by Grey, Helen
This area of the fire was under the management of the Bureau of Land Management. I had already heard so many jokes and nicknames given to this group that I soon found myself smiling. Bureau of Loose Money; Bastards, Liars, and Morons; Bureau of Lots of Meetings… and it went on. We all had nicknames, some not so nice, even the Hotshots. For me, I had a great deal of respect for most of the organizations that oversaw natural lands, national parks, and wildlife areas, but as always, there were always a few bad apples in every bunch.
As we continually walked upward, I spotted large chunks of debris known as bone piles—piles of tree limbs, chunks of tree trunks and so forth that had been tossed there by previous crews for the clean-up crew to gather. Along the way, we did some cold trailing along the same paths where firefighters had been working the last couple of days, making sure that areas blackened by fire were devoid of hotspots. Occasionally, one of us bent down and placed our hand on the ground to feel for heat. If something seemed suspicious, we dug it out with a shovel or pick.
What we were trying to do with this fire line was strengthen it so that any flare-up that occurred within the perimeter of the fire line wouldn’t break through. We seemed to be having some success on this side of the slope, but I had no idea what it would look like farther up. To say it was a long hike up from our work area to the upward edges of the slopes was an understatement. The dozers couldn’t get up here. The brush was too thick, the slopes too steep. It was impossible even for entire Hotshot crews to clear a path.
I don’t know how long it took us to reach the tip of a ridge along the northern slope, probably a few hours. By that time, I felt sweat dripping down my shirt. The air here was choked with smoke—the smell of burnt wood, charred underbrush, and occasionally, the scent of death, a burnt animal carcass. We halted at the top of the ridge, all of us lining up side by side, staring down at dismay at the fire burning below, which seemed to encompass the entire eastern range of not only this mountain, but also several other mountains to the north. Huge black clouds of smoke billowed upward, the flames sometimes reaching twenty feet or more in height.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. And we were supposed to fight that? I felt a niggling of fear. Forest fires were different from desert fires and prairie fires. Each was unique in the way it behaved and in the way it moved. This sight, though incredibly awesome, was also terribly frightening.
Thank God it was a wilderness area and away from any towns or cities. From what I had heard, evacuations of local camps and resorts had already occurred. Horses and cattle had already been evacuated as well down slope.
Yes, there would be some damage to existing structures—vacation homes, camping cabins, and other structures that belong to the National Park Service or the Bureau of Land Management. At least tens or hundreds of thousands of people didn’t need to be evacuated from here like they had been in Colorado Springs during the Waldo Canyon fire or the Black Forest Fire.
“Matt, Jesse, Steven!”
I turned to the Hotshot captain along with the others. He pointed, directing the three of us toward the curving trail, slightly upslope. Matt, carrying a shovel and a long handled fire ax, nodded.
“Barry, Will, Jackson!” The Hotshot captain pointed to the other side of the trail, down slope.
The rest would stay with the captain, moving ahead. I knew we would attempt to maintain line of sight with the others, but we also have walkie-talkies for communication. I wasn’t quite certain what my group was going to do, but I felt ready for whatever task lay ahead of us. Matt knew his captain, he knew what was expected, so he merely nodded and headed off in the direction we had been given.
I followed, watching how I placed my feet. The added weight of the backpacks, each of which now carried a blanket and an emergency tent, the last-ditch measure given to Hotshot crews in worst-case scenarios. I knew I would have to dump my backpack, as it was flammable. I could grab the small bag the tent was folded into like an accordion.
I had been trained on how to shake it out and step into it like tucking a hot dog into a bun. Grabbing the edged, we were trained to lay face down onto the ground, the shelter over our backs. The thin, tin-foil looking contraptions could withstand a lot of heat, but they designed as protection—there was no guarantee that they could withstand sustained heat created by a fire overrunning a firefighter.
Such had been the case with the Hotshot crew down in Arizona. Some barely had time to deploy their tents, some were halfway in, and some succumbed to the sustained thousand-degree-plus temperatures of the fire as it doubled back on them, carried by the wind at a ferocious and alarming pace.
