by Cassie Cole
There was no anger in his words. Just brutal honesty. He was doing his best to impress upon me how important everything was. What was at stake.
“I won’t fail, sir,” I said. “The minute my chute opens and I hit the ground today, I’ll be the hardest working jumper you’ve ever had.”
He nodded, but then said, “Your chute won’t be opening today. You’re on the ground team, assisting the state forestry service.”
I blinked. “Sir, if this is about competence, my record shows I’m one of the most qualified—”
“I don’t care about qualifications in training, or how you did in the Air Force,” he said. “I also don’t care that Commander Wallace over in McCall was so impressed by you three rookies that he insisted I throw you into the most taxing, dangerous missions right off the bat. I can’t do that. I need to see your skill with my own eyes before I trust you to jump.”
Commander Wallace said that about us? I shook off the flattering thought and said, “Your own eyes, sir? You’ll be out there with us?”
“Out here, base commanders don’t just sit in the air conditioning all day. I’ll be one of the spotters from the air giving instructions. I’ll see everything you’re doing from fifteen-hundred feet.”
“Glad to hear it, sir,” I said.
He started to go into his office, then paused to look back. “And Hinch? Don’t fuck this up. We don’t give second chances out here.”
The door closed on my face.
10
Haley
I returned to the briefing room. Most of the Redding smokejumpers had cleared out, but Derek and Foxy were standing at the whiteboard.
“Got bad news,” Foxy said.
“We’re on the ground team?” I replied. “Commander Callaway told me.”
Derek seemed happy by the news. “Can’t blame them for starting us off easy. It’s safer on the ground team. Almost no chance of encirclement, and we’ll have vehicles there if we need to evacuate. We can get some experience under our belts so we’re not nervous when we do strap on our parachutes.”
“Feels like getting called up to the big leagues, but then told to ride the bench,” Foxy grumbled. He crossed his tattooed arms over his chest. “Put me in, coach.”
“Commander Wallace had high praise for us, apparently,” I said.
Derek whipped his head around. “What did he say?”
I repeated what Callaway had told me. That Commander Wallace insisted we be thrown right into the most grueling, dangerous tasks.
Foxy had the same reaction I did: he beamed with pride. “Hear that? We’re the shit.”
But Derek’s face had gone white with the news. “He said that? Wallace insisted we be thrown into the most dangerous jumps right away?”
“I’m just repeating what the new commander told me. Maybe he’s trying to boost our self esteem, but I doubt it. Callaway seemed like a straight shooter.”
Derek turned away and cursed.
What’s your problem? I wondered.
The gear warehouse was attached to the main barracks. The other smokejumpers were packing their parachutes and checking the lines. Some of them were loading crates with tools and other supplies to be dropped into the forest with them: chainsaws, fuel, water packs, food, fire shelters, and sleeping bags. Nobody knew how long a mission would last—sometimes it was a few hours, and sometimes it was days. Standard procedure was to bring forty-eight hours of supplies on every mission, no matter how small. More supplies could always be dropped in at a later date.
Trace wasn’t wearing the padded suit used for jumps. He wore the thinner fabric of a standard US Forest Service uniform, which was like a big olive-colored onesie. His was only half-on; the upper half was bunched up around his waist, revealing his chiseled upper body in a tank top.
“Can’t believe I got stuck babysitting the rookies,” he rumbled in that deep voice of his. “You three have twenty minutes to get ready.”
“Commander Callaway said we had an hour,” Derek responded.
Trace’s chestnut eyes were the same color as his hair, and they burned with intensity as he swung his glare toward Derek. “The real jumpers have an hour. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us to get to the ground location, so the sooner we leave, the better. You three are on gear duty. Pack a crate with enough for a four-man team. If you’re late, I’m leaving your asses behind, and you can explain to the commander why.”
“Someone should do something about the stick,” Foxy muttered after Trace walked away.
“What stick?”
“The stick shoved up his ass.”
I laughed, which made Trace glance back in our direction. When he returned to his checklist, I whispered, “I think it’s a big stick.”
“And it’s way up there,” Foxy said.
We packed our personal gear bags first. Even though PG bags weren’t as crucial for a ground team, we still had to fill them with water, gloves, a hardhat, protein bars, and emergency flares. We split up to gather what we needed from the storage warehouse: I grabbed the water and food, Foxy grabbed the gloves and hardhats, and Derek collected the flares.
“I can’t believe Commander Wallace,” Derek muttered as we packed. “Insisting that we’re dropped right into the dangerous parts…” He trailed off.
“Wallace is proud of us,” I said. “He trusts that we can do the job, and he wants to see us shine.”
Derek opened his mouth like he was going to argue, then stopped himself and just shook his head.
What’s his deal? Did getting stuck in the tree on our final jump destroy his confidence? Maybe a warm-up mission on the ground team was what Derek needed.
Next we went to collect all the tools and heavy duty gear we would need. Everything was stacked on shelves against one wall of the warehouse, and the other smokejumpers were already there collecting what they needed.
One of them saw me. “Whatchya need, rook?”
