Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  That night, knowing I couldn’t hide my conflicted emotions, I confessed to Joe that I’d gotten involved with someone else.

  “I knew it!” he said, eyes glinting with tears. “You’ve just been waiting for someone better to come along the whole time.”

  My God, how much that hurt. I’d never intended to hurt him. I’d never wanted him to think I needed to keep looking. I hated myself at that moment. As much as his anguish pierced my heart, I didn’t cry.

  Detaching my emotions for the moment, I explained how he’d hurt me. How unimportant he made me feel when he didn’t write. How unwanted he made me feel when he didn’t include me in the stupid drinking parties at Florida, and especially how he made me feel undervalued when he was insensitive to my fear of his blind rages.

  The silence was so charged with emotion, it was almost unbearable.

  Tears tumbled down his cheeks. I’d never seen him cry, and the fact that I’d made him cry crushed my heart.

  He swiped those tears away. “I’m sorry.” After a deep breath, he said, “I need to know … Are you staying or going?”

  I have no idea how I kept my composure, but I did.. No need to make a decision right now. “Can I have some time to think?”

  He gave it to me.

  We fell into our routines. He continued to work at Florida; I took a job at a local plant nursery.

  Early morning, I dressed in light layers, tied on my running shoes, and jogged down to the Nature Trail for my daily two-mile run. At first the trail had a bit of a climb, then the grade eased. It was shady and cold in the deep canyon, which wouldn’t see the sun until mid-morning. White puffs accompanied my heavy breathing; patches of snow required careful maneuvering. A deer scared the wits out of me and made me halt when it dashed across my path—a sharp pain twinged in my right knee at the sudden stop. Ouch! I continued, taking it a bit easier.

  The next day that knee hurt a bit about halfway into my run. I changed my stride, and the pain quit. Well, that was an easy fix..

  That weekend, Joe and I went backpacking in the Santa Ritas. After huffing and puffing for hours, we took a break. From a vantage point, he identified the various peaks surrounding us.

  “That’s Jack Mountain,” he said, pointing to the forested mound. “Beyond it is Josephine Peak.”

  “What’s that one?” I asked, indicating the jagged form to the north.

  “McCleary.”

  Always proud of how he knew this area inside and out, I studied the shape and location of each one, determined to learn, too.

  There was nothing like cold spring water to quench thirst. Of course Joe knew where to go. He also took me to old mines, with nothing left but caved-in shafts and tailings—remnants of someone’s broken dreams. We pocketed some interesting rocks, examined abandoned equipment. What fun we had! Our interests were so much alike, and in many ways we were quite compatible. I’d never had this kind of connection with anyone else.

  All of this time together rekindled my earlier love for Joe, or maybe it’d been there all along. One night, after a nice dinner in Tucson, we sat in my car, talking. I apologized for hurting him, for not knowing what I wanted. He sat silent, listening.

  “I’d like us to grow old together,” I said.

  Another few moments of silence from him. Then he said, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  In mid-November, a manila envelope arrived in the mail. It contained an eight-by-ten color photo of Mt. Denali, in all of its snow-covered glory. Linda’s note said, “I thought you’d enjoy this!” She was right.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Summer of 1981: Bureau of Land Management,

  Durango, Colorado

  WHAT A THRILL to have a job offer from BLM in Colorado! But not on a fire crew. Should I go for it? I wanted to fight fires. But why not try timber management? It’d look good on my application next year, and further enhance my qualifications. Another step up on my career ladder. A big plus was this job offered a pay raise. An even bigger plus: I’d be working in the small mountain community of Durango. Long ago I’d dreamed of going to Durango. Was this an omen? Joe and I would be far apart again, though. But darn it, he already had a secure job—while I still wanted, and needed, to follow my own career path.

  Early Saturday morning, I walked outside and stared at the brand new Datsun pickup parked in the driveway. So I wasn’t dreaming. I did buy that yesterday. Happy, proud, and optimistic, that afternoon I called my best friend, Gail, to tell her about my new job and my new truck, describing the color as “roadway-center-stripe-yellow.” We whooped and hollered at all of my good news.

