Summer of Fire

by Linda Jacobs

  Deering headed northeast and began to see areas of active combustion mixed with untouched vegetation. This mosaic created a patchwork effect. As they approached Norris, where Deering had dropped Steve earlier, the sky grew reddish and hazy. Radio chatter intensified as other choppers flying buckets of water checked in. The day’s air controller warned someone about getting too close to the flaming trees.

  “We’ve got battle lines at Norris and on the road to Canyon,” Garrett said. “I don’t think they can do anything but watch this burn.”

  A few miles on, a roadblock held up a line of traffic below. In an open field beside the highway, several helicopters sat idle, obviously ordered down by the air controller.

  Garrett’s thick fingers gripped a handhold as he looked at the grounded helicopters.

  Smoke spiraled up, reminding Deering of the afternoon he’d ditched in Yellowstone Lake. He was careful to fly well clear this time.

  The North Fork threw off a pocket of rough air. Deering corrected course and concentrated on keeping the aircraft steady.

  Garrett peered back at the parked choppers in the drifting orange light. “I’d hoped to check out Silver Gate and Cooke City.” The small towns in a high valley outside the northeast entrance had a love-hate relationship with the Park Service. In winter, the highway over Beartooth Pass closed, making the route through Yellowstone their only access. This summer a few hothead residents thought park officials hoped to burn them out.

  Another big bump and Deering’s hand tightened on the cyclic. Below, a phalanx of firefighters sprayed water on the roof of the Norris Museum, with flames not a hundred yards away.

  An updraft lifted and then dropped the chopper, causing Deering to bite his tongue. Swallowing the salt of blood, he said, “We’ve gotta turn back.”

  Right now Deering was probably threading his chopper through turbulence, Clare figured. Last night she’d stayed with the Smokejumpers without letting him know she was in West Yellowstone. It had seemed the right thing, and today on the North Fork front, she was certain of it. Her anger at the fires, and at herself, still drawn to a man who lied, drove her like a dervish.

  She kept one eye on the rising wind. It was just past ten and in two hours, they’d fallen back three times. In each case, Sergeant Travis had watched fire eat its way toward their line with his jaw thrust out. When embers flew a hundred feet ahead, he shouted and pointed for the troops to run down spot fires.

  Gone for Clare was the pleasant exertion of hefting the Pulaski. No more the meditative lassitude of repetition. This day’s dry front was a fury.

  She wondered what Steve saw from Mount Washburn. With the inversion broken so early, the sky must be filling with spectacular thunderheads rising to thirty or forty thousand feet. “Look out, Chance.” Travis pointed behind her with a smug look. If she had eyes in the back of her head, she’d have seen that once more their line had been defeated. No matter that Steve called this rebirth, it was a war.

  Steve knelt beside a motionless cow elk. The North Fork had left a stark and colorless landscape, save for scattered cherry embers.

  Pines stood stripped of their needles, bark transformed to charcoal. Despite his attention to the elk, Steve kept a wary eye on the snags, for the forty mile per hour wind could bring one down in an instant.

  Behind him on the pavement of the closed highway, a group of tourists and firefighters watched from a distance of fifty feet. That wasn’t far enough, for he imagined he could feel their eyes on his back. He reached to check the cow for a pulse. Failing to find any, he touched a finger to the open, staring eye and got no reaction.

  He bent to look and found the pupils fixed and dilated. He breathed relief, for the last thing the Park Service needed was for the public to witness an animal’s suffering. Of course, the press corps was no doubt on the way.

  Steve believed in the natural rightness of wildfire and its rejuvenation of the land, but it was damned hard not to take this killing personally. His boots stirred a layer of ash as he walked toward the rest of the carcasses.

  There were about thirty, the herd bull, a couple of younger males who had yet to challenge for the cows, and at least ten yearlings and calves. One of the spindly-legged young lay at the base of the tree it had trusted to shield it from the approaching inferno. Steve’s throat thickened.

  There were a lot of stories about mass kills. Most were false. He had watched buffalo and elk graze with flames not fifty feet away. As fire approached, the animals usually moved calmly out of range.