“Pair of Pulaskis and McLeods,” I said. Pulaskis were half-ax, half-adze for stirring the ground. McLeods were a heavy duty rake with fat teeth for sweeping away leaves and sticks from a handline.
“Coming right up,” the man said as he searched for the tools.
I smiled to myself. It was fine to tease new recruits in the barracks and withhold bacon from our breakfast, but out here when we were preparing for a mission? All of that petty stuff disappeared. We all had one common purpose.
At least, that’s what I thought until the man handed me two Pulaskis. The wood handles were cracked and splintered, and the ax heads were so rusty there was more orange than chrome. The adze ends of the Pulaskis were just as rusty, and the blades had been badly chipped.
“Got any better quality tools?” I asked.
The man smiled sweetly at me. “What do you mean, rook? Those are the best we’ve got.” He then pulled a brand new Pulaski off the shelf. It had a finely-oiled shaft and glistening head, with leather sheaths protecting both blades. He handed it to the man waiting behind me, then grabbed another new tool for the guys after that.
The McLeods I received were the same. Rusted, bent, and missing teeth. But I took them without complaint and thanked him for the help.
“Looks like we’re getting the shitty tools today,” I muttered when I returned to my group.
“Same here.” Derek hefted his chainsaw. “Half the teeth are worn down to nubs.”
Foxy returned with an armful of medic kits, dust masks, and survival blankets. “I think Redding Base has rats. These fire blankets have been chewed through so much they look like Swiss cheese.”
Derek ran a hand through his blond hair. Every strand fell perfectly back into place as he glared across the room. “Assholes won’t be laughing if one of us dies out there.”
“Let’s not give them the satisfaction of finding out,” I said. “We’ll make do with what we have.”
Once our crate of gear was loaded, we went to the closet to grab fire suits. There were a dozen spare ones inside, and all of them
were in bad shape. Holes in the knees and elbows, loose threads hanging everywhere there was a seam. The scent of smoke was heavy on the outside, and the inside smelled like stale sweat and mildew.
I pulled out the smallest one I could find, which was still far too large for me. I stepped into it and zipped up the front. “I feel like a little girl wearing her dad’s clothes.”
“I’ve got the opposite problem,” Foxy grumbled as he struggled to zip up his fire suit. He stuck out his arms to show that there was a gap between the sleeves and his gloves. “None of these are long enough for me!”
I thought about what one of the guys in the briefing room had said to me about sewing up the uniforms. Looks like that wasn’t just a sexist dig at me. They were in need of repair.
“No complaining to the others,” Derek said. “That’s what they want to hear.”
“Who’s complaining? Nobody’s complaining.” Foxy struck a pose in the uniform, flexing one bicep over his shoulder and pointing at the sky. The suit was so tight that it looked painted on his body. “I might have to do a catwalk strut when we get out there. Show everyone the goods.”
He slapped his own ass, which pressed tight against the suit. I tried not to glance at it, but it was tough not to. The suit fit so snuggly on him that it left nothing to the imagination.
We started shoving spare supplies into the pockets of our suits. Everything we would need quick access to. When Derek stuffed his map into one pocket, he suddenly cursed and began wriggling like he had ants in his pants. He unzipped his suit and reached down into the left leg to pull out the map, which had fallen through a hole in the pocket.
“No complaining,” I said, nudging him and giving a teasing smile.
He smirked back, but only for a second.
We did the best we could with what we had. I found some twine in the warehouse and used it to tie my suit tight around my waist, elbows, and knees. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least I could work this way.
The other smokejumpers all headed out the back toward the Redding airport runway, but we went out the front of the building instead. Trace was waiting there in a big four-door pickup truck. He made no move to help us load the supply crate into the bed of the truck.
“Hurry up,” he said when we piled into the truck. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
“We were here in fifteen minutes,” I protested.
“Next time make it ten.”
Derek and I slid into the back seat of the truck, while Foxy took the front passenger seat. The truck roared to life as we flew down the road toward our mission.
Trace turned the radio to the Redding Base frequency, which was full of chatter from the spotters up in the planes and the ground crews from the Forest Service. It was exciting, but it also reminded me of everything we weren’t doing since we had been relegated to the ground team. I stared out the window at the beautiful California terrain. Everything was so green! Much more picturesque than the brownish landscapes of Idaho.
Eventually I pulled out my map. I unfolded it in my lap and examined the topographical markings. It showed the entire Shasta-Trinity National Forest, which stretched from Redding halfway to the Oregon border. The primary valley ran north-south through the center, but the Klamath Mountains spread out in all directions like tendrils, creating hundreds of small sub-valleys. It was beautiful.
Was. Past tense.
We drove north on the interstate for half an hour before entering the National Forest. Smoke filled the sky to the distant north, grey and black and so pervasive it was difficult to tell where the clouds ended and smoke began. We couldn’t see any actual fires from here, which made the entire thing far more ominous. A curtain of death spreading through the valley, destroying everything it touched.
That was our enemy. That was what we had to fight.
