Smokejumper

by Jason A. Ramos

If the people who make the decisions aren’t familiar with and educated about what we can do, history has proven that we don’t get dispatched. And we all know that “excess” resources tend to get cut. In other words, use it or lose it.

  I’ve had civilians call me in person and ask why we weren’t in the air. This happens to a lot of jumpers, in fact. Sometimes there are good reasons: maybe there’s a hand crew on their way in, maybe the fire is in a different jurisdiction, who knows. I just tell them to call 911 again.

  We’re much more likely to be called to a forest where the FMO used to be a jumper. Nowadays some haven’t met a smokejumper in years.

  Some fire managers don’t realize that we can jump close in or farther out, that we can land at an airport, that we can land near water, and so on. We’re highly trained and have years of experience, enough to make the call about how dangerous a given situation is, and how to deal with the situation appropriately.

  Jumpers are the Swiss Army knives of wildland firefighting. We don’t just parachute into remote fires. We can also make it to close-in fires by helo or vehicle, often faster than anyone else.

  We’re self-sufficient for the first two or three days of an incident. All of us have some kind of medical training, often as first responders, EMTs, and even medics at times. All our aircraft are fully equipped with trauma gear so that we can help support search and rescue or whatever else is needed.

  We can build helispots, drop supplies by paracargo, carry out prescribed fires, clear dangerous snags, clear trails, collect wildlife data—you name it. We’re problem solvers.

  All this is laid out in the Forest Service’s National User Guide for smokejumpers. It’s nineteen pages long.

  If everyone read this manual regularly, we’d probably get called out a lot more than we do. The right tool for the right job.

  Wildland firefighting has changed dramatically in the past decade. As fires have grown, the mind-set of fighting them has shifted too.

  As more and more homes are built in the wildland-urban interface, fire managers are reluctant to send resources like jumpers to remote fires in case they need them later to protect close-in communities.

  I’ve lost count of the times a fire we could have easily put out in its first few hours grew into a rager because someone “played it safe” and waited. Yarnell was a perfect example of that. Storm King too. And obviously, the Carlton Complex.

  Once I was on my way to a boost in Silver City, a satellite base in New Mexico, when a tape recorder in my jump gear was activated by accident. When I played the recording later, I could hear the loadmaster chatting with his buddies as they put our equipment aboard.

  They saw the smokejumper gear and started talking about how crazy those guys were.

  Whether or not it’s true, that mystique is something that can help ensure the program survives and flourishes. There’s an institutional modesty—an understandable one—that make jumpers reluctant to talk about our work outside our own small world.

  This self-reliance is a double-edged sword; half the time we fly in, finish the job, and leave before anyone even knows we’re there. We’re not heroes. We just provide a unique public service that we have become too reluctant to promote.

  We need to overcome the insularity and let people know what we do. Because if we don’t tell our story, someone else will. A few great books have been written by and about jumpers. Beyond that, there’s not too much. Besides the film Red Skies of Montana back in 1952, there’s Howie Long tossing axes in the movie Firestorm, a few made-for-TV movies, and various cable documentary series.

  Jumpers aren’t moving up into leadership positions as often as they used to. The old guard is dying out. Only a few of the Triple Nickles are left. Robert Sallee, the last survivor of Mann Gulch, passed away in May 2014.

  Whenever I hear other jumpers wondering about the future of the program, I tell them, Leave a legacy! Be part of the solution. This is especially important now that we’re under a microscope more than ever.

  Being a smokejumper is grueling, thrilling, tedious, rewarding, and ridiculous.

  So why do it? With all the danger and drudgework, the headaches and hard labor, what’s the appeal?

  It’s not the pay. Jumper salaries start at around $31,000 per year, depending on what government pay scale a jumper is on. We get 25 percent on top of that for overtime and hazard pay, which includes any time we’re on a fire mission, jumping or dropping cargo—but not if we’re just flying or on practice jumps.

  It’s definitely not the effect it has on our love lives. This job is notorious for the strain it puts on relationships. Dating a firefighter or smokejumper sounds exciting, and in the short term it often is. But the appeal of your partner being called away constantly to do dangerous work at a moment’s notice, to who knows where and for who knows how long, quickly wears thin.

  It’s hard to find the stability that’s so important to settling down and raising kids. Some jumpers can and do make it work, putting their shoulder to the wheel for three to six months a year and working other jobs and spending time with their families the rest of the time.

  As any of them will tell you, it’s not easy. Some jumpers will put in more than a thousand hours of overtime in a year.

  Every jumper has his or her own reasons for wanting to join this profession badly enough to endure rookie training and all the rest.

  There’s the satisfaction of facing huge physical and mental challenges. The undeniable excitement of danger. The camaraderie, and the love/hate relationship that comes from depending on others for your life and vice versa.

  There’s the gratification of working in the most beautiful places on earth and seeing the real-world evidence of your efforts. Being able to focus on only one thing and escape the rest of the world for months at a time.

