Get me outta here! Bypassing the guys, I clambered out of the boat with wobbly, trembling legs, toes numb from soaking in the freezing water. I could’ve kissed the ground.
“So what did you think of that?” Fogie asked me, nonchalantly removing his life jacket.
“What did I think of that? Terrifying!”
“Yup, that was a bit over-the-top.” He chuckled, giving Dan’s arm a playful punch. “I was positive there for a moment we were all going for a swim.”
Dan glared at him. “No shit.”
Strudel acted like nothing had happened, chatty, excited, and smiling like a crazy man. Rob just stared at him. Fogie rolled his eyes. Fred’s perfect poker face betrayed no emotion. Angry and trembling, I glared at Strudel. You could’ve killed us.
“HELICOPTER’S COMING TOMORROW for six weeks,” Rob said the next morning.
At last, a break from our dull routine, aside from the terrifying experience aboard Strudel’s boat. It would be valuable Helitack training for me, too. When I walked into the lounge, someone new was sitting at the table with Rob. Who’s this?
“This is Monte, our pilot,” Rob said.
My jaw dropped. Our pilot? Okay, I didn’t drool, but knew the summer would be dull no longer.
THIRTY-THREE
MONTE AND I could’ve started our own science experiment. I felt the chemistry between us from the moment he said, “Hi.” Not only was he younger (and more handsome) than any pilot I’d ever met, but his casual bell-bottom-jeans and polo shirt attire, tousled, sandy-blond hair—requiring frequent sweeps to keep it from his eyes—and the simple gold chain around his neck, radiated masculinity to me in a way I’d never encountered before. This guy must have to fight women off daily.
Adding to all of those sexy attributes, Monte was not ex-military, like most Forest Service pilots. I’d soon learn it was his father who’d taught him how to fly. Curious about this captivating pilot and his privately owned aircraft, I walked over to the helipad on my day off, to find him tinkering with his Jet Ranger—just like a guy with a fancy car. How I hoped his delightful “sweep you off your feet” smile was meant only for me. Here was a perfect opening to ask the question I’d always wanted to ask a pilot. How did helicopters fly anyway?
Monte’s face glowed with pleasure at the chance to share his passion for flying. “Here,” he said, motioning me to get into the passenger seat. “I’ll show you how they work. They aren’t that complicated.”
That comment didn’t fool me. I’d heard they were incredibly difficult to fly. Interested both in his explanation, and in him, I soaked up every word he said.
With an instructor’s voice, Monte explained, “Top rotors create downward air pressure for lift. Rear rotor steers it left and right. Weather conditions are far more critical for a helicopter’s ability to stay aloft than for a plane. Planes can soar, helicopters can’t.”
This confirmed in my mind that the crazy pilot who auto-rotated with me onboard a few summers ago was nuts.
Later, Monte asked me if I’d like to go play some pool. In high school, guys with his good looks would’ve walked over me in the hallway rather than go around, if that was possible. That’s how invisible I’d felt back then. For a guy like Monte to show an interest in me made me want to throw myself at his feet. I said I’d love to. Now, my billiards experience amounted to maybe, four games? But this wasn’t really about playing pool. At the billiards table, he had me so flustered, I couldn’t think straight. How stupid of me to accept. He’ll think I’m an idiot.
“Let me show you the best way to hold the cue,” he said. Positioning himself behind me, he wrapped his hands around mine, arranging my fingers in the proper position. My entire being illuminated from his touch.
In the morning, Monte invited me for a jog the beach. The sun’s meager rays warmed the cool day, but his presence warmed me even more. Alternating running with sitting on the sand talking, I enjoyed the surf and his company. I’d never met anyone like him. Hours passed easily—so many that when the tide came in, it boxed us against the cliffs, creating a challenging return trip. Inside Monte’s car parked at the top of the bluffs overlooking the beach, I snuggled into him while the sun made a brief disappearance below the horizon, feeling safe and comfortable in his arms. He suggested we go for a drink.
Live music pulsed inside the smoke-hazed bar. When a sultry song played, he asked me to dance. Lost in his arms and the music, I tuned out everyone in the room but the two of us. We stayed until the bar closed, then returned to the bluffs, parking and making-out in his Malibu’s backseat like high school kids. For the first time, a guy had to tell me to slow down.
