Heidi’s voice floated from the back. “Over here, guys, you won’t believe this.”
I eased over to her. Against the wall stood a gigantic cast-iron cook stove—rusty, but still serviceable. I could picture it in full operation: coffee perking, bacon sizzling, eggs crackling. How in the heck had they hauled it up here? I guessed it weighed a half-ton.
Randy stepped forward to enter the room—and Heidi grasped his arm. “Don’t. The floor doesn’t look good. Stove’s probably still here ’cause nobody could carry it out.”
Randy chuckled. “Makes you wonder what else used to be here.”
More booming thunder, then a few pieces of hail pinged overhead. Seconds later, we cowered and covered our ears from thunderous vibrations of marble-sized hail pounding the tin roof. Amazing, how fast it turned icy cold; I could see my breath and needed my sweatshirt. With the hailstorm over, but still rainy, we ate lunch, exuberant over our discovery.
Once the clouds were momentarily wrung dry, we got out while the getting-out looked good. I slid a little less crawling up the wet tailings than I had going down. Still exhilarated when I reached our vehicles, I suggested finding out what we could learn at the Ouray historical museum. A short time later, we strolled among the display cases and studied the old photos lining the walls. The center of the room displayed a few mining relics, including a rusty ore car, much like the one we saw up there.
“May I help you?” asked the matronly woman behind the counter.
“Maybe.” I smiled at her. “We just came down from that mine outside of town. The one perched on the side of the mountain?”
She removed her reading glasses. “Ah! The Old Hundred Mine. They hauled all the materials and the workers up by tram … oh, let’s see, mid-1800s? Crazy miners. They did all that work, never found much silver or gold … oh, and there’s a club. People who go up there often register with them.”
We didn’t register, but over the summer I wondered about the ruins. How long would they last? Would they be a pile of rubble if I decided to return some day?
ANOTHER PATROL DAY, searching for the ever-elusive firewood cutter, I was about ready to give up ever seeing anyone, when I noticed a middle-aged couple loading wood into a pickup on the side of the road. Oh boy! Someone to talk to. I parked behind them. The guy tossed a chunk into the bed and walked over to me, his face concerned.
“Good morning,” I said. “Just checking to see if you have a permit.”
“Permit? We need a permit?” Eyes wide, he glanced back and forth between me and his partner, who shrugged with palms up. “Are we in trouble?”
I explained that he needed one, but that we could resolve the issue on the spot. “You’re limited to one cord, okay?” I said, handing the permit over.
He tucked it in his shirt pocket. “No problem. There isn’t much here for the taking, anyway.”
I never saw another soul.
GRRR … ANOTHER BLACKENED pot on the stove, dirty dishes heaped high in the sink, an empty milk jug, soured, on the counter, and an overflowing trash can. Flies buzzed around the detritus. Enough of this. Livid, I stuffed the whole kit-and-caboodle into grocery bags. I set half in Len’s room, half in Scott’s. I emptied the trash and wiped the kitchen down with disinfectant. Too late to go for a run, instead I made a sandwich and took it to my room to watch TV. An hour later, my door flew open. Scott glared at me, face flushed and eyes blazing.
“You can’t do that!”
“The hell I can’t. You guys are disgusting.”
A screaming match followed, quite unlike me, but I was angry and sick of putting up with these guys.
Scott pointed toward the front door, furious. “Get out! Now. Or I’ll throw all your stuff outside.”
Worried he’d make good on his threat, I packed while he continued to scream at me the whole time, placed poor scared Calley into her carrier, and left. Huddled in a phone booth, shaking from the confrontation and sudden upheaval, I called Ron at home and told him I’d have to quit early. No way could I find another place for the two weeks I had left there. Ron insisted that I not quit and offered me his family’s furnished basement.
“Now don’t you fret,” his wife said a half hour later. “You just make yourself at home and don’t be shy about asking for whatever you need.”
Downstairs, I found the hide-a-bed made up and clean towels on a chair. Did I ever need a bit of pampering at that moment. Although exhausted, sleep took a while to arrive. Amazing how Calley took this all in stride. She curled up with me, offering the reassurance I needed that all would be okay.
