Wildfire

by Toni Draper

  Sydney finished eating, carried her dishes to the sink, and took her wine glass with her outside. The storm had passed through quickly and once again lowered the temperature it had left behind. Settling down into the thick cushion she’d placed on the Adirondack, she gave contemplative thought to the pathway her life was now on and to how, over time, despite her own resistance, she had evolved. Her life had always been about routine, for as long as she could remember. With a need to be structured, she demanded not only to know where she was going at all times, but precisely what time she’d get there. She became upset when her schedule or timing was thrown off.

  But that all changed when Mena came along. Never before had she been so challenged, so unsettled, so shaken up, felt so alive. She hadn’t really realized it at the time, but later, she would come to fear that she had let so many years slip by merely existing, enjoying her work, but not really herself. Mena, so different in so many ways, had breathed into her a new passion for living. She was a yin to her yang, the out-of-balance that countered her, her complement, her opposite. Like morning and night, dark and light, she invigorated her with spontaneity and impulsiveness.

  Sydney smiled to herself as she remembered the experience and relived her emotion, only to be accosted by a painful thought. Maybe Liz was right. Maybe it wasn’t so much a fear of drowning that had frightened her and caused her reluctance to get in the water when they were on vacation, but that she was afraid to trust, afraid to love.

  In the end, their relationship had proven to be a double-edged and well-honed sword. It was those very differences that had drawn them to one another in the beginning that would make a life together for them impossible.

  She took another sip of wine, tilted the glass, and looked deep into it. Not at the liquid but staring blindly. She wrapped herself around her swirling thoughts. Mena had often told her that she used liquor as an escape. In the heat of an argument once, Mena had even gone so far as to accuse Sydney of being an alcoholic. When all else failed, she refused to make love to Sydney if she’d been drinking, which quickly became more and more frequent. Looking back, Sydney now wondered how much truth was in those hurtful words. Was it the only way she could be intimate? The only way she could let herself be loved?

  Although Sydney had never forgotten the unspeakable things her uncle had said and done to her when she was still a young and innocent child, she had failed to recognize the significant and damaging impact the abuse had had on her ability to be in a romantic relationship as an adult. Unable to accept the tender, gentle touches of her lover, their lovemaking would always turn into a mere physical and sexual encounter. She would demand that Mena bite harder, plunge deeper, until she’d been bruised emotionally by the animalistic arousal and by her unsuspecting lover’s equally intense and carnal response. Then, Sydney would mentally and physically pull away from Mena’s attempt at afterplay, her gentle and tender want and desire to kiss, hold, and touch.

  Sydney, after so many years, had finally sought help. But it was too late, wasn’t it? Mena was already gone.

  Chapter 10

  Castillo spread the map across the green pickup’s still-warm and ticking hood, as Mendoza, Peña, Gonzalez, Salas, and a few others gathered for a briefing and look at what awaited them. They all donned the official uniforms of forest-green Nomex pants and yellow-orange long-sleeve shirts made of the same heat- and flame-resistant material, some carrying shovels, others toting Pulaskis, and a few lugging chain saws. Similarly dressed firefighters and park service forest rangers raced all around in frantic purposefulness, while radios crackled information and commands, truck emergency lights flashed, and equipment to monitor air temperature, humidity, wind speed, and direction was being checked and set up.

  “As you’ve heard, the winds have picked up and this fire is taking off.” Castillo moved his finger up and traced a wide arc that stretched to Flagstaff in the north, around Ashurst and Mormon Lakes to the east and south, westward through Oak Creek Canyon State Park, and right in the thick of the Coconino National Forest. “And, as you can see, it’s a very large area. Even with all the help that’s come in, we haven’t been able to keep up with it, much less get ahead of it, so it’s gonna take all we’ve got and then some.”

  He circled an area in red near Walnut Canyon National Monument. “Mendoza, Peña, and Walker, I want you guys over here. I’ve already got some men there now, but it’s important that we get a line cleared fast. The fire is heading that way, and we can’t afford for it to go any further north. I’m hoping we can get to Lake Mary in time to use that as our southern barrier.”

  As he then hurriedly turned his attention toward and gave destinations and instructions to Salas, Adams, and a few of the other ground crew, the assigned sawyers made their way with their chain saws far out to the front line. The swampers, responsible for throwing what they cut out of the way, followed closely behind. Mendoza and Peña headed back for their gear and prepared to move out.

  Castillo interrupted the next newly assembling crew to call to them before letting them get out of earshot. “Remember to carry your shelters! Although we seem to be far away from the hot zone, as we all know, with conditions like this, we could end up in a firestorm before it’s all said and done. Keep your eyes and ears open and tuned in and all your senses on hyperalert. Don’t forget to monitor wind and temperature, especially on the hilltops.” That being relayed and acknowledged as received, he turned his attention back to his new recruits.