HAVING A HELICOPTER at our disposal put cruising on hold so we could train. Morale was higher than I’d ever see it. Even Fred became Mr. Chatterbox.
Because there is so little room inside, helicopters use sling-loads to transport cargo. Stability is easily compromised on takeoff, so they hover while the slings are attached to the underside. Today I’d learn a hover-hookup, and I’d get to spend time around Monte. My heart and mood soared.
Our instructor filled a cargo net with gear so we could practice. Monte’s helicopter hovered, waiting to start the training exercise.
Dan, lucky dog, got to go first. Eyes huge, he crouched low onto the landing pad and picked up the hook that lay on top of the load. My pulse raced as the helicopter hovered right above his head. He swung the hook, trying to latch a ring, and missed. He swung again. Got it. In an exaggerated crouch, he returned to my side. Even as a spectator, I tingled with excitement as if I’d done it myself.
“How was it, Dan? Were you scared?”
“It was harder than I thought it’d be. Plus, I got a static-electric shock when I touched the hook to the ring.”
What? “How much of one?”
He grinned.
Rope pulled taut, Monte lifted the parcel slowly off the ground. Cargo sailing underneath, the ship circled and returned to drop the load on the helipad for the next person to try.
From the radio inside our truck, I heard Monte hailing us. “Wildwood Tanker five-five-oh, Helicopter two-three.” I dashed to answer, pushing the call button. “Go ahead.”
“Ready for the next one?”
“Ten-four,” I replied. Did he notice the smile in my voice?
Okay, my turn. Underneath the ship, my heart raced, as a powerful downdraft from the thumping blades threatened to blow me over. Surprised by the hook’s substantial weight, I used both hands to hold it steady. Down the ship came—lower … lower. It hovered above my head, but the darned ring wouldn’t stop swaying. On my first attempt, I missed. Annoyed, I tried again. An electric charge zinged from my fingers to my toes as metal met metal. I dashed off to join the others and watched Monte fly away. That did it: I wanted more helicopter training.
“YOU SOUNDED SO damned sexy today on the radio,” Monte said, smoothing my hair behind an ear. “It was hard for me to focus.”
Thank goodness Teresa was out for the evening, leaving us alone. My entire body sparkled with desire, passion, want, and need. Using both hands to surround my face, he kissed me, deep and full. I responded in kind.
“I love you,” I whispered, the words feeling true and real.
“I don’t feel that way yet,” he said, stroking my back. “I could, though. Our relationship doesn’t have to include sex to make it better.”
That sounded so obscenely crazy, I didn’t respond. He took my hand and escorted me upstairs.
At the end of August, after spending time with Monte every single day, his assignment at Wildwood ended. Crushed, I asked when we’d see each other again.
“I’ll try to come see you, sweetheart, but I have contracts elsewhere.”
What could I say except, “okay?” But it wasn’t okay. He’d tossed me off a cliff, and the water below churned and frothed, awaiting my arrival.
ALASKAN WEATHER RIVALED that of my hometown, Syracuse: cloudy, cold, wet, and dreary. All of the reasons why my p
arents had moved us to Arizona. And, for someone who wanted to fight fires, it didn’t appear that Alaska was the place to be. Morale dipped lower than the daily high of fifty degrees.
Seated in the lounge one gloomy morning, I listened, and contributed to, the gripes about the lack of fires. A steady drizzle blurred the view outside the windows like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. Dan clipped his fingernails. Rob scratched his now full-grown beard. Sean sharpened his penknife. Fogie dipped a carrot into a jar of peanut butter, and crunched. Funny, I couldn’t remember ever seeing him eat anything else.
Strudel must have overheard us complaining, because he stormed into the room and wagged his finger, saying, “Just remember. The Swanson River Fire started on a day like this.” He turned on his heels and went back to his office, muttering and slamming the door.
Strudel brought this up often, prompting Rob to check into the details. The district records showed that a major fire had broken out on the banks of the Swanson River in 1969.
