.”
Abandoned in a tent with no work and not so much as a book to read, an hour later I decided I couldn’t just sit there.I returned to ask the same flustered woman if anything had come up. She snipped an impatient “no.”
I wandered over to the mess tent, grabbed a sandwich, and sat alone. Two men talked loudly at the next table. One complained about being shorthanded on the fireline, the other, about timing of relief crews.I debated. Should I say something? Why not?Be proactive. It was crazy to sit here and do nothing. I summoned up a considerable amount of courage.
“Excuse me. I’m Red Carded, and more than willing to work on the line if you need me.”
Dead silence. One raised his eyebrows, reared back, and said, “Uh, no, we don’t need anyone.”
Humiliating. Oh, God, I’ll never do that again.
Two days later I returned to Flagstaff. Charlie waited until everyone left to ask me what happened.
“It was awful, Charlie,” I said.
“So, they didn’t need any timekeepers, or what?”
“Not only that, but they didn’t give me anything to do.”
Charlie frowned. “We got our hands slapped for sending you where you weren’t needed. Also, word is you asked to get on a fire crew.”
What? Those men had actually said something to my district? That knocked the wind out of me. Why was my asking so wrong?
Charlie’s mouth set in a hard line. “An official in Missoula told our office that you had no timekeeping experience, and that you sat around and did nothing.”
This was beyond ludicrous. “Charlie, that’s an out and out lie. You know I have timekeeping experience and I pleaded for something to do.”
“Look, I’m sorry it all happened,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’m on your side, but there’s something else I think you should know …”
What in the world is going on here?
“Our district knows that you registered an EEO complaint on the Coronado,” he said, his eyes lowered and his voice low. “They think you’re a troublemaker, and …”
Words continued to tumble from his mouth, but what registered was, “ … you’re blacklisted from working in fire on the Coconino.”
Every muscle in my body cinched tight. Blacklisted. EEO complaint. A troublemaker? Me? I blew up.“That’s confidential information! How’d they find out?”
Charlie lowered and shook his head.
I jerked to my feet and stormed out. My boots pounded pavement, my tears flowed. Would I lose my job over this? That’s not fair! I flung open the trailer door, fell onto the couch, and buried my face in a pillow. My sister Elaine, there on a visit, sat down next to me and asked what was wrong.
“I can’t believe this place. I’ve been blacklisted,” I said through heaving sobs.
Elaine listened to my story. “Why do you put up with this?”
My breath hitched. “Because I love my job. But why does it have to be so hard?”
She shook her head, sympathetic, but I sensed she didn’t understand why I did put up with it. At that moment, I didn’t either.
“You look really bummed out,” Jeff said the next morning. He started to speak, paused, reconsidered, then said, “You should know, in case you try to apply for the hotshots here, they think you filed an EEO complaint against them.”
I went ballistic. “Bullshit! I did not!”
Poor Jeff. He didn’t know what to say. I wanted to quit tha
t very moment, but then what? Here I thought what had happened on the Coronado wouldn’t happen anywhere else. How stupid was that? What a way to start out the day.
Mid-morning, Charlie met Jeff and I at Pinegrove campground. They disappeared together, while I went about gathering supplies for the restrooms. A middle-aged couple dashed up to me, their faces flushed and concerned.
“Quick … over there,” the man said, panting. “There’s a fire!”
I stared where he pointed. No smoke. “How big?”
The woman wheezed, bent over with hands on knees. “An old log …”
There was no sign of Charlie, who carried the only radio. I grabbed a shovel. “Show me.”
On the side of a hiking trail, a rotten, downed tree was indeed on fire. Confident I could manage, I smothered flames with dirt and scraped a line around it. Within minutes, it was contained. I thanked the people for the alert and tracked down Charlie.
“Is it out?” he asked, reaching for the radio on his belt.
“I think so. But it wouldn’t hurt to have someone dump water on it.”
Part of me wondered if I would get in trouble for putting the fire out by myself. The other part didn’t care.
LATE SEPTEMBER, I escaped to experience the fall colors. A side road showed promise; I parked and entered an aspen grove. My favorite way to enjoy aspens? On my back, staring through the twittering, bright yellow leaves to a deep blue sky. Total autumnal immersion—there was nothing like it.
Joe arrived for a short visit. Up all night, we had a serious talk about my doubts, our problems, and how we’d resolve them. Would all be good now? It seemed so. We made plans to live together again after layoffs.
Performance reviews always gave me the jitters. Not sure why: Glenn had always checked the “satisfactory” boxes, and I never got a peek at anyone else’s. I sat at Charlie’s desk, prepared for a similar report. However, out of the seven categories, he’d checked four “excellent” and three “very good.” It was tough for me to accept praise, but this felt great.
“You did good this summer,” he said, his smile as genuine as they come. “I’m guessing you won’t be back.”
Summers of Fire Page 18