Smokejumper

by Jason A. Ramos

It’s surprising how often you’d swear you did one thing but found you did the exact opposite, like turning right in midair instead of left. It forced us to improve our situational awareness and technique. It also taught us to slow down and think through what we were doing.

  As one of the smaller people in the class, I struggled with my exits. In the pike position, the rush of air kept wanting to flip me upside down. An inversion can tangle your lines or your chute.

  I did invert on one jump and ended up tangled for a few seconds. Happily I was able to fix the problem before I landed.

  In the late 2000s, the program switched to a cannonball-style exit position that cut down on bad exits.

  SOME DAYS OF JUMP training were a blur, and others I just wanted to be over.

  Eventually we all moved up to the North Cascades Smokejumper Base in Winthrop, Washington.

  The small town sat in the long, narrow valley carved by the Methow River as it runs east and south out of the Cascades.

  An old forestry, mining, and ranching center, Winthrop now draws tourists with its mountain scenery and old-timey western downtown, complete with raised wooden sidewalks and false-front buildings. One of these is the oldest legal saloon in the state: Three-Finger Jacks was named after its original owner, who lost two fingers in a marksmanship bet (which he still won, by the way).

  We didn’t have much time for that kind of stuff, even on our days off. By this point we were jumping every day, weather permitting. We started pairing up with the older guys, the experienced jumpers. It was a confidence booster, though they never let us forget we still had a long way to go if we wanted to stick around. There’s nothing like getting ready to jump and having the other half of your stick say, “Stay the fuck away from me, rook!”

  Everyone had his or her own way to deal with the stress of an upcoming jump. Some people stretched beforehand, while others preferred to hit the head or put in a dip of chewing tobacco. I usually hummed a tune to help me chill out, usually something out of the punk canon: Agent Orange, Rancid, Social Distortion.

  Training was a constant mind-screw. It wouldn’t be fair to call it Full Metal Jacket–style hazing, designed to break you down and build you back up as an unquestioning member of a cohesive unit.

  It’s more subtle than that, a raised eyebrow after a botched practical test, or the stone-cold look on an instructor’s face followed by him scribbling who knows what in his notebook.

  The lead trainer who had recognized my name the first day of training ended up riding my ass the whole time. Maybe it was because I was a heli-rappeler, or because I was a California boy from Region 5, either of which was enough to earn a spot on some jumpers’ shit list. Maybe he just didn’t like the way I looked, or my makeshift house on wheels. (I was living out of my van.)

  In any case, it meant I had to be that much more on top of things. During our last qualifying jump, we were all understandably nervous. My exit went fine, but on the way down I heard the lead trainer’s voice growling on the radio. “Who in the hell is that way out there?”

  Someone was far downwind of the jump spot. I knew it wasn’t me, because I could see only two other jumpers were closer.

  Another trainer chimed in: “That’s not Ramos, that’s your guy.” The wandering jumper was from Redmond, the lead trainer’s home base.

  Ha, I thought. Nice try, dickhead.

  WHEN OUR QUALIFYING JUMPS were finished, the Redmond trainees went home. We knew the ordeal had to be almost over. What else could they throw at us—another run, a hike, or some other exercise in pain management we hadn’t yet experienced?

  People were still washing out as late as the fourth week, but the rest of us knew we had passed the big hurdle. We knew we could get bloody or sick and survive.

  One morning after roll call, the assistant base manager stood up and said without preamble, “I want to congratulate you all for completing your training as the NCSB rookie class of 1999.”

  We looked at each other, dazed. Holy shit—we made it.

  The base manager gave a quick speech. “You are rookie smokejumpers now, and you know what is expected of you,” he said. “If not, we will remind you.”

  One by one, he gave us each a small metal pin. Our rookie jump wings. Now our names would go on the jump board for active duty.

  Every fifty jumps earns you another pair of wings. My rookie pin is the most special by far.

  I was awash with relief, elation, and most of all pride. To be part of the last smokejumper class of the twentieth century was an honor I couldn’t put into words.