  On the way to Durango, I stopped in Prescott to see my parents. When I swung into their driveway, my mom scurried out to greet me.

  “Let me take a picture,” she said, darting inside to get her camera.

  I leaned against my new pickup as she snapped the photo, beaming at the prospect of a brand new job in an exciting new place.

  AMIDST ALMOST TWO hundred miles of reservation land, with no visible civilization between Flagstaff and Cortez, a Twilight Zone episode, the one where a couple breaks down in a desolate place with menacing tumbleweeds, crossed my mind. Good thing I’d bought this new, reliable, truck. Calley stretched out on the dash, unfazed by car travel.

  “Wait ’till you see where we’re going sweetie,” I said, scratching her chin. “Lots of trees up there.” She held eyelids half closed over vivid green irises, contented and purring.

  Positive that two days would be plenty of time to find an apartment, I settled into a Motel 6 and bought a newspaper. Several phone calls later, I realized this was going to be harder than I thought. I couldn’t afford a week in a motel. What was I going to do?

  A slender, tanned man with sun-streaked hair smiled at me from across his desk on Monday morning. “Have you found a place to live?” my new supervisor, Ron, asked.

  I bit my lower lip. “Not yet. I’m still in a motel.”

  Brows drawn together, he said, “Hmm … You know, I think Scott has an extra room. When we’re done here, I’ll introduce you.”

  The twist in my stomach unwound.

  Ron explained that I’d be collecting tree-plot data for use in future harvesting.

  Data? Am I in over my head? But it also sounded challenging, and I liked challenges.

  Ron grabbed a set of keys off his desk. “I’ll introduce you to a few folks around here, and then we’ll go out in the field for some hands-on training.”

  After passing through a maze of cubicles, Ron paused at an office door to introduce the two women inside. Petite and pretty Kristy was a geologist. She wore my favorite style of jeans and sturdy hiking boots, with a blue-plaid flannel shirt and rolled up sleeves. Kristy offered a shy, but friendly smile, and stood to grip my hand. Heidi, a towhead-blond and an archaeologist, smiled and nodded at me from her desk.

  We walked to the next office.

  “This is Randy and Dee, two of our fire crew,” Ron said. “Jerry’s off today.”

  Fire crew? For some reason I hadn’t expected there to be one here. Dee sported the half-tucked-in-shirt look just like Fogie did. Randy was neater, and heavier, than Dee. They both raised their hands in greeting. I shared my fire experience—after all—that’s what fellow firefighters do.

  Dee twirled his chair around to face me. “Where ’bouts?”

  “Arizona, Alaska.”

  That caught Randy’s attention. “Alaska? Cool! Did you like it there?”

  Always fun to get a reaction, I smiled. “Yes, but I fought more mosquitoes than fires.”

  They laughed. For a brief moment I forgot they hadn’t hired me to fight fire. I couldn’t resist. I had to drop a hint. I turned to Ron. “Do you ever need help? I’m Red Carded.”

  Ron hesitated for a second, then nodded. “If we’re shorthanded, I’ll have the guys give you a call.”

  On the way to the exit, Ron raised his hand to stop a Mark Spitz look-alike, asking him if he still needed another roommate. S
cott folded his arms, dark eyes assessing me, his smile hidden by a thick black mustache. “Yeah, I do.”

  Problem solved: a place to live! What a relief. But two men for roommates? This would be interesting … but heck, as a liberated woman, I could handle it. Joe wouldn’t care. I couldn’t tell my father, though—he’d have a fit.

  Ron and I drove out of town and soon pulled roadside, where he removed a briefcase and a leather bag from the cargo box. The open tailgate created our outdoor office. I sat next to Ron as he spread out a square, aerial photo on the makeshift table. “I’ll give you a photo and the USGS topographic map of each inventory plot.”

  Aerial photos, captured by a camera attached underneath a plane, contained an amazing amount of detail, even more once Ron pointed out objects. This work was going to add a whole new dimension to my love of maps.

  “Learning to read an aerial takes practice,” Ron said. “See the diagonal clearing and parallel lines here? Shadows show it’s a power line.” He reached into his cruiser-vest pocket. “How are your compass skills?”