  It was damned uncommon, but something had gone terribly awry for this herd.

  Steve studied their coats. Although they all rested inside an area that had been most thoroughly burned, he saw only a minor amount of singed hair. The powdery ash swirled and he could see the disturbance left by hooves.

  Determined to investigate, Steve looked and found he was still in seclusion.

  Pulling his folding lock blade knife, he thought this would be the easiest course. The dead calf’s coat was thinner and the trachea would not be as tough as in the more mature elk. Intending to steady the throat, he placed a hand on the soft hair and nearly lost his nerve. Tears swelled, blurring the landscape into uniform gray.

  Steve blinked hard and swallowed. He ran his thumb along the knife-edge to test its sharpness. If he could just have a drink to steady himself …

  He made the cut quickly.

  Thick soot coated the vocal cords that would never grow to bugle during the rut. Even as the elk had instinctively sought protection by sheltering themselves in the area that had already burned, smoke inhalation had felled them.

  Steve wiped his bloody blade on the calf’s coat and replaced the knife in his belt pouch. The wind shifted, bringing a strong smell of smoke from the firestorm raging at Norris.

  When he was but halfway to the highway, a woman with a microphone came toward him, trailed by the ponytailed cameraman who’d heckled Steve at Roaring Mountain.

  There were nearly thirty-five thousand elk in the park, but it would do no good to speak of them today. The loss of these thirty was news.

  “Carol Leeds,” called the reporter. “Billings Live Eye.” The wind snapped her jeans jacket.

  Clare heard it coming through the treetops, a sudden downburst off the North Fork’s convection cell. The raging gale bordered on hurricane force.

  Snags scattered through the forest went down as though a scythe mowed them.

  A shower of embers began. In front of Clare’s feet, one landed on a log and burned a small black patch. Within seconds, it burst into flame.

  Sergeant Travis was already in retreat, as were the troops. That was good, for if Clare had shouted no one could have heard. Down the line, the group of California hotshots she’d seen on the Mink Creek abandoned their position.

  Once in the truck, bouncing along the rutted dirt track, Clare was pleased that Sergeant Travis routinely invoked executive privilege and rode shotgun. It was nice not to listen to his twist on their retreat. It was also pleasant to be in the company of the young people the nation relied on for defense. Wide-eyed at the almost nuclear forces the fires released, they nonetheless recovered quickly. Eager voices expressed determination to get back out there and slay the dragon.

  Once again, they reminded Clare of Devon, whose October birthday was just over a month away. It was difficult to believe that her little girl was almost old enough to serve her country, but there it was. Many of these soldiers must have mothers at home; women who worried and watched the nightly news, praying no harm would come to their child. As youthful as they were, some probably had wives and children.

  When the troop transport reached the highway, it joined a line of cars and trucks held up by the road closure. Clare switched on her radio and listened to the biggest battle going on in the world this day.

  South of the park, downed trees on power lines had started two new conflagrations. One had caused the evacuation of Flagg Ranch, where Deering had picked up meals for the
Mink Creek camp. The Clover-Mist, Hellroaring, and Storm Creek fires were torching over a mile of forest an hour. The renamed Red-Shoshone was making another run at West Thumb, causing a new evacuation.

  When Clare heard that Dr. Steve Haywood had discovered thirty dead elk, she was sorry for the animals, but glad Steve was off Mount Washburn.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  August 20

  Steve took a deep swallow of the double bourbon he’d ordered from the Mammoth Hot Springs Bar. It seared all the way down. He looked for anyone he knew in the anonymous tourist crowd, telling himself that he was safe here even as he damned it for a lie.

  Through the wide windows opposite, he saw the oasis that irrigation had created, a sanctuary for Mammoth’s elk herd. A group of perhaps fifteen lay in the soft grass while daylight waned.

  Steve imagined what would happen if the North Fork, only ten miles south, burned to here. Over two thousand firefighters were on the lines, but today’s blowups made it clear that man was helpless in the face of such natural forces.

  If the North Fork came to Mammoth, he wanted to be on the front lines, to cut that bastard down the way it had destroyed those defenseless elk.