It took over an hour to drive north to the Incident Command Post. The ICP was a mobile trailer with satellite dishes and other electronic equipment attached, sitting in the parking lot for a hiking trailhead. Trace parked the truck and went inside, then returned with a map of our specific orders.
“There’s a small valley two miles east of here,” he said. “We’re setting up handlines to protect it and the property. Mark your maps so you all have copies.”
Foxy held up the map for us to see. The area to protect was outlined in red ink, with green ink indicating where the handline was supposed to go. I used a pen to mark my own map.
We had to drive up a switchback road over a mountain range to reach our position. As soon as we crested the ridge, a wall of black smoke greeted us from the other end of the valley. It was like its own separate mountain range, except it continued up into the sky, an impossible wall that took my brain a few seconds to accept.
“Look at that,” Derek whispered.
“Fucker’s been burning for weeks,” Trace said. “Haven’t been able to contain it.”
“Where are the jump teams flying in?” I asked. “Are they protecting the same valley we are, or are they building defensive handlines in another area?”
“Don’t know,” Trace said. “Don’t care, either. Focus on what we have to do, Hinch.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, though I still squinted in the air to look for the spotting planes that I knew were flying overhead.
We drove down into the small valley, and then pulled onto a narrow fire road next to a section of cliff. The fire road lasted only about fifty feet before ending at a small wooded cul-de-sac.
We piled out of the truck. Instantly, the acrid smell of burning pine wood filled my nose. We were still miles from the burning edge of the wildfire, but the air made my eyes water.
Trace opened the truck hitch and began unloading gear. “The existing fire road gives us a starting point. We’ll shore it up, and extend it another two hundred yards northward.”
“Is the width good?” Derek asked. The rule of thumb with handlines was to make them twice as wide as the fire was tall.
Trace shook his head. “The handline’s seven feet wide now, but it needs to be more like fifteen, according to the spotters. We’ll need to widen the fire road before building new handline.”
“Copy that,” Derek replied.
“Fox, you’ll take point with the chainsaw,” Trace ordered while pulling on the upper half of his fire suit. It fit him like a glove. “Start on the new handline while the rest of us shore up the existing fire road. We’ll catch up to you in an hour or two. Hinch, you’re on raking duty with the McLeod. Sale and I will take the rear with Pulaskis.”
“I can shoulder more of the load if you need me to,” I said. I wasn’t upset to be given raking duty first, but I didn’t want Trace assigning it to me just because I was a woman.
“We’ll rotate,” Trace replied evenly. “You’ll get your chance.”
We split up to start. Foxy began cutting a new handline northward with the chainsaw while the rest of us began maintenance work on the existing fire road. The McLeod was much heavier than your standard household rake and had larger teeth, but the principle was more or less the same. I raked loose pine needles and forest floor from the burning side of the fire road to the safe side, digging the teeth into the ground to scrape away any moss layer that I couldn’t see.
To me, the pine needles and twigs weren’t part of the forest. I saw them as one thing: fuel. Fuel for the fire that was steadily burning in our direction. Remove the fuel, and the fire would fizzle out here. Starve the beast and it would perish.
It was slow work with just a four-person team. The McLeod was eighteen inches wide, and it took nine or ten strokes to pull all the fuel to the safe side of the fire road. Trace and Derek worked behind me with their Pulaskis, stirring up the ground so that the cool mineral soil was on top. Although I knew we might be out here all day—or longer—I didn’t want to pace myself. I pushed myself hard because I wanted to impress Trace, to show him that we weren’t just a bunch of useless rookies. I moved my McLeod rapidly as I raked the ground, trying to
keep ahead of their Pulaskis.
We had shored up half of the original fire road when we ran into our first problem.
11
Trace
I’d been at Redding Base for three years, now. Two years out in West Yellowstone before that. I’d seen all sorts of fires, from minor flare-ups to full blown crown fires that moved intensely through the treetops.
But nothing had compared to the Shasta Wildfire.
We’d been fighting it for weeks with little to show for it. Minor victories here and there, protecting heavily-populated areas while the fire raged by. With other fires, I always felt like we had a solid plan of attack. Ways to head it off, weaken it, and destroy it.
But the Shasta Wildfire felt like a hurricane. It was relentless. Most of our efforts in the past two weeks had been resource protection—defending specific areas of importance. Nothing that actually weakened or contained the fire.
It was frustrating, to say the least. It made me feel powerless. Something I hadn’t felt since before joining the Marines over a decade ago.
And what made me feel even more powerless was being told to babysit a bunch of rookies.
I eyed Derek next to me, and Haley ahead. They were both keeping up with my pace with the tools, but it was early. Anyone could look strong in the first half of a marathon. It was the latter half of the race where someone’s true strength was tested.
I dug my Pulaski into the soil steadily. One small section of ground at a time. Creating a trench of fresh mineral soil that would protect everything behind us.
“Hey, boss?”
Foxy came jogging up with his chainsaw in hand. So far, I had him pegged as the class goofball. The guy who wanted everyone to like him, so he laughed and joked and tried to make his teammates smile.