We rounded a curve in the mountainside and emerged into a burnt meadow. It still smoked, thin tendrils of smoke curling upward like scattered campfires. I immediately knew what we were supposed to do. Get rid of those smoke trails; make sure that all the embers were put out. I sighed, splitting up from the group as we each headed toward a certain section of the meadow. It was going to be a long day.
Hour after hour, I pierced the loose, blackened soil with my shovel, turned it over, spread it out, tamped it down, whatever I had to do to get rid of a smoking spot. Occasionally, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the others were still within my line of sight. Matt was on the other side of the meadow, using his fire ax to chop up a still glowing chunk of log. I knew that as soon as that task was accomplished, he would dig up chunks of soil and dump it onto any glowing embers.
Steven did much the same on his edge of the meadow. We were all tired, dirty, and determined to squash every last remaining red ember from this meadow or around its edges.
As I took a brief break after I had extinguished one smoke trail, I straightened my back, leaning slightly backward to get the kink out of my lower back. Every muscle in my body ached with fatigue. I reached into my pocket for one of the protein bars, not caring which one. I ripped open the package, took a big bite, and stared off into the woods ahead of me. I stopped chewing. A short distance into the tree line, I saw a flame licking at a small lodgepole pine sapling.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Matt!” After I caught his attention, I pointed, letting him know where I was going. He nodded, but didn’t follow me, which I thought was strange until I realized he probably thought I was gesturing toward the woods because I needed to pee.
I smiled and entered the tree line, figuring that if I needed him, I could use my walkie. I walked into the tree line and looked upward, straining to find the tree, but I couldn’t see any signs of a flame anymore. Maybe it had spontaneously extinguished. I looked around for a few more minutes and didn’t see anything.
Come to think of it, I could use a potty break. Even though the others were quite a distance from me, I found the remains of some brush that wasn’t completely destroyed, surrounded by several charred and blackened lodgepole pine tree trunks. Several nearby looked untouched. Fire had a way of doing that, much like a tornado—skipping and hopping over areas, often leaving one tree burned and charred while the one next to it remained fresh, healthy, and green. I was just about to pull down my pants and squat when I heard a popping sound above me. I looked up, my mouth dropping open in dismay.
The top of the tree had erupted into flames—small flames, but flames nevertheless. The lower half had been left unscathed. I quickly forgot about peeing and yanked up my pants, pulling my walkie from one of my side pockets. I pressed on the button on the side of the device. “Matt, over.”
I heard a squawk, a cackle, and then a crackling sound, but the tree line, or the orientation of the mountainside was making it difficult to get a clear signal. The fire in the treetop quickly spread downward, consuming fresh branches, popping with sap that ignited with a hiss. In a matter of seconds, a breeze swept down slope. The fire surging down the tree trunk seemed to move faster. I gazed up an alarm as I saw embers floating on the breeze. In a matter of moments, another tree, and then another had caught fire.
“Matt!” I called again into the walkie. Nothing but crack
ling met my ears.
Shit.
I quickly made my way back to the tree line toward the meadow, wildly gesturing for either Matt or Steven to see me. Their backs were turned to me. Once again, I tried to use the walkie, but they didn’t react. Something was wrong with mine. I began to shout.
“Matt! Steven!”
I thought they hadn’t heard me, but suddenly Matt turned around, cast his gaze along the edge of the meadow, and then caught sight of me. He lifted an arm as if to wave, but I quickly rotated my arm, urging him to come—and quickly. He turned and shouted something to Steven, although I didn’t hear the words. In a matter of moments, the two men raced toward me.
“What is it?” Matt asked. “Why aren’t you using your walkie?”
“It isn’t working,” I informed them, and then gestured back into the tree line. “There’s a stand of lodgepole pine on fire! The breeze must’ve carried some embers from down slope!” I turned and headed back into the trees, with Matt and Steven following. In a matter of minutes, we had reached the area. The tips of the lodgepole pines were now fully engulfed, and the breeze had begun to gust, threatening to send more embers down slope toward the other crew.