  Steve took another drink. It didn’t burn as much.

  If Clare knew he’d succumbed, she’d be disappointed. He wished he knew where she was on his first evening in civilization. At Old Faithful, West Yellowstone, or was she in one of the myriad fire camps? With the thought, he had a nagging feeling of betraying Susan, even after four years.

  He raised his glass and was surprised to find it empty. Sliding it across the bar, he gestured for another.

  A hand clapped him on the shoulder. “I bloody heard you were back,” Moru Mzima said in his deep, Oxford-accented voice.

  Word spread fast on the Mammoth telegraph. A tourist could think it an impersonal place, with thousands of people passing through every day, but those who lived at Park Headquarters knew how small a town it truly was. Here Steve was, back from supposedly drying out on the mountain, with a double bourbon in his hand.

  He cursed his judgment in coming to the hotel. He should have driven down the canyon to Gardiner for a bottle. Only the fact that drink came quicker here had swayed him.

  “Yeah,” Steve said dully, “I’m bloody back, all right.”

  Sure enough, Moru glanced at Steve’s drink. “You made Peter Jennings.”

  Big fucking deal. Steve suppressed it because Moru did not use foul language.

  “A photo of an elk carcass and you.”

  “Was that all?” Steve drained half his fresh drink. “Nothing I said about how the large animals usually aren’t harmed by fire?”

  “Not a word. That did get aired in Billings.”

  “A huge audience there.”

  “Tonight was the biggest sideshow yet.” Moru grimaced. “Leaping flames and sweaty firefighters.” His voice took on the officious tone of a TV announcer. “Over a hundred thousand acres burned in a single Black Saturday.”

  Wanting to change the subject, Steve asked, “Have any of our experimental plots burned?”

  He’d been collaborating with Moru on documenting the effects of fire on the plant community. They catalogued the species diversity in a marked-off area, waited for it to burn, and studied the recovery.

  “Not unless we got lucky this afternoon with the North Fork,” Moru said. “I’ve got the summer interns I’m working with, Thomas Lee and Kelly Engels, on some new areas in the predicted path of the big fires. Thomas wants to do one by Old Faithful.”

  “That’ll never burn.” Even as he spoke, Steve knew he had yet to see the fire maps for this Black Saturday. He would not have imagined the North Fork getting as far as Norris.

  Moru smiled. “I think Thomas wants a chance to hang out near a bar and decent restaurant, rather than doing all the remote hikes we’ve had those kids on for two and a half months.”

  “I’ll help you start more tracts this week,” Steve said. “I’m off the mountain.”

  Thinking of getting another drink, he went on, “Beer, Moru?”

  “A cola, please. I must drive this evening.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Dugan heard you’d pulled into town and assigned me to drive you back to Mount Washburn,” Moru said. “Tonight.”

  As night fell, Clare parked her rental car in front of the Smokejumper’s dorm in West Yellowstone. The wind still blew, seizing trash from the catering barrels and transforming the papers into darting white birds.

  In the dorm’s dining room, Hudson read a dog-eared paperback while he ate. Every square inch of his cast sported a riot of signatures and humorous obscenities, along with a drawing of the Beechcraft discharging jumpers. Sherry’s chili had so many crumbled crackers in it that the mix was unrecognizable.

  She pointed to the pot with her spoon. “Randy’s leftover masterpiece. Had to make a run yesterday before getting any.”

  Clare helped herself to the fragrant mix of meat, onions, and spice and straddled the bench, just as Deering appeared in the doorway. To his credit, his languid pose straightened when he saw her. While he greeted the others, she used the excuse of being ravenous to shovel food without ceremony.

  “Cowboy chili?” Deering sounded friendly, but his lips pressed his cigarette and his eyes suggested Clare could bitch him out later.

  “No beans,” Sherry said. “You a purist?”

  “Beans or no, I’m hungry enough to eat that whole pot.” Deering looked around the table. “And thirsty enough to drink a beer. Forecast says we’ll be grounded again in the morning. Any takers?”