“But did it really start on a rainy day?” Fogie asked, leaning back in his chair and propping his boots up on the table. “I mean, seriously, can a fire become a major-rager with this much rain?”
He had a good point. Everyone sat silently contemplating. Dan’s face lit up. “Every place I’ve ever worked had custom Tshirts made. We should do that! It’ll be fun.”
That night, as requested of me, I sketched my idea out at the dining room table.
Before work, Dan held up my drawing for everyone to see. A pony, its head down and forlorn, stood with a Dalmatian at its feet, holding an umbrella over both of them. In a semi-circle around the scene I’d written: “Just remember, the Swanson River Fire started on a day like this.”
Everyone voted to have Tshirts printed with my artwork above the pocket. What an honor …
Two weeks later, Dan swept into the lounge with a box.
“They’re here?” I asked, immensely curious to see how they turned out.
Laughter and joking accompanied the distribution of the shirts, with some of the guys trying them on. The commotion drew Strudel’s attention, and he blasted into the room. “What’s going on here?”
My smile faded, worried about what he’d do.
Dan pointed to the emblem on his shirt. “Our new motto.”
Strudel studied it and frowned. “I don’t like this. I forbid you to wear them around the station.” He stomped out.
I glanced around the room to gauge reactions.
“Oh, who cares what he thinks,” Dan said.
“What should we do?” I asked.
Everyone grinned. We wore them anyway.
A week later, Dan walked into the lounge, chuckling. “You won’t believe this. Strudel just told me he wants to order not one, but two of our Tshirts.”
The room ignited with raucous laughter.
Only days later, an honest-to-goodness fire call came in.
THIRTY-FOUR
“WHERE IS IT?” I asked Rob as we scrambled to collect our fire gear. Anxious, I realized that I hadn’t even looked inside my fire pack since April. Did it have everything I’d need?
“Some place west of Anchorage.”
Sean had shared many cool maps of Alaska with me, including a fascinating topo map of the ocean floor, depicting submerged, unexplored mountains, so I knew there wasn’t much west of Anchorage. In fact, I couldn’t think of any civilization west of Anchorage.
A chartered plane delivered us to the Anchorage airport. Chartered. So even Strudel didn’t trust the commuter service. On the tarmac, to my surprise and delight, Monte readied his helicopter for flight.
“I’m your pilot, ma’am,” he said, with his brilliant, sexy smile. “Get in front with me.”
Before I climbed into the cockpit, I noticed pontoons on the skids. Were we planning to land on water? If so, then what? Would we get into a boat?
“What are those for?” I asked Monte as he hopped into his seat.
“In some places the tundra’s deep and boggy. Sure wouldn’t want to land, only to have the helicopter half-sink into the ground.” He swept his hair back and slipped on the helmet. “That might be a bit of a problem.”
I laughed a little with him, but the thought of it actually sinking sounded like a real problem. Monte handed me a helmet. “Here, put this on. Then I can talk to you in private.” This special treatment felt quite grand. The guys in back must be jealous. Deep in concentration, Monte flipped switches and monitored gauges. Off we sailed toward Kenai’s two active volcanoes, Mount Iliamna and Mount Redoubt, still wearing stark white blankets of snow.
“This fire’s been difficult,” Monte said, his voice sounding tinny over the headset. “It’s overrun fire camp three times.”
Three times? Sure, winds play havoc, but fire camp burning up three times? What was up with that?
“Grizzlies raided the camp, too, twice. I’ve brought rifles.”
Burned up camp. Bear raids. Rifles. Welcome to firefighting in Alaska.
Our flight took more than an hour—the longest I’d ever spent in a helicopter at one time.
“Have you ever been to Hawaii?” Monte asked, beaming that stunning smile.
Hawaii? What I wouldn’t give to go to Hawaii! I shook my head “no” and felt pleasant tingles all over as I wondered if he was asking me to join him.
“Someday I’d like to take you, sweetheart. We’ll walk the beach, eat great food, watch sunsets.”
I’m sure I glowed from the warmth spreading inside me. “When do we leave?” I gave him my best smile to convince him to take me there.