Matt tried his walkie, got his captain. In a matter of seconds, a voice responded, muffled and crackling. “We’ve got a flare-up here!” Matt told him. “We need a chainsaw crew. It’s blowing downwind, your way!”
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much we could do about this flare-up since we were only armed with shovels and fire axes. I didn’t know whether we would stay or go, wait for the chain saw crew, or the other Hotshot crew to come up. That question was settled when Matt directed Steven and me to start clearing the brush on a line that extended in the direction they would most likely fall when the chain saw crews arrived and attacked their trunks. The line would follow the direction that the breeze would likely take any embers as well.
We all got busy with shovels, fire axes, and picks. I worked like mad, yanking, pulling, trying to clear as much undergrowth and debris from the area as possible. I refused to allow myself to think that it was an impossible task for three people, no matter how determined.
I don’t know how long we worked at this, but I refused to think about it. My muscles burned. I choked and coughed. I squinted against the smoke. Then, I heard a shout and looked up to see other members of the Hotshot crew that had been sent down slope approaching. Two of them carried chainsaws. Thank God!
I stood off to one side to let the crew pass, and moments later, Matt joined me, his chest heaving with exertion. They began the task of trying to fell the burning trees before the entire stand of lodgepole pine caught fire. They raced against the elements. If the fire jumped further down slope, I wasn’t sure if the Hotshot crews that had been working that line for the past couple of days would have enough time to create a backfire. I knew that other Hotshot crews were more than likely on their way, facing this new potential danger. If the wind kicked up… I could just pray that it didn’t.
Shouts. Arms gesturing. The first tree was about to come down. Matt, Steven and I got into position, prepared to tackle the burning tree as quickly as we could once it came down. As soon as the first tree was down, the chainsaw crew would quickly start on the second tree, and then the third. If we could work quickly enough, we might keep the hotspot relatively contained.
Shovels at the ready, we waited. Steven and Matt stood on either side of me, all of us watching with bated breath. I knew that each of us was silently urging the crew to work faster, although they were already working as fast as they could. If the breeze kicked up…
I heard the crack, the telltale sign that the tree was about to come down. My muscles tensed. I gauged the distance with my eyes, determining where the burning top of the tree would land. Matt and Steven had done the same, and we were all prepared to run that way, ready to shovel dirt, chop, and hack the flames to death before they could catch on the underbrush. The only problem was that the second tree was likely to fall close to the same spot. We would have to work quickly.
The roar of the chainsaw halted briefly. An elongated, cracking sound shot through the air. I watched in fascination as the tree slightly tilted, and then its weight brought it down, crashing through the stand. The moment it touched ground, Matt, Steven and I ran toward it. The chainsaw crew immediately began attacking the next tree. We worked as quickly as we could. My shovel bit into the loose topsoil of the slope. Thank God. At least the ground wasn’t hard as a rock up here. Shovel after shovel, the three of us tried to douse the flames slowly eating away at the top twenty feet or so of the tree, each of us in a line.
I had pretty much gotten out the flames within ten feet of either side of me. Steven looked to be doing just as well on his end, while Matt was having a little more trouble with the top of the tree. The top was rich with new growth that provided ample fuel for the flames that stubbornly refused to extinguish.
With my shovel in my left hand, I pulled my fire ax from my belt and raced toward Matt. While he continued to shovel the dirt, I began to hack at some of the smaller branches. I worked as fast as I could.
Beside me, Matt worked furiously as well. The muscles in his biceps and forearms bulged. I saw every tendon and muscle fiber in his arms. The veins popped up, threading from the back of his hand up beneath his T-shirt. It was a thrilling sight, and even though I was focused on my work, I was still able to appreciate and admire his strength and stamina.
Suddenly, I heard another crack, and more shouting. The roaring of the chainsaw stopped. I glanced up and behind me in surprise. The second tree was going to come down sooner than we anticipated.