  The ceremony, such as it was, was over in a few minutes. Afterward we gathered outside for PT. As always, we started jogging in a line.

  “You’re done, rookies,” yelled a senior jumper from the parachute loft. “Stop running together!”

  Everyone laughed and took off in different directions, some tripping in haste, ready to be alone for the first time in weeks, with only ourselves to answer to.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE CRASH COURSE OF rookie training is just the beginning of a jumper’s education. Even after sixteen years I’m still learning new things all the time.

  Of the many skills you pick up in your first few years, there’s one that tends to surprise people: smokejumpers, as a rule, are great at sewing.

  Think about it: Who’s going to make and sell highly specialized equipment for a customer base of a few hundred people? No one. So we have to make all our jumpsuits, harnesses, and gear bags ourselves, from scratch. That way everything is exactly what we need—customized, tailored, and quality controlled. The designs have been handed down through generations of jumpers, yet you can still tweak them to your heart’s content.

  In my first few seasons, I learned that inspecting, repairing, and making your own gear is a big part of daily life between fire jumps. So is bull cooking (an old term borrowed from logging and mining camps for cleaning, maintenance, and chores), PT and ongoing training. But your life can depend on your gear, so you’d better make damn sure every piece is in good working order.

  An experienced jumper can sew better than most clothing manufacturers, even with burly textiles like Kevlar and Nomex.

  “Lofties” at NCSB spend their spare time in the Lufkin Parachute Loft, where industrial sewing machines clatter away and parachute canopies hang from the high ceiling like strange silky trees.

  Everyone has his or her forte. Some people are good with machines, like chain saws, while others like giving tours of the base. Some, like me, are gearheads, always trying to figure out how to modify and improve every piece of clothing and equipment.

  Some folks you don’t want anywhere near a sewing machine, especially with materials in the $70-per-square-yard territory.

  The biggest project is the jumpsuit, a totally unique garment designed for one purpose: to get you to the ground in one piece. The Kevlar outer material is so resistant to abrasion and punctures you have to cut it with a rotary textile saw. Even though you take the suit off once you’re on the ground, it’s still highly fire-resistant just in case. The fabric is also used in structural firefighting and can withstand 2000˚F for four seconds.

  For extra protection there are closed-cell foam pads for the knees, elbows, butt, and spine. Some jumpers like to wear motorcycle or hockey pads. The suit has an integrated rappel system and a high, padded protective collar. The overall effect is a combination of a knight’s armor and a superhero suit.

  There are tons of pockets inside and out for things like cold weather gear, tents, extra food, whatever you want to bring. One of the extralarge pockets on each lower leg holds your letdown rope. Your pack-out bag usually goes in the other leg pocket, but some guys wear it under their jump suit or wherever else they prefer to stash it. The pack-out bag is a frameless pack that’s also custom-made at the base. (The weights we deal with would blow out the seams of most commercial packs.)

  If you ask me, our jumpsuits are cool as hell.

  Underneath, we wear government-i
ssue fire pants and a fire shirt made of a flame-resistant para-aramid textile blend that won’t burn (like cotton does) or melt into your skin (like other synthetic fabrics) under normal conditions on the line.

  More firefighters are starting to pay out of their own pockets for garments manufactured by top companies in the U.S. that use newer, high-performance, fire-resistant textiles designed to breathe and wick moisture better.

  Most jumpers opt for handmade leather boots, and when you gear up to jump, plastic ankle braces are Velcroed over the top for support on landing.

  In terms of head protection, we’ve come a long way since the leather football helmets worn by the first generation of jumpers. There was a while in the late ’60s when guys were wearing Bell motorcycle helmets like Evel Knievel, minus the stars and stripes.

  Some jumpers still rock a classic Bell. Most wear high-end ski helmets now, though. Face guards are mandatory, and a sports mouthguard can help keep you from chomping off a chunk of tongue on a bad landing.

  It’s always a good idea to rinse off your mouthguard before you pop it in, in case it accidentally fell down someone’s pants when you weren’t looking.