  Jumpers aren’t always the easiest folks to handle. Male or female, we’re all alphas, and our training amplifies this inclination. The result is all chiefs and no braves, to paraphrase an old saying.

  The lessons of smokejumping carry over into the rest of life. Facing danger, acting decisively, taking the initiative, sticking to a plan, having a fallback position—it’s all excellent training for success however you define it. Jumpers have gone on to become top athletes, business leaders, entrepreneurs, professors, doctors, even an astronaut.

  There’s also the pride of being one of fewer than six thousand people to join a seventy-five-year-old profession.

  For me it’s all of the above, plus more that’s difficult to put into words.

  Not to get too mystical about it, but there’s something about fire that touches something deep and hardwired in the human soul.

  You know how easy it is to lose yourself in the dancing flames of a campfire. Now multiply that mesmerizing combination of beauty and danger by an almost infinite amount.

  A forest fire at night or the ash-covered aftermath of a big burn is something out of another world. Smoky air shimmering with heat, showers of burning pine needles, embers shooting up like fireworks. The indescribable noise of all that energy being released as heat and light, a process that’s older than life itself.

  There’s a reason the ancients considered fire one of the four elements.

  I took two oaths in my career as a firefighter, one for the State of California and one for the U.S. Forest Service. For the latter, I stood and raised my right hand and recited these words aloud:

  I, Jason Anthony Ramos, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic;

  that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;

  that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.

  So help me God.

  It’s an honor to carry on a long tradition of public service, helping make this country I love a better place. Public service is somet
hing I think everyone should do at some point, no matter how big or small the effort. As my dad always said, “Do something, son.”

  Every time I find myself standing in the doorway of a plane, getting ready to commute to work by parachute, facing all the unknowns in the air and down there on the ground, I’m sure of one thing: it’s not just a privilege but an honor to have offered my service, alongside all the others past and present, as United States smokejumper.

  The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.

  MARK TWAIN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.

  MARK TWAIN

  First and foremost I would like to thank my mom and dad, my family and relatives for all they have done for me.

  Thank you to my mentors and advisors—you know who you are—you believed in me and called me out many times: “When are you going to take off your Peter Pan shoes and get your ass to work?”—without you there’d be no PRg or book at all.

  It’s been a true honor to work for the United States Forest Service, and I thank you sincerely for all the opportunities and responsibilities you have given me along the way. I would like to also thank Menifee Volunteer Fire Company Station 68, Riverside County Fire Department, Olancha Station 6, Kernville Helitack 523, and most of all NCSB and all the smokejumper bases. To all the jumpers that I had the pleasure in sharing airspace with on countless missions. To the ace pilots, air attack, lead planes, tankers and rotors I’ve had the pleasure of working with—I’m indebted to you all. Last but not least to all the dispatchers and lookout towers throughout the United States. Thank you.

  Special thanks to my editor, Peter Hubbard, who took the time to research the smokejumper program and contact me directly, and big thanks also to Nick, Katie, and the rest of the William Morrow/HarperCollins team. Julian Smith, for all your hard work, creativity, and dedication to making this happen. It’s been worth it all.

  Thank you to all my friends whom I have spent many days and nights with—from California to the North Cascades (freezing our asses off), to Baja California and across the Pacific to Hawaii. From eating like kings on the Sea of Cortez to getting our asses kicked during fire season, I’m truly honored to have you all in my corner and look forward to many more adventures.

  To all the pioneers of the jump program from 1939 to date, and also the 101st Airborne, 82nd and the 555th Triple Nickles . . . Airborne!

  For all the Tier 1 guys I have met along the way, for your friendship and the guidance you’ve given me—I have no words. Without you we would not have this freedom I cherish every damn day!

  To all the top companies who have taken me under their wing so that I could think outside the box, it’s an honor to be working with such excellence. Thank you.

  Last but not least to my lady who put up with countless hours with me, late nights and early mornings and keeping this dream alive. Thank you for taking the chance and standing by my side.

  To all my Brothers, I will see you in the East . . .

  Instead of cursing the darkness, light a candle.

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  U.S. FOREST SERVICE TEN STANDARD FIREFIGHTING ORDERS

  1.Keep informed on fire weather conditions and forecasts.

  2.Know what your fire is doing at all times.

  3.Base all actions on current and expected behavior of the fire.

  4.Identify escape routes and safety zones, and make them known.

  5.Post lookouts when there is possible danger.

  6.Be alert. Keep calm. Think clearly. Act decisively.

  7.Maintain prompt communications with your forces, your supervisor, and adjoining forces.

  8.Give clear instructions and insure they are understood.

  9.Maintain control of your forces at all times.

  10.Fight fire aggressively, having provided for safety first.

  Source: National Wildfire Coordinating Group

  EIGHTEEN WATCHOUT SITUATIONS

  1.Fire not scouted and sized up.

  2.In country not seen in daylight.