“Jesse!”
Matt was beside me in an instant, yanking on my arm, pulling me out of the way as the second tree began to topple. Steven had also seen what was happening and began to back away. He tripped over something and sprawled on the ground, his backpack beneath him. I pulled away from Matt, trying to reach Steven to drag him out of the way. Shouts of alarm from the chainsaw crew coupled with Matt’s shouts filled my ears. Oh my God, the tree was toppling slowly, but toppling. A long, loud, splitting crack. The trunk had split midway, not a clean break like the first tree.
I focused only on Steven, who was trying to scramble up. He had landed like a turtle with the gear he carried in his backpack making it difficult for him to quickly roll over and scramble away. I raced to his side, grabbed his arm, and yanked him around so that he could get to his knees. I pulled him upright, and then we both began to run. The second tree was coming down fast, breaking branches of other trees as it came down. It crashed to the ground with a gentle plop, softer than I had thought it would, sending bursts of embers upward.
It’d been close. I felt the burst of heat as the flames passed. We had barely gotten away from it in time. I quickly glanced over my shoulder, realized that Matt wasn’t right behind me. My heart raced in sudden panic. Where was he?
Then I saw him. Standing near where the top of the second tree had toppled. He stood with his legs wide, his arms out to his sides, his head down. His hard hat had fallen off. Then I saw the blood running down his forehead. He appeared stunned. One of the tree branches must have caught him as it fell. But why wasn’t he moving?
“Matt!”
What was he doing? Why was he standing like that? A first, it didn’t dawn on me. Then I saw them—small flames licking up the back of his pants. Several glowing embers had landed on his backpack and now slowly ate away at it, causing blackened holes that grew larger, their edges rimmed with glowing red. Oh God.
I didn’t think he realized what had happened. The blow to his head must’ve left him stunned, confused. I didn’t think that the flames had yet eaten through his camouflage pants or burned his skin.
“Matt!”
I raced toward him, trying to stifle the screams that threatened to erupt from my throat. I ran as fast and hard as I could, but the soil and shale was loose beneath my feet. I slipped and slid; once fell to my knees. I scramb
led upward. Even if Matt realized he was on fire, he knew better than to run. He would drop and roll. But he wasn’t. Blood streamed down his face.
“Matt!”
He finally looked at me and I realized he didn’t know what was happening. I was running full speed toward him. Without slowing down, I spread my arms and tackled him like a football player. We both went down to the ground. I wrapped my arms around him as my momentum carried us down the slope. I heard him grunt, and then his arms wrapped tightly around me. Clasping each other, we continued to roll, crash, and bounce over dirt and small brush. I could only pray that the flames had been extinguished.
I winced and cried out as stones dug into me as I rolled. Despite the protection of the backpack, I felt my elbow crash into a stone, and then my thigh. We came to an abrupt halt as we crashed into the base of the tree down slope. Thankfully, my backpack cushioned the brunt of the fall. We had landed under a huge spruce, the branches low and draping to the ground around us. We were both breathing heavily. Neither one of us moved for several moments. My heart thundered in my chest.
“Matt,” I finally croaked, my throat caked with dirt, smoke, and ash. “Matt!”
He didn’t respond. Pressed between his weight and the back of the tree, I couldn’t move. Was he unconscious? I released my arms from around his back, placed them on his shoulders, and pushed. Scrambling quickly to my knees, I straddled his hips. He was no longer on fire, but his eyes were closed. My heart pounding with panic, fighting back an increasing sense of terror, I placed my fingers on his throat, seeking a pulse. There! I nearly cried with relief.
“Matt!”
I scrambled off him and then pulled with all my might to turn him half over. Thank God, the flames had been extinguished before they could do more than consume part of the fabric of his pants. The back of one thigh was red, the hair on his leg singed, but I saw no indication that he had more than minor first-degree burns. The backpack had probably saved his life, preventing the fire from racing up his shirt and over his scalp.