  Some things are just not sacred around a bunch of savages.

  We each carry a personal gear (PG) bag the size of a small backpack. Add Nomex flight gloves and accessories like a “Jack the Ripper” hook knife—perfect for slicing tangled shroud lines—and you’re talking anywhere from seventy-five to ninety-five pounds of equipment.

  As we say, ounces make pounds, and pounds equal pain. More weight means a harder landing and a tougher pack-out. At Kernville a lead crew member used to say “dirt hurts, dude” to remind us to clean every last bit of crap out of our packs from previous missions.

  A sign on the NCSB loft wall says HIGH RENT DISTRICT. The message is clear: this is one place on the base you don’t want to linger as a rookie. It’s where most of the senior jumpers hang their gear.

  The loft is also where all the parachute action happens. Packing a chute takes anywhere from forty-five minutes to an hour. First every parachute is hung in the loft and checked from apex (top) to risers (bottom) for any kind of wear or damage: rips in the fabric, frayed lines, burrs around the connector links.

  Then you stretch the canopy and lines out on one of the long rigging tables. After checking the steering line and doing a four line check, the apex is tied off to the deployment bag (D-bag). Then you fold the canopy, in a series of steps, to fit it inside the D-bag. The lines are stowed in a zigzag pattern and the risers secured with break tape, to hold them in place for the first few seconds you’re in the air.

  The final step is “wrapping the present,” putting everything inside the back tray that keeps it protected and ready for its one-way trip.

  I had to pack twenty parachutes to be certified to pack my own. Each one had to be inspected by an FAA-certified senior rigger or master rigger. I’ll never forget number 20. After the rigger looked it over, instead of placing it on the shelf, he put it on his own back.

  “OK, let’s go do a practice jump,” he said. He couldn’t have shown any more clearly how much you have to trust the person who packs your canopy.

  ONE AFTERNOON THREE WEEKS after we passed rookie training, the fire call—an old air-raid siren—howled across the base.

  People scrambled for their gear. This morning, for the first time, my name was on the jump list. The list dictates your position on the next plane and is updated daily. Whoever is at the top is jumper in charge (JIC), and every time you come back you start over at the bottom.

  This morning all five of us rookies were on the list. This was our maiden fire jump.

  We had already practiced suiting up over and over until we could do it in two minutes or less. Now we ran to the racks where our jumpsuits hung on wooden pegs to do it for real.

  Not every base uses these quick suit-up racks—invented by jumpers, of course—but it definitely saves time, because you don’t need someone else’s help to get your suit on, like you do at some other bases.

  I stuck my arms in the sleeves, then sat down and zipped up the legs. My pockets were stocked with essential gear, and a main chute was already attached to my back. All I had to do was zip up, close the harness, and pull a packed reserve chute off a hook.

  I grabbed my helmet and gloves and went to the spotter for a top-to-bottom gear check (spotter check). After a thumbs-up, I hustled outside with everyone else toward the rising rumble of the plane’s engines. We climbed on board and sat in our jump list order.

  “All on board, all aboard!” yelled a spotter as the last jumper stepped in.

  The pilot and copilot had already done their preflight check. The plane rolled toward the runway, the pilot throttled up, and eight minutes after the siren sounded we were airborne.

  YOU COULD ALMOST HEAR the buzz of nerves and anticipation. We talked a bit over the engines and wind, leaning in towards each other to be heard. I double-checked my equipment.

  The plane headed due south. In the main cabin, the noise of the engines made conversation a bit sporadic.

  Both spotters sat up front with the pilots. Even though they don’t leave the plane, spotters play a critical role in the jump process. (They’re all jumpers and rotate through the same jump list.)

  A spotter’s job is to coordinate with dispatch, the pilots, and the JIC—the first one out the door—to make sure everyone exits and lands safely. Spotters are an objective eye in a situation where adrenaline or testosterone can distort good judgment. Jumpers trust them with their lives, so they have to stay cool no matter what.

