Tidings of Love

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  Joe wants the readers to feel this. I tapped my teeth together. How do I do that? The ground, which had recently been frozen and covered in snow, was now slick with mud. The mountain was literally losing ground. A mudslide could easily happen. I was standing in a moment in history. The rapidly spreading fire could change the landscape of Wyoming’s central city.

  The chief cleared his throat. I glanced toward him. He grabbed a bottled water stuck in the pocket of his fire pants. He took a swig, and I understood. There was no moisture in the air. Smoke clouded the sky and burned my eyes. The fire was consuming everything.

  “Okay, folks,” he began. “We’re going to make this brief because … ” He paused. “Well, quite frankly, we need every available body to work this fire.”

  The veteran fire chief didn’t have a prepared statement, nor did he have a public information officer standing at the ready. All of Wyoming paled in population to other states and even large metropolitan cities, like neighboring Denver. I quickly scrolled my phone for Internet service and discovered the magnitude of this fire.

  I jotted figures on my notepad. Casper Mountain was more than ten square miles, but it covered about 56,000 acres. With lodgepole pine that ignites like kindling. Holy hell.

  “They can’t do this alone,” I said to no one in particular. “They’ll lose the mountain—not to mention the cabins. Where will everyone go?”

  The gravity of the fire sent a chill down my spine. I glanced back to find Joe, but I couldn’t see over the crowd. I wish he were here with me.

  “How big is your crew?” a reporter yelled over the drone of the fire engines.

  “Our fire personnel