  Statistically, women comprise only about five percent of most wildland fire crews, and the usual age range of both the men and women is eighteen- to thirty-five-years-old. Mena, at thirty-four, was noticeably over-the-hill and feeling older in more ways than one. Still, she was glad to have been needed and called to Red Rock near Flagstaff to help. Although she’d hoped the trip would give her some much-needed time away from Isa, around whom she now felt extremely uncomfortable, she soon discovered that she, too, had followed, as had Gonzalez, Peña, and Selitto. So far, she hadn’t seen anyone else. She supposed they either had other jobs or families that kept them rooted to one spot.

  As for Mena, she loved it up north, and she’d considered moving there several times. There was such a difference in that part of the state. It was so green, so beautiful, a forest of real trees instead of a desert of spiny succulents. She took a moment to inhale. The sweet smell of the towering ponderosa pines, which grew to be more than a hundred feet, with grooved yellow and reddish bark, were what they hoped to salvage with their efforts today. Although, history told them the trees themselves would likely survive the fire. They did so by going through a natural pruning process. Sloughing off their lowest branches served to heighten their crowns. Along with the surrendering of the masses of their blue-green needles and cones to burn on the ground, they provided flashy fuels that ignited quickly and burned rapidly, giving the flames the energy needed to burn through fast before reaching the trees’ tops. It was the younger pines they would likely lose. The older generation had developed a thick skin in the form of their protective bark.

  “You ready for this one?” Peña asked. “It sure looks like it could be a big one.”

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Are you sure everything’s okay? I’ve been worried about you since the night we all went out and you took Isa home.” He put his hands up as if in surrender. “I don’t mean to pry, and what happened is none of my business, but I care about you and want to be sure you’re alright.”

  “It’s all good, Joe. No worries needed. I promise.”

  “Okay, then.” He went over their checklist while she surveyed the bed of the pickup to make sure nothing, in their haste, was forgotten.

  “Rope?”

  “Check.”

  “Reinharts?”

  “Here.”

  “McLeods?”

  “Yep, got ’em.”

  “Flappers?”

  “A
few.”

  “Shake ‘n’ Bakes?”

  “Just like you, Peña. Always thinking about food. No matter where or what.” Mena joked to ease the anxiety that always accompanied them as they prepared to put themselves amid bigger and more dangerous fires. When battling them, each member of the crew had to be sure to carry paperback-book-sized fiberglass shelters they could only hope, if deployed, would keep them alive while the fists of hell’s furious flames pummeled them from all sides. In the backs of most of their minds, however, the three-pound folded rectangles of what looked like aluminum foil were likened to a crashing jet’s flotation devices. If ever there were an impact, or you found yourself in the heat of the fire, you’d be lucky to survive. Like prayer, they offered little more than a mental distraction laced with blind faith and hope. They tried not to think about it.

  “Do we know where our safety zone or anchor point is?”

  Mena pointed to a place on their map, a roadway, an unburnable area to which they were to go if the flames came at them too fast. The last she’d heard, the worst part of the fire was around the Mormon Lake Ranger District near Mormon Canyon, about thirty miles southeast of Flagstaff. It was a very remote and rugged area, if she remembered well. She’d once, in a rare moment of downtime, spent a few days there painting, putting up signs, and clearing fallen brush.

  At least there’d be no distasteful fun wear to contend with here. Even her trusty Timberlands had been traded in for the heavy leather logging boots she wore now. This fire was serious, not nearly as docile as the one she’d just helped put out. The threat was very real. Smokejumpers were helo’d in and Hotshots had been called out. This was what she’d trained for, running the obstacle course hand over hand along forty feet of rope, flipping on a trampoline, all those pull-ups, scaling trees with harnesses, “walking up” their trunks, bringing them down with crosscut and chain saws, and hiking with heavy packs. This is what it was all for. Although Peña and Mendoza’s crew would be working the perimeter, the ring of fire, there were lots of others in the red of the heat. Still, all their jobs were important. They were responsible for clearing away the ground fuel the fire would otherwise consume and feed off.

  Although there weren’t any homes in the immediate vicinity, and they could and often did allow such natural fires to burn themselves out, there were too many state parks and lots of opportunities for recreation in the area, and they couldn’t be sure how many campers and hikers might be unaware of the danger. And, of course, there were always the foolish few who lived, and sometimes died, for the thrill of defying red flags and warnings. Those, she dared admit, you couldn’t feel too sorry about.

  “Okay. It looks like we have everything we might need.” After securing the tailgate, Peña gave the all-clear to the rest and prepared his crew to move out.

  “Hola, Mena.”

  Mena inwardly cringed at the sound of Isa’s voice. She had dreaded the coming of this moment for days, but she was glad it was here, in a way. She looked up from the field kitchen feast of ribs, beans, and potatoes piled high upon her plate. Grabbing a napkin, she wiped barbecue sauce from the corners of her mouth.

  “Mind if I join you?” Isa asked.

  Mena waved her hand toward the empty place across the table from her. “It’s all yours,” she gestured, picking up her drink and washing down her food.

  Isa pulled the chair out and took a seat.

  Mena decided not to waste time, to take the initiative, “Listen, about the other night…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mena. I got what I asked for, and I paid the price for it with one hell of a hangover the next day. Let’s just enjoy our meal. God knows we’ve both earned it today, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Mena looked over at her, trying to decide how much of what she’d said was more than false bravado talking, and concluded Isa merely put up a good face and front. Oh, she was a strong woman, there was no doubt about that, but more so on the outside, to protect a more assailable softness.