At breakfast, I brought up paying rent, but they declined. To offset the free room, I contributed groceries and helped fix dinner. After washing dishes, I joined their kids in a game of Monopoly.
When I arrived at work, the nightmare continued. Scott gave me a nasty, evil look as he walked by, and Ron worried about my safety. “Are you sure he won’t retaliate?”
Would he? I owed him money for utilities, but I figured we were even because he’d thrown me out a week after I’d paid that month’s rent.
“Just to be on the safe side, park in back of my house instead of on the street,” Ron said.
The two of us stood in disbelief the next morning at deep tire tracks in his lawn, and a flattened mailbox. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. I felt guilty exposing Ron’s wonderful family to this, even though he’d told me not to worry.
Because I spent too much time avoiding Scott, my last two weeks dragged. Finally, on my last day, I sat down in front of Ron to go over my performance review.
“Good job!” he said. “You finished the inventory early and under budget. The district manager offered commendations, too.”
“I had fun here,” I said, both smiling and embarrassed. Compliments always threw me. I usually found it easier to pretend I didn’t hear them.
AT THE DURANGO airport, I waited for Joe, pacing. The night before, I’d patiently twisted pink foam curlers into my hair. I rarely fussed like that, mostly because it was a royal pain in the neck, but the resulting soft waves pleased me. When he stepped off the plane, my heart leapt. Always handsome, that day, Joe was even more so. How long since I’d held him? Too long.
“You look great,” he said, touching my hair.
I felt great. First thing, I took him to see the Old Hundred Mine, but from down below. He stared at me in disbelief. “You went up there?”
I grinned. I had the photos to prove it.
There weren’t many campers out after Labor Day, and to make it even more perfect, canary-yellow aspens and fiery-red big-toothed maples, rivaled the autumns of my childhood. We pitched our tent, hunted for firewood, and dragged a log over to sit on. Dinner simmered on the open flames. Wine, nature, and good company. What could be better? I snuggled against him.
“BLM was okay, but it’s not what I want,” I said.
“So, what do you want?”
“Catalina Hotshots.”
Joe frowned. “You know they’re nothing special. The Florida crew did the same things they do.”
Yes, I knew that. But hotshots went to more fires than we ever did. They had a reputation I wanted to lay claim to.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Summer of 1982: Palisades Ranger Station,
Coronado National Forest, Mt. Lemmon, Arizona
February 11Th, Tuesday
The rain is falling outside the windows of our new home. Next Monday, it’ll be 2 weeks since Joe and I moved into our 14 x 64 mobile home on 2½ acres. We’ve been happy since I’ve been back from Durango … looking back over what I have written—seems like I only wrote when times were bad. Joe’s and my relationship has improved greatly—maybe we’ve become more patient with each other.
BY LATE APRIL, I wore a modest diamond ring, with the plan Joe and I would marry in the fall. I also had high hopes I’d be spending the coming summer on a hotshot crew. To earn money until then, I worked at a local plant nursery, schlepping heavy plants out of delivery tru
cks and then into customer’s trunks. Every time I felt ice-pick stabs of pain under my knee caps, I tuned them out. They’d go away. Of course they’d go away. My shoulder got better, so my knees would too.
In early May, I stopped at the Post Office to pick up our mail. Flipping through the envelopes, I recognized the one I’d been waiting for: the Coronado National Forest offering me a position on the Catalina Hotshots. I stared hard at that letter, hesitant to believe what I read. The offer registered: I got it! Excited, I sped home to share the great news.
But Joe didn’t share my enthusiasm. “So how are you going to pull this off?”
Okay, so I’d ignored the logistical problem of living ninety miles from my new job. How could I manage a home and a long commute? Even if I could commute. With a busy fire season, I wouldn’t be home at all. But darn it, I wanted Joe, a home, and my career. Other couples managed. Everything would work out.