  “I’m in,” Sherry agreed. “Hudson’ll come. Clare?”

  Deering had his back to her at the stove, but his shoulders stiffened while she pondered her reply.

  “All right,” she agreed. “What else have I got to do?”

  Deering turned, bowl in hand, and his tight look said she’d hit the mark.

  Fifteen minutes later, the headlights of his pickup illuminated a haze on the highway into West Yellowstone. Clare rode in the center front, pressed between the impersonal bulk of Hudson and the taut tension of Deering.

  “That smoke looks like blowing snow,” Sherry said from the jumpseat in back.

  “I wish.” Hudson peered past his propped-up leg.

  In West Yellowstone, traffic was backed at every stoplight. In addition to the usual Saturday night in town crowd, there were hundreds of firefighters and tourists. Deering passed the Red Wolf Saloon, and on the second pass around the block, a camper backed out in front of Fire Command.

  While Deering helped Hudson, Clare climbed out the driver’s side. She looked at the tall, lighted windows in the massive stone and log building. “I’ll be along later.”

  Deering caught up with her halfway across the lawn. His touch found her shoulder.

  “Don’t.”

  He removed his hand, but stayed close at her heels. “We’ve gotta talk.”

  She went inside the big raftered room with a moosehead over the fireplace. Folding chairs were set up in rows, but there was no one there. From beyond the swinging doors that led into the main command center came a hum of voices. Clare pushed through, and found phones ringing and people talking on radios at nine o’clock at night.

  At the fire map, a bearded older man sketched an extension to the North Fork. His marker blackened past the Grand Loop Road and Norris Geyser Basin. As Clare looked at the small patch that represented the Chance fire, several miles southwest of Clover-Mist, the marker slashed across the plastic overlay. Today Lovely and Chance had burned into Clover-Mist. The dark mass obliterated the entire eastern sector of the park.

  As a firefighter, she gritted her teeth at so much destruction.

  Garrett came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a stack of Fig Newtons. “Share my supper?”

  “What in hell happened out there today?” Clare asked. “We couldn’t fight fires, we couldn’t find a road open.”

  “We couldn
’t fly,” Deering added.

  Garrett shook his head. “Yesterday the total for all the fires was two hundred seventy-five thousand acres. Soon we’ll be staring at half a million.”

  Clare whistled.

  “The wind hasn’t died down like it usually does at night,” Garrett continued. “I’m getting reports from all over of crown fires running. The Superintendent’s meeting up at Mammoth to decide whether or not to close the park.”

  “That would be a shame for folks like the Cullens who own the Red Wolf,” Clare said.

  “We’ll be calling in reinforcements, a couple dozen more twenty-person crews. And more soldiers for you and Sergeant Travis to carp at.” Garrett smiled.

  “Marvelous.”

  “When’s it gonna end?” Deering looked at the map.

  “There’s no hope of stopping this,” Garrett drawled. “We’ll try to save the buildings and power lines, but until the snows fly, this is gonna be like the Siege of Atlanta.”

  “How’s that?” Clare tried to recall her Civil War history.

  “Fight and fall back. These fires aren’t going to stop until the rain and snow put them out.”

  When Deering and Clare were back outside, he turned to her. “We can join Sherry and Hudson for a drink …”

  “But?”

  “I’d like to try again with you.”

  She kept moving.

  Deering stepped in front of her, so close that she could smell a mixture of soap, citrus aftershave, and tobacco. “I know I lied. It seemed like the only way.”

  She sidestepped and walked on.

  “Okay, I’m sorry.”

  At the raw sound of his voice, she stopped.

  He took the back of her arm in a gentle grip. “Is that what you want to hear? I was wrong to set you up like that. I only did it because I thought we’d be good together.”

  She considered his plea, weighing how angry she’d been against how many times she’d relived those hasty, hot moments at Mink Creek. Without committing to anything, she walked with Deering in the street beside the vehicles of weekend revelers who’d had to park away from the watering holes. As the lights of the town center receded, his hand on her arm was warm like it had been when they’d watched the Mink Creek burning Turret Mountain.