“We have a phone call scheduled tonight,” I said.
So far, I’d stayed in touch with Joe. I wanted to. Once a week at a prearranged time, I waited in the empty office for him to phone, excited to tell him about Alaska and my new job. Never good on the phone, Joe let me to do most of the talking, and soon I ran out of things to say. I often listened to long staticky silences between us.
“Weren’t you going to join Fred and me for Poker tonight?” Dan asked.
Maybe I’d miss Joe’s call this time. Next week I’d say something came up.
After dinner, we sat at Dan’s table with stacks of poker chips and a bottle of Southern Comfort.
“Watch your facial expressions,” Dan said. “Don’t let on you’ve got a good hand.”
I nodded, holding my cards close to my chest. Three of a kind … not too shabby. I sipped my drink, savoring the sweet, pleasant burn as I swallowed. Fred shoved a tall stack of chips to the middle of the table.
Dan studied Fred’s face. “Are you bluffing?”
Not a muscle twitched. He might as well have been made of wax.
“Okay, I give. I’m folding.” Dan tossed his cards on the table and the last of his drink down the hatch.
“Me too.” I threw my cards in with Dan’s.
Fred confidently showed his hand: Two tens.
Dan slapped the table. “That’s it? I had a pair of kings!”
A tiny smile crept up at the corner of Fred’s mouth. A complicated guy in many ways, but I admired the way he played the game.
OF ALL THINGS, someone knocked on my door at six a.m. on Mother’s Day. Who’d be coming over this early? Dan stood on my porch with a giant handmade envelope under his arm.
“Happy Mother’s Day!” he said, beaming.
I laughed at his grand gesture. “But I’m not a mother! Okay, come on in.”
Inside the envelope I found an equally huge homemade Mother’s Day card, signed by the whole crew.
Slightly embarrassed, I said, “Geez, thank you, Dan, this is so nice … Was it your idea?”
“Well, yes, but Craig and Sean helped me last night. We all appreciate how you look out for us.”
They do? I’d no idea. My self-esteem inched up a notch.
From outside the station Monday morning, I noticed a distinct lack of activity. Where is everyone? I discovered the entire crew in the lounge, glued to the TV.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Mt. St. Helens erupted,” Karen said, her voice filled with dread, eyes transfixed on the screen. Her face paled. “I hope my house is still there.” She jumped up. “I’ve got to call home!”
Somber, Rob said, “I think I lost my Christmas tree farm.”
Unsure what to do or say, and stunned by the images, nobody spoke again. Footage of the exploding mountain, billows of smoke and ash churning into the sky, replayed over and over, while reporters, standing in front of ash-covered houses and cars, told of evacuations, damages, and fear. The whole broadcast was surreal to me, as though a Hollywood movie, not a real-life event. Karen couldn’t get through on the phone, so she sat down again to wait. Rob fretted and paced over his farm. When we watched all we could stand, everyone went about their business, their faces still showing worry. I kept quiet, wishing I could find the right words, but knowing nothing I could say would make a difference. Not until the next day did Karen find out that her home and family were fine, and that Rob had indeed lost his farm.
“WHAT SHOULD WE do today?” Rob asked as he steered out of the station for another day of cruising. Yesterday we watched wildlife, so I suggested we take photos of wildflowers. We had nothing better to do.
“There’s another bald eagle on top of that tree over there,” Dan said, pointing. “If I’m keeping count right, that makes twenty-four this week.”
“Should we go to Skilak Lake?” Rob asked.
Again? We went there the other day. With only sixty miles of pavement in our patrol area, this was getting old. Not much to do after work either. Entertainment outside of Wildwood included bar-hopping, (Dan’s idea of fun, but never mine), or the movie theater, where flicks showed for a dollar.
That night, Dan suggested a movie. “They’re playing Friday the 13th,” he said, as we walked to the theater. “Should be fun.”
We bought sodas and popcorn, and relaxed into our seats. Dan discretely doctored our drinks with the Tequila he’d snuck in. It didn’t take long before we were moderately drunk. Creepy music played, giving me goosebumps.