The trip to Mt. Lemmon brought back memories—both good and bad. I’d come a long ways since 1975. Heck, even farther since the trail crew in 1978, when Frank had said he’d never hire a woman on his crew. If only he could see me now in the position he wouldn’t let me have. At seven-thirty, I pulled into Palisades Ranger Station, a redwood building nestled among tall, stately pines. Smokey the Bear stood outside the front door, his wooden paws holding a sign reminding people that only they could prevent forest fires. Good ol’ Smokey.
Inside, a twenty-something woman with an exuberant spring in her step greeted me. “Need help?”
“I’m Linda, a new hotshot,” I said, secretly reveling in those words.
“Hey! I’m Sharon, your roomie. C’mon, I’ll show you our quarters.”
Sharon led me across the parking lot to one of the cabins. “Hope you don’t mind; I took the lower bunk.” She tossed her long raven hair back and laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll fall out of the top!”
No kidding! That worried me, too. Not only that, but I’d have to remember not to abruptly sit up at night, whacking my head on the ceiling. I unpacked while Sharon sat on her bed.
“This is my second season here. Where’ve you worked?” she asked.
“A number of places.” I opened a dresser drawer and placed jeans and Tshirts inside. “Three summers in the Santa Rita Mountains.” I pushed the drawer shut. “Flagstaff, Alaska. Last year, Durango.”
Sharon jumped up to stand in front of the wall mirror. She tucked an elastic hair-tie in her mouth and gathered her shiny tresses into a high ponytail. Mumbling, she said, “Alaska? Wow! What was that like?”
“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for me to bore you with my Alaska stories.” I smiled at her. Finished with my unpacking, I sat down on the couch.
Ponytail secured, she turned to me with a radiant smile. “I must warn you, the guys think I’m a threat to their manhood.”
I laughed. “They do?”
“Yeah, I’m a professional weightlifter. Scares the hell out of them. My granny is embarrassed. She thinks I’ll never marry as long as I compete.”
I’d never met a professional weightlifter, much less a professional woman weightlifter. By the looks of her biceps, she benched some serious weight. “Do the guys give you a hard time?”
She cackled wickedly. “Not anymore! How ’bout you?”
Out of nowhere, I felt intimidated by her. I wished I had her steadfast confidence. “I’ve always had to prove myself at every new job,” I said.
“Well, you don’t have to prove yourself to me. Any woman that’s been at it as long as you have must be able to do the work.”
My self-doubt evaporated. She was right. Of course I could do this.
Before we started fire training, we began our physical training—a half-hour of calisthenics followed by a two-mile run. We then gathered in a meeting room. No hokey 1950s training movies here like I’d watched at Florida. Twinges of anticipation accompanied the lectures about fire, fire, and more fire.
After work, we ran another two miles. Limping a little at the end of the run, I thought, Dammit, why did you forget the knee braces? That was stupid.
Friday I drove thirty miles down the winding mountain road, endured heavy Tucson traffic, ramped onto the Interstate south, and arrived home after eight, utterly exhausted. Monday morning, I left at four a.m. to make the return trip. This summer was going to be tougher than I’d thought.
I changed for P.T.s and the two-mile run, wearing elastic knee braces on both knees. Each time my foot hit the dirt, I felt sharp stabs, prompting me to focus harder on my mantra: You can do this, and you will, you can do this, and you will. Afterward, I joined Sharon and eighteen men, climbing into our crew bus to go stack slash, branches left from thinning operations, into piles for winter burns. On the short ride, I tuned out the lively conversations around me. With my eyes closed, I willed my ability to do my job, repeating my mantra over and over to make it happen.
That night, after our second two-mile run, I placed a heating pad first on one knee, then the other. In the morning, I pulled on the knee braces, convinced the support helped. With steely determination, I thought—I can work through this. Soon, it became—I have to work through this.
At the end of week four, Sharon approached me at the fire cache. “Boss wants to see you.”
Unconcerned, I sat down in front of his desk. Avoiding eye contact, he pulled on his mustache, stalling. “Um, well, we’ve got a problem here,” he finally said.
What is he talking about?
“I can tell your knees are bothering you. We need you in perfect health, and you’re not.”