  But Mena, knowing she’d have no peace until she said what she had to say and could put her remorse, at least verbally, to rest, took a bite of a biscuit and went on. “I’d like to talk to you about it. That is, if you might care to hear what I have to say.”

  Isa looked up from her plate and put her fork down.

  “Not here,” Mena clarified, “maybe later, when we’ve finished stuffing our faces and are in a more private place.”

  Isa resumed eating and said around a mouthful, “Sure, Mena. Anytime.”

  Relieved of the pressure for the moment, the two women sat in silence for a while, listening to the conversations of those who surrounded them, mostly strangers who talked about their studies and professions. Some were students, like Isa, studying forestry and fire science. Others were volunteer firefighters, used to battling con­tained, structural blazes in more urban areas. A few were there for the protection of wildlife. They were the ones sitting closest, talking about how, under normal fire-free circumstances and at their current altitude of about seven thousand feet, chances were they might be fighting for their food with a bobcat, desert bighorn, or mountain lion.

  After Isa and Mena had emptied their plates and grown weary of the same repetitive discussions, they cleared their places for the next hungry duo, carried their trash to the can, and headed for the tents they’d earlier pitched in the park service parking lot. It was already half past eight, so Mena thought it best not to waste any more time.

  “Isa, I’d just like for you to know that…and it’s gonna be hard for you to believe this now, but…I’m not like that. I’m not a bad person. I didn’t mean to use or hurt you. It’s just…” Mena sighed in exasperation, in search of the right words. “I got caught up in the moment, the feeling, in you. You’re such a beautiful, sexy, exciting woman, and…well, I’m attracted to you physically…I’m just not ready emotionally, you know.”

  “Mena, I already told you. Don’t sweat it. We’re both big girls, all grown up. It’s okay for us to…play every once in a while.”

  Mena returned only a half-smile. “I guess I’ve spent too many years around nuns and a Catholic school environment to live so guilt-free and not take responsibility for my actions, at least after the fact.”

  Despite what she was saying, Mena knew Isa hadn’t been herself either that night. The provocative teases and sexual gyrations, the aggressive assertiveness she’d displayed, it was all for show and wasn’t who she really was. If she were like that, Mena would have seen it, seen her like that with others. After all, she was surrounded by ample opportunity, and if for some reason such displays had managed to elude her detection, she’d have at least heard about it. Isa would have a reputation that, like wildfire, would have ignited and blazed a trail of overheated gossip through the firehouse. Mena herself had witnessed numerous come-ons, invitations, expressions, and flirtations thrown Isa’s way. She’d either been oblivious to, ignorant of, not impressed by, or not interested in them at all. If she were like that, maybe Mena wouldn’t be feeling quite so badly now.

  Mena asked, “So do you think I’ve ruined our chance of being friends?”

  “Of course not, silly.”

  As they passed the lot where they’d parked their cars, Mena excused herself long enough to walk over to her Jeep and pull out her guitar from beneath the remaining clutter on the back seat. Although the six-string acoustic Gibson had seen better days, she’d had it since her father had given it to her when she’d turned eight. It still served the purpose of helping her convey her thoughts and feelings when her own words seemed too shallow and trite.

  “You know,” she said to Isa with a smile, “it took me forever to get used to the pain of the steel strings.” She laughed. “I almost gave up learning to play because I was too much of a wimp for the pain. My dad told me it would be okay, that I’d get used to it, but I didn’t believe it. I never really put my
heart into it until it was too late for him to see. On the day he died, I picked up this guitar, and I plucked and strummed and pulled those strings until my fingers bled. I did that every day for the longest time. It was my way of being close to my father, I guess, of keeping him with me. One day, I realized that my fingertips were toughening up. Just like I was.”

  Mena looked at Isa. She had a smile on her face, but she was fighting to keep the tears of a fond yet painful memory from coming. “I’m sorry, Isa. It’s hard for me to make myself vulnerable, to let myself be seen all the way to my heart, to open up. I haven’t always been like this, but I’ve learned it’s sometimes better that way. Safer not to share too much. I find it much easier to do so with words on paper or in a song, whether they’ve been written by me or simply discovered.”

  Mena placed her hands gently over the hollow mouth of the instrument and let her fingers move the strings as her mind drifted in search of the words she wanted. As usual, they came to her by way of one of her favorite writers. She asked, “Have you ever read any of García Lorca’s poems?”

  Isa shook her head no.

  “He was a wonderful and sensitive Spanish writer who was killed during his country’s civil war in the late 1930s. Many believe it was because he was a homosexual. He wrote a beautiful elegy in memory of a friend of his, a toreador who died after being gored in the ring. One of his best-known works is called “La guitarra,” the guitar. It speaks to the power of this magical instrument and the sorrows of the one who places her hands on its strings. He wrote, ‘corazón malherido por cinco espadas,’ a heart wounded by five swords. I often wondered why five and not six, until I realized the number referred to the guitarist’s fingers and not the guitar’s strings.”