Dan whispered in my ear, “Watch out!” but it didn’t help.
Caught by surprise when someone got impaled, I jolted, flinging popcorn everywhere, screaming, then laughing at my reaction. Dan chuckled, picking my popcorn out of his hair.
“Geez, Dan, next time give me fair warning,” I said, my voice raspy, as everyone filed out.
“Sorry ’bout that, Linda. I didn’t know how bloody it was.”
Dan walked me home. Ten o’clock and still light out. I just couldn’t get used to twenty-two hours of daylight.
“What’s going on with you and Fred?” he asked as we approached my door.
Me and Fred? I laughed. “Nothing, why?”
“Just a sense I get. I think he really likes you.”
“That’s ridiculous, Dan.” Based on Fred’s comment last week about girlfriends being too demanding, I couldn’t imagine him having an interest in me.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dan said, opening my door for me. “Something’s up.”
I crawled into bed, mulling over Dan’s comment. Stubborn rays peeked around the drawn window shade. How could anyone sleep around here?
In the morning, I asked around about the light-at-night problem. Suggestions included “What light?” (Fred), tying a scarf over my eyes (Craig), or covering the window with a blanket (Teresa). I opted for the blanket. Warehouse Hal gave me one, saying, “That’s what all the other lower forty-eighters do”—as though us “lower forty-eighters” had some kind of defective gene that didn’t allow us to sleep when the sun wouldn’t set.
Army blanket, hammer and nails in hand, I walked back to my place. I positioned the gray wool over the window and tapped in a few nails to hold it in place. That helped the sleeping problem. A little. But I still missed real night. Something was just not right about daylight at midnight.
THIRTY-ONE
THANK GOODNESS STRUDEL finally finished our tanker. About time. He’d painted the truck himself, in BLM’s custom color, a vile shade of chartreuse, or as we fondly called it, “baby-shit green.” Talk about dedicated, or maybe obsessive, rumor had it that Strudel convinced the government to buy the painting equipment, too—what we referred to as one of his “special purchases.” The tanker now waited in the station garage for final detailing.
Cold, drizzling rain fell from an overcast dawn sky outside my bedroom window. I didn’t even have to be outside to feel the chill. When I dashed to work, I held my coat over my head to keep my hair dry. Even in the garage, I shivered despite thermal underwear, a flannel shirt, down vest, and wool-lined denim jacket. It was hard to imagine, but I missed the blazing Arizona sun.
“Strudel wants the storage cabinets labeled,” Rob said to me. “Can you cut stencils so we can spray paint them?”
Thank you, Rob. I made them inside the nice, warm lounge. When we were done, Strudel inspected our paint job, complimenting us on the professional workmanship. Huh. Maybe he’ll be an okay boss after all.
WELL, THERE YOU are! I thought when the muted sun greeted the morning. More customization on tap today.
Fred and I spread a canvas tarp over the equipment and installed snaps to make removal easy.
“Here, stretch this tight while I secure it,” he said, handing me a corner, allowing his sturdy body to get closer to me than he’d ever dared before.
“Want to go camping some time?” he asked, inserting a pop rivet.
What brought that on?Before I could answer, Strudel marched into the garage,
and opened and closed each cabinet.
“You’ve got all of ’em filled already,” he said in a disapproving tone.
“Was there something else you wanted to store in one?” Rob asked.
Strudel scowled. “Of course! You need Scott Air Packs.”
Rob’s eyebrows arched. “Scott Air Packs? What in the world for? We aren’t trained to use them.”
“You guys might come up on a structure fire and be asked to help,” Strudel said.
Rob’s tone heated. “That’s nonsense! We aren’t trained for structure fires.”
I’d never heard of Scott Air Packs, so I listened while Rob and Strudel argued the point.
Finally, Rob gave in. “Okay, fine, I’ll set a cabinet aside, but no one on my crew will ever use one. Period.”
After Strudel left, I asked Rob, “So what was that all about?
“That idiot wants us to carry Scott Air Packs. We aren’t trained in structural firefighting, so we don’t need them.”