My face burned—the weight in my chest, crushing. How did he know my knees hurt? Was it that obvious? I wanted to deny his accusations, but the words would not come.
“Look,” he said, his voice less stern. “It makes sense your knees wore out after all this time fighting fires. But you’ll have to quit, or I’ll have to fire you for lying on your job application.”
Fire me? No! Terror struck my soul. I could not let them fire me. I’d never been fired. Would I be fired? Oh God, don’t let him fire me. My eyes brimmed with tears, my face burned with shame, as though he’d caught me stealing. Had I lied? No! I scrambled to think of a way to avoid making either choice, but I couldn’t come up with anything. Silence permeated the room while he waited for me to respond. Finally, I gave in. I uttered the painful words: “I’ll resign.”
He threw up his hands, flinging himself back in his chair, startling me. “Heck, file a worker’s comp claim. After all, you aren’t the first person in this line of work to ruin their knees.”
I stood up and stormed out of his office without looking back. No longer able to contain the rush of tears, I sobbed as I stuffed clothes into my duffle bag. The screen door opened, then slammed. Someone spoke, but the words didn’t register.
Sharon raised her voice. “Linda! Why are you packing?”
Between sobs, I said, “They told me I had to quit, Sharon, so I did.”
“What?” She paced, ranting. “They can’t do this to you! It’s not right. Why, I’ll help you fight this, I will …”
Eyes swollen with tears, my throat closed so tight that it hurt to speak, I managed to tell her that there was nothing she could do.
She stared at me wretchedly. “I’m so very sorry. I really am.”
Devastated, I loaded my car and left.
On the drive home, not yet grasping the full impact of what had just happened, in a trance of sorts, I wondered when I’d wake up from this horrible dream.
THIRTY-NINE
My Legs Are pinned under a tremendous, invisible weight, crushing my bones and tissue. I try to scream, but my voice won’t work. Snatching a breath, I strain to call out, “Help!” Finally, I eek out a moan. Then, one much louder. I awaken in a deathly cold room of stark white.
OVER A YEAR passed before the Worker’s Compensation Program approved my knee surgery, allowing the doctor to remove the remnants of destroyed cartilage in both knees. When I awoke in the
recovery room, I was in so much pain my moans turned into screams.
Joe stayed with me the entire first day while I lay with my legs immobilized in rigid braces, spacey from the morphine. Day two, late morning, a physical therapist steered my wheelchair down to the exercise room.
“We need to get you mobile,” he said.
With considerable effort, I stood up from the wheelchair, and he supported me to the parallel bars to practice walking. Moments later, the crushing pain in my legs made me weak. I broke into a cold sweat, and fainted into his waiting arms. The next day we tried again. That time I managed two steps. Third day we graduated to crutches, where I managed to make three steps. I’d never felt so completely helpless, and hated every minute of it.
Seven days later, Dr. Percy, my orthopedic surgeon, decided I could go home. Terrified, I thought, How can they send me home? True, I finally could walk with crutches, but not very far. How would I manage? Would Joe even know how to take care of me? However, that didn’t matter, the hospital wanted me out.
Joe had tossed an old mattress in the back of our pickup and tried to get me comfortable for the long ride in the late fall heat. I stared at the roof of the camper shell, sensing the stop-and-go of traffic, feeling the vibrations of the road and missing the air conditioning of my hospital room. Where are we? Must be the Interstate now; no more traffic lights …
Parked in our driveway, we discussed options to get me inside. Joe decided to carry me. Wrapping my arm around his neck, he placed his arms under my legs to lift, making them bend naturally. My blood-curdling scream startled him, and he put me down. I’d have to get in the house on my own power. When I reached the stairs, I set the crutches down and dragged myself up, one step at a time. After what felt like forever, I collapsed onto the couch, exhausted from the ordeal. One pain pill put me to sleep for the rest of the day.
Having been independent in the past, it was hard for me to depend on Joe for my every need. I felt guilty asking for help, so postponed asking until I desperately needed it, yet I seemed to always need it desperately.
Summers of Fire Page 28