  “I carry one hiking, but mostly for fun.” I smiled and shrugged.

  “This is a little different.” He held the compass so I could see. “The arrow points to magnetic north, so the declination—the degrees off true north—needs to be set. I’ve already done that for you.” He handed it to me.

  I listened intently, wanting to learn more. Another critical motivator was at work here—I didn’t want to get lost!

  “To find your plot, determine the direction you want to go and get the compass bearing,” Ron said. “To avoid having to recheck the compass often, find a landmark in the distance. A rock outcropping or a tall tree. Then walk to it. Take your time. I need you to be accurate. All your field data goes in here.” He handed me a yellow logbook. “For each plot, you’ll record the number of trees, their height, trunk diameter, and age.”

  Portable office closed up, daypacks loaded, we headed into the forest to practice. Sun-warmed pine needles, the scent reminiscent of cinnamon and cloves, crunched underfoot like potato chips, bringing on a memory of playing records in my humble trailer at the forested Palisades Ranger Station: Jerry Jeff Walker’s “London Homesick Blues,” Jackson Browne’s “For Everyman.”

  A half-hour later, Ron set down the pack and removed a small instrument resembling a telescope. “We’ll find the plot boundary first. Look through the scope and find the two vertical lines in your field of vision. Count only the tree trunks wider than the space between the two lines.”

  Trees counted, he taught me how to use each of the other instruments and how to enter the data. My head spun with everything I had to remember, but I couldn’t wait to get out on my own. However, my conscience also nagged at me.

  “Ron, will the trees be clear-cut?” I asked as we walked back to the truck.

  “Hmm? We’re looking at selective harvesting. Why?”

  I hesitated a moment. Should I say this? I decided it would be okay. “I’ve seen clear cutting and think it’s hideous.”

  He nodded. “It bothers me, too.”

  Ron and I would get along great.

  Bright and early, I was off to my first solo assignment. A uniform would have made me feel even more official, but BLM, like the Forest Service, gave those out sparingly. Having a government truck at my disposal made up for no uniform, I decided. I tossed my daypack filled with the data collecting instruments behind the seat and headed out to locate my first plot.

  Everything was going good until a “Private Property—No Trespassing” sign stopped me cold. That must mean me. How to bypass this? After trying several routes without success, I gave up and moved on to a different plot. At five, I asked Ron what to do.

  “Oh, I should’ve told you. You need to ask the property owner for permission to cross,” he said.

  “So they don’t mind?” I really didn’t want to knock on a stranger’s door.

  He shook his head. “They just like to be asked first.”

  Why didn’t BLM have access to their own land? But I knew logic and the federal government rarely coincided. I wished I could figure out how to do my job without approaching a stranger, though. In the morning, I drove beyond the sign and pulled up to the house, only to be greeted by another problem sign: “Beware of Dogs.” Plural. Great. I listened. No barking. I stepped out of the truck. Still no barking.

  A man walked out onto the porch, greeting me with a “who-the-hell-are-you” stare. Frantic dogs now barked menacingly from inside. In my most professional tone of voice, I introduced myself and asked for permission to cross his land. The man rubbed his eyes with both hands, drawing one hand down his unshaved face. Barefoot and clad in only blue jeans, he lazily scratched a hairy chest and eyed the blond BLM employee before him. Killer dogs continued their tirade. His brow furrowed, the man turned around sharply to address the source.

  “Shuttup!” Whimpering came from within. He turned back to me. “Yeah. Just close any gates you open.”

  “Thank you.” I rushed to my truck, relieved it was over, and completed my plot.

  A few days later, I needed to get permission from another property owner. Feeling more confident, I pulled up, jumped out, marched up to the door, and knocked. An elderly woman answered. I made my request, obtained permission, and wished her a good day. I could get used to being my own boss.

  “Our next project is out of town,” Ron said, two weeks later. “There are many plots out there, so I reserved a motel room for you in Pagosa Springs. You can work as much overtime as you want, ’cause we need to get these done.”