I understood the basic differences between fighting forest and structure fires. Burning buildings could collapse at any minute, and often have the dangerous backdraft phenomenon. In an enclosed space, fire uses up all the oxygen, creating toxic fumes—which is why structural firefighters carry oxygen. Forest fires have their own unique characteristics, like the ability to create their own weather. Fire storms were the worst. I’d met men who’d fought structure fires, and they told me that never in a million years would they tackle a forest fire. And I’d sure never enter a burning building: we respected each other’s expertise, but we had no desire to trade places. The more I thought about Strudel’s outrageous demand, the madder I got. This man was insane.
“HOW ABOUT WE camp near Hope?” Fred suggested the next day.
Well, this would be interesting. But always game for a chance to explore, I agreed to go. Camping gear loaded in his weathered Oldsmobile, we saw Dan on our way out. Fred stopped and backed up. I rolled down my window.
Fred leaned over me. “We’re going camping. Wanna come?”
Dan hesitated, his eyes flitting from me to Fred. “Nah, I’ll pass. Our rainy hike last weekend was enough for me.”
“Okay, see you Sunday!” I waved. For a moment there, I thought Dan might be jealous. Nah, we’re just friends.
Thirty minutes of silence passed between Fred and I while scenery breezed by. What in the heck was I thinking? What in the world would Fred and I talk about for the next two days?
Fred broke the silence. “It must be quite the challenge for you to be working in a place so different from Arizona. What do you think of Alaska so far? How did you get into firefighting?”
Eager to respond, soon we were talking nonstop about everything and anything. Could this be the same guy I’d started out with? Had I completely misjudged him?
A light mist fell in Hope when we arrived mid-afternoon. Fred pointed out the historic buildings, including a Russian church, with its domed roof and tall spires. Alaska once belonged to Russia, he reminded me.
We agreed to avoid a regular campground, not that there were many around. With public land so prevalent, you could camp just about anywhere. I’d learned long ago that locals always knew the best places, so I let him pick a spot. A short hike later, I pitched my tent at the top of a yawning valley. Tall, snow-covered peaks fed a turquoise whitewater river below. The stubborn sun dipped toward, but not below, the horizon. Campfire built, we passed a bottle of wine between us.
“This feels good,” I said, warming my hands near the flames.
Fred placed an arm around me. Another surprise. Had I misjudged him again? I thought he didn’t want a girlfriend. Using two fingers to lift my chin, he explored my eyes with his. “You’re a puzzle.”
Me? Funny. I thought it was the other way around. “How so?”
“Well, for one, seems you like to fly solo.”
How’d he guess that? Was it that obvious? I admitted I wasn’t ready to settle down.
“I respect that. I’ve spent a lot of time watching you and wondering what made you tick. Now I think I know.” His arm squeezed me a little tighter.
So he was studying me all this time. I laughed lightly. I didn’t know what made me tick, so how could he?
Eyes lowered, he kissed me, his lips tender on mine and tasting of wine. My body responded, but my mind said, “no.” Our kiss ended. I rested my chin on his shoulder.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he said close to my ear. “I mean, I think it’s best we don’t get involved, since we have to work together.”
What a relief. I didn’t want anything more either. I also assumed this wasn’t going anywhere. Girlfriends weren’t on his priority list. I slept with his arms wrapped around me and awoke the next morning to a typical overcast day. A bald eagle soared on air currents, eying our camp, its high-pitched screech echoing in the valley. Fred took my hand and led me to the river below, where the frigid, churning water teamed with salmon. We half-joked about competing with grizzlies for breakfast. An hour later, we tore down camp and hiked out.
Fred grew quiet again on the way back to Kenai, but I didn’t mind. Comfortable with him now, I enjoyed the ride. What would everyone think when we got back? Let ’em talk. I didn’t care—I liked Fred and enjoyed the lingering pleasure of knowing that he’d let me into his very private world.
SOMETHING NEW HUNG on the cork bulletin board next to Strudel’s office the next morning. I fingered the cardboard cutouts of Dalmatians wearing fire helmets and comical faces. How adorable.
Fogie walked up behind me. “Hey, that’s us. The tanker dogs!”