  3.Safety zones and escape routes not identified.

  4.Unfamiliar with weather and local factors influencing fire behavior.

  5.Uninformed on strategy, tactics, and hazards.

  6.Instructions and assignments not clear.

  7.No communication link with crewmembers/supervisors.

  8.Constructing line without safe anchor point.

  9.Building fire line downhill with fire below.

  10.Attempting frontal assault on fire.

  11.Unburned fuel between you and fire.

  12.Cannot see main fire; not in contact with anyone who can.

  13.On a hillside where rolling material can ignite fuel below.

  14.Weather is getting hotter and drier.

  15.Wind increases and/or changes direction.

  16.Getting frequent spot fires across line.

  17.Terrain and fuels make escape to safety zones difficult.

  18.Taking a nap near the fire line.

  Source: National Wildfire Coordinating Group

  GLOSSARY

  Air attack: The coordination of aerial attack operations over a wildfire with ground firefighting efforts is the responsibility of the Air Tactical Group Supervisor. Both single and twin engine fixed-wing aircraft, as well as helicopters, serve as aerial platforms for this mission.

  Alumagel: a thickening agent used to create jelled gasoline, which is used in various applications to start fires.

  Anchor point: starting point for constructing fire line, often a natural firebreak, chosen to minimize the chance of being flanked by fire.

  Backfire: fire set deliberately to stop or change the path of a wildfire by consuming fuel.

  Blowup: sudden increase in fire intensity or speed making it impossible to control directly.

  Buckaroo: Americanized version of Spanish “vaquero,” referring to cowboys and cattle herders.

  Bureau of Land Management (BLM): agency within the U.S. Department of the Interior that administers one-eighth of the country’s area.

  Candling: tree or clump of trees burning up rapidly from the bottom; a.k.a. torching.

  Canopy: highest level of forest vegetation, usually above 20 feet; also the part of a parachute that inflates to slow a jumper’s descent.

  Capewell: release system that allows a jumper to quickly disconnect harness from canopy.

  Cargo drop: the dropping of equipment or supplies, with or without a parachute, from an aircraft in flight.

  Chain: unit of measurement often used in fire management, equal to 66 feet.

  Contained: wildfire completely surrounded by a fire line.

  Creeping fire: low, slow-moving fire.

  Crown fire: fire advancing through the highest level of vegetation, often independent of a ground-level fire.

  Cubie: plastic water container for drinking and firefighting, available in 2.5- and 5-gallon sizes.

  Deploy [fire shelter]: use of personal fire shelter for protection from flames and superheated air during an entrapment.

  Deployment zone: area where personal fire shelters are used, chosen when possible for its openness and absence of burnable fuels.

  Dispatch: command decision to move resources from one location to another, in a process overseen by a dispatcher based in dispatch center.

  Duff: lowest layer of decomposing organic materials immediately above mineral soil.

  Engine: ground vehicle providing manpower and water pumping capacity on a fire.

  Entrapment: situation in which personnel are unexpectedly caught in a life-threatening position by fire; may or may not include deployment of fire shelters.

  Escape route: pre-planned and understood route to a safety zone or other low-risk area.

  Final approach: aircraft flight path in the direction of l
anding, cargo drop or smokejumper deployment.

  Fire devil: spinning vortex of hot air and gases above a fire carrying smoke, debris, and flame, a.k.a. fire whirl, fire tornado.

  Fire line: shallow trench dug down to mineral soil meant to stop the spread of a fire. Also “control line” or “hand line.”

  Fire Management Officer (FMO), also Forest Fire Management Officer (FFMO): individual responsible for providing leadership and program direction for the unit’s fire and aviation management program; also responsible for coordinating the development of short and long-range fire management program plans and fire management activities on the unit.

  Fire season: time period during which wildland fires are most likely to require organized firefighting activities.

  Fire shelter: cover of metallicized fabric designed to protect one person from radiant heat and provide breathable air during an entrapment.

  Fire weather: climatic conditions that influence fire ignition, behavior, and suppression.

  Firebrand: burning fuel particles small enough to be carried by wind or gravity and hot enough to start secondary or spot fires.

  Firestorm: exceptionally large blowup, often big enough to become self-sustaining over an extended period and consume all available fuels.

  Flank: lateral margins of a spreading fire.

  Front: boundary between two air masses of different atmospheric properties, such as warm and cold.

  Fuel load: amount of burnable material in a given area.

  Fusee: handheld device for lighting fires, a.k.a. flare.

  Hand crew: trained and organized group of wildland firefighters, usually 18–20 individuals, who primarily construct fire line, burn out fire areas, and mop up after fires.

  Heliport: permanent facility for helicopter operations.

  Helispot: natural or improved area for helicopter takeoff and landing.

  Helitack: use of helicopters to transport crews, equipment, and fire suppressants during the initial stages of a fire; also the crew involved.

  Helitorch: aerial ignition device mounted on a helicopter that ejects short streams of alumagel.