Monte’s helicopter didn’t have the windshield wrapping underfoot, so I gazed out the side window. Isolated pockets of black spruce floated amidst marshy tundra. Despite all that water, a bank of smoke in the distance spread out low and flat. We buzzed over Fire 4617, now nearing a thousand acres. How in the world did it get so big? At the same time that raindrops speckled the windshield, trees burst into bright orange flames. Unbelievable. I stubbornly refused to admit, though, that Strudel might have been right.
Monte expertly landed us with nary a jostle. I hopped out onto tundra, marveling at its foam-pillow softness. Away from danger, four of us crouched low and watched the chopper take off for more crew. Instead of going to work, though, the fire boss told us to settle in for the night.
“Well, that’s different,” I said to Rob, while we searched for a place to pitch our tents. “I’ve never arrived at a fire and not been sent out right away.”
“Yeah, who knows what that’s about.” He tested the ground with his feet. “Nothing’s worse than finding a lump in the middle of the night.”
Just like The Princess and the Pea, I thought.
Tent spread out and ready to secure, I realized that the tundra offered nothing for me to pound stakes into. I tied the tent to bushes instead. Pleased with my ingenuity, I crawled inside. Nice. Tundra made a superb mattress. Maybe I’d get a decent night’s sleep.
For dinner, I ate tuna C-rat and trail mix. That darned, stubborn sun refused to go down, so I crawled into my tent with the sky still light and placed my watch within easy reach. During the dark-less night, I awoke twice, disoriented, as often happened in a strange place, but also because light messed with my internal clock. When I jarred awake for the third time, I sat up with a start. What time is it? I snatched my watch. Seven o’clock! Mortified, I thought I’d overslept and the crew had left without me. Wait. I heard Rob snoring. If they forgot me, they forgot him too. Not likely.Now wide awake, I listened for camp activity. What’s that steady hum? A generator? It couldn’t be, not loud enough.Tiny shadows zigzagged a bizarre dance above my tent. Oh no. Millions of hungry mosquitoes waited for me to unzip the tent door so they could have breakfast: me. I’d need heavy artillery. I sat up and fished the DEET out of my pack. Blood-suckers hovered at the screen door, waiting patiently for me to come out. Bastards. What to do. If I unzipped the door, they’d swarm in. Later, I’d lose sleep with all th
e high-pitched whining and anticipating mosquito bites, then getting mosquito bites. I read the label: “Warning: Product will melt nylon.” If it’ll melt nylon, how could it be safe for skin? Wasn’t the tent made of nylon? Icouldn’t tell. Now what? The steady hum continued. Damn, there’s probably a gazillion of them now. Well, if it melts my tent, so be it. I sprayed my clothes and then the tent door. Could I do this fast enough? Only one way to find out. I unzipped, scrambled out, and frantically zipped the door shut.I half-expected the tent to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West, but it looked fine to me. I set the can outside the door. I’d need to do that in reverse when I returned.
For breakfast, I ate more tuna, and more than twelve hours after arriving, we went to fight fire.
“Winds are calm, so there’s no danger of being overrun,” the crew boss said as we walked toward the blaze.
That was the understatement of the year. Looking behind me, I noticed water filled my footprints in the spongy tundra, leaving boot-shaped puddles. That didn’t bode well for dry feet. Too late now to regret not buying spare boots. Finally we reached the fire, which blazed with a surprising amount of vigor, considering that it literally burned on top of water. There was no digging good old-fashioned fireline here. We stomped the ground hard, bringing water up to the surface, to make a “wet” line. In drier spots, we cut tundra with our Pulaskis, peeling it back to expose the permafrost. Curious, I knelt down and tapped the frozen ground with my knuckles. It was solid as a rock. How in the world do plants grow here? Later, we’d have to replace the tundra to keep the permafrost from melting, protecting the delicate arctic ecosystem.
About noon, we took a break. Out came C-rats and handy-dandy P-38 can openers. Sour faces and silence accompanied the meal. I’d had tuna for breakfast, and wasn’t in the mood for more. After a few bites, I set it aside.
Hoping to sleep well, I flew into my tent after the repellant application and snuggled into my comfy tundra mattress. I slept so soundly that a bear could have raided camp and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Summers of Fire Page 23