  Staying in a motel, with no supervision and all the overtime I wanted? Way different from my fire crew experiences—more independence and even more responsibility. Ms. BLM Employee was feeling pretty darned self-sufficient.

  Tiny Pagosa Springs had more billboards advertising their hot springs than they had motels, or even roads. A 1950s motor lodge would be my home for a few weeks. I set my suitcase inside my room and drove off to find my first plot. From the winding highway, I steered onto a narrow, rugged dirt road. It took me a while to find a place to park where I could turn my vehicle around. It was no fun driving backward for long distances—I’d done that once, and once was enough. Map and compass in hand, gear on my back, I headed out into the wilderness. Insects buzzed around my head, forewarning a warm day, but nothing compared to desert heat. Easy for me to get swept away by the pleasurable walk, but I needed to keep my wits together. Time to consult my compass and find a landmark. I picked a large rock outcrop in the distance to be my westerly guide. More walking, more checking. I took a water and map-reading break. As I sipped from my canteen, a rock squirrel paid me a visit. He scampered halfway up a tree, tipped his head, and twitched his feather-duster tail.

  How cute! “Sorry squirrel buddy, no peanut butter today.”

  I still couldn’t eat the stuff. On the aerial, I recognized a fence shadow near my plot. The topo map showed a section corner near it, too. Now that would be the ultimate find. In-ground brass caps marked land section corners. If I found that brass cap, I’d be more than lucky; I’d know my inventory site’s exact location. Encouraged by a rusty, sagging barbed-wire fence, I followed it for a short distance until a glint of metal caught my eye. I squatted down and brushed aside pine needles. Brass cap! Akin to finding that darned needle in a haystack. My plot boundary was just a few steps away.

  Like a kid with a bag full of new toys, I eagerly fished out the inventory tools from my daypack. Determining the plot boundary and counting mature trees came first. My ingenious tape measure converted circumference to diameter, and I recorded the data in my field book.

  Ever since Eric had taught me how to pace a chain (sixty-six feet in length) during fire training in 1976, I wondered if I’d ever use the method to measure distance. Today would be the day. To estimate tree height, I counted thirteen steps (my one chain) from the trunk and pointed the hypsometer at the tree top to read one angle. A simple trig formula calculated
a height of eighty-four feet. When Ron took me out for training, he estimated heights accurately just because he did it so often. Could I do that? I decided to practice on each tree.

  Next, to find the tree’s age. Before I did so, I remembered something I’d heard, but never tested. Did ponderosa bark smell like vanilla? I pressed my nose against the bark and inhaled. Nothing. I sniffed again. It smelled like, well … bark. So much for that.

  Using an increment borer, a long, slender metal tube with a T handle on one end, I twisted it into the tree’s center and removed a slender core. Using my pencil, I counted ninety-eight growth rings. I leaned back to see the top. Wow. A grandpa tree. Ron said a dark ring depicted a forest fire event. No sign of fire here. I replaced the core sample. Although Ron had read otherwise, he expressed concern that boring might injure the tree. I patted the bark. “Be okay, Mr. Tree.”

  Mission accomplished: I’d found my plot, located a brass cap, and best of all—I didn’t get lost! I retraced my steps and drove back to my motel just as the sun set. After a quick shower, I was hungry. Apprehensive, because I’d never eaten alone in a restaurant before and felt self-conscious doing so, I cruised main street for an unassuming place where I wouldn’t be, umm, noticed. The Mexican restaurant appeared quiet. Seated inside, I ordered a bean burrito; an easy meal that I figured I could eat fast and zip back to my room. In no time, the waitress set the plate in front of me. Starving, I took a bite. Bland. I mean, really bland. Needs doctoring. Condiments circled the napkin holder: salt, pepper, ketchup, and sugar—but no hot sauce I caught the waitress’s eye and asked her if I could have some Tabasco sauce.

  She pursed her lips. “Gee, I’ll check.”

  Unbelievable. A Mexican restaurant with no hot sauce? My food grew cold while I waited, so I gave up and ate, and was finished when she returned with an unopened giant economy-size bottle. “Will this do? Oh. Sorry.”