  When we were on station, somewhere east of Bend, Oregon, the main spotter came back to the main cabin.

  The fire was already “going,” meaning it had enough momentum to keep itself burning but wasn’t huge yet. It was big enough that another load of jumpers from Redmond was already on the ground.

  Two sets of streamers fluttered toward the jump spot the spotter had chosen. They took about a minute to hit the ground, which meant we should too.

  The plane banked left on final approach, and the first stick stood up. To the uninformed they would have made a strange sight, waddling in their bulky tan jumpsuits, covered with straps and buckles and bulging pockets. The high collars, smooth helmets, and wire face masks made them look like insects. All that was missing was a pair of antennae.

  But to us they looked like what they were: jumpers ready to do their job.

  When my stick was up, I made sure to keep both hands over the red handle on the reserve pack on my chest. In the air, your reserve chute can save your life. But inside a plane with an open door, it’s a loaded gun.

  In 1973, a jumper named Gene Hobbs was working as a spotter for a load of NCSB jumpers on a DC-3 in Alaska. Longtime NCSB jumper Ash Court was his assistant spotter. Hobbs was reaching for a box of streamers when his emergency chute deployed by accident. In an instant the wind sucked the canopy out the open door. Seconds later it sucked Hobbs out too.

  Unfortunately, he went out sideways. He smashed his head and shoulders against one side of the door frame and his legs against the other. After briefly snagging on the plane’s tail, the chute carried him to the ground, unconscious.

  Nobody could jump to help him because of the damage to the plane. The impact had peeled the fuselage back six inches around the doorway and torn the door almost completely off its hinges.

  As the plane circled overhead radioing for help, another jumper’s reserve chute popped open inside. His companions leaped on it before anything happened.

  Rescuers found Hobbs covered with mosquitoes but alive. He had broken his neck and one leg and had no memory of what happened. He wasn’t paralyzed, but he was left with nerve damage and double vision that ended his jump career.

  I protected my reserve carefully as I stepped to the doorway, went through the checklist with the spotter, and made my exit.

  The world outside the plane was bright and quiet. The sounds of the engines trailed aw
ay overhead, replaced by rushing air and the whump of the parachute opening.

  Then the only noise was the creak of harness straps and the rustle of the canopy overhead as I steered toward the landing zone. It was big and open, and I could see the circles of other parachutes spread out below.

  Everyone landed safely. When we had regrouped, one of the veteran jumpers came over and handed out baseball hats with the NCSB logo.

  “Now you’re rookie smokejumpers,” he said.

  THE FIRST ORDER OF business was a safety briefing. To make sure everyone is on the same page, wildland firefighters use what’s called the LCES system. It’s an acronym for Lookouts, Communications, Escape routes, and Safety zones—the four most important things you need to keep from getting burned.

  Lookouts can be on the ground or in the air, depending on how remote the jumpers are. Any intelligence that lookouts gather about changing conditions or approaching hazards is conveyed to the firefighters, usually by radio. Sometimes the jump plane or another aircraft will relay communications between dispatch and crews on the ground.

  In case things get too hot, you always want to have at least two escape routes to a safety zone. The fire line itself often works as an escape route, but having only one isn’t enough. Conditions on the ground are constantly changing: flames shift and people move around, tire out, drift out of contact. No matter what, you always need a way to get to safety.

  The LCES system is meant to defend against the unexpected. It only works if it’s in place before you engage the fire and is constantly reevaluated as conditions change.

  Next we collected the cargo boxes where each had touched down under its own small parachute. After all the jumpers are out, the spotters kick the cargo out at a lower altitude, dropping it precisely where the jumpers on the ground need it to be. (It was this special talent, among others, that brought many jumpers to Southeast Asia to work for the CIA during the Vietnam War.)

  To a jumper, a cargo box is a UPS package from Santa Claus. These boxes hold everything we need to be self-sufficient for at least the first forty-eight hours on the fire line: hand tools, chain saws, first-aid kits, sleeping bags, cubies of water, food.