In no time crew nicknames adorned each tiny tag around the dog’s necks. Not sure who first called me “Mom-dog,” but “Papa-dog” soon followed for Rob. Dan had earned the name Barfly early on. Only a few guys called me Mom-dog, and even that bugged me. I still didn’t much like the dog reference.
Strudel later called a meeting of the entire Wildwood staff. What now? I walked outside with everyone to find the shiny new tanker parked next to a fire hydrant. Dan and I stood next to each other amidst the crowd of twenty.
He whispered in my ear, “Oh boy, a dog and pony show!”
Strudel beamed like a kid on Christmas morning unwrapping his first toy fire engine. He expounded on all of the special features he’d added to this truck. Not particularly interested, because I’d already crawled in, over, and under the truck for weeks, I only half-listened while Strudel bragged about these features, including the controversial Scott Air Packs. Yawns and eye rolls were sprinkled through the crowd. At last, Strudel stopped talking. He rolled out a length of hose and attached it to the fire hydrant in order to fill the tank. I paid more attention.
With his hand on a lever, Strudel said, “ … and never, ever fill from a hydrant with this valve open.” He opened it to demonstrate. “It must be closed or you’ll blow out all the seals.”
Dan and I both rolled our eyes. Strudel was exaggerating—again. Listeners exchanged grins.
Strudel cranked open the fire hydrant. Rumbles and gurgles came from deep inside the truck’s bowels, until water erupted from every orifice like a Mt. St. Helens reenactment, showering everyone. Dan instinctively grabbed my sleeve, and we darted away from the waterworks. Others hollered and yelped, running in every direction, trying to get out of range as the ice-cold water spewed everywhere. In the meantime, Strudel, frantic, shut off the hydrant.
No need to say a word—Dan and I held onto each other and laughed and laughed. Forever etched into Wildwood’s history—the first official Wildwood Dog and Pony Show.
Finally, though, my crew was mobile. This was my first time behind the wheel of such a behemoth truck, which carried more than twice as much water as the Model 20 we used at Florida. It took me a while to get the hang of double-clutching to change gears, but soon I shifted like a pro.
“I want to stop at the bank,” Rob said. “Pull over here.”
Parallel park? That would be like trying to pa
rk an elephant. I pulled straight into the shopping center parking lot, taking up two spaces.
On the following day, Ichabod Crane drove.
“Turn right at the second stop light,” Rob said.
Ichabod nodded and immediately flipped on the turn signal. It blinked and blinked and blinked. Minutes went by. When he finally turned, a car horn blared, the driver shaking his fist at us as he sped around. My patience thinned.
“So where to, guys?” Rob asked.
“I want to see Craig and Sean’s station at Skilak Lake,” I said. They bragged about the place all the time. Made me curious.
Rob turned to me with a grin. “Strudel won’t like that.”
Strudel insisted we stay spread out to protect more area.
“So?” Dan said. “He’ll never know.”
Off we went.
Love at first sight. They lived my homesteading dream in a real log cabin. A gravel path, edged with a profusion of colorful wildflowers, led to the rustic, weathered gray door. Inside, a field-stone fireplace warmed the room, casting amber shadows onto wood furnishings. Out back, a large vegetable garden, the plants heavy with fruit, could easily feed a family of four.
“We’re living off the land,” Craig said. “I killed a bear yesterday, and the meat’s on the grill. We’ve also got salmon in the smoker.”
They served up lunch: just-picked garden vegetables and slabs of bear meat and salmon. I ate the fish and vegetables, but bear meat—no way. None of those guys could convince me it didn’t contain Trichinosis.
On the way back to Wildwood, I thought about the time I’d wanted to homestead here, and how different my life would be. Could I still do that?
When I arrived at work the next day, I found Rob taking apart the door panel of our truck.
“Window won’t go down,” he said.
I admitted I didn’t know much about electricity (the incident with Tom wiring the emergency lights had proven that), so I stood by, ready to help if I could. Rob fingered the intricate maze of wiring, talking to himself. A truck pulled into the driveway. Door slammed. Strudel headed toward us.
Summers of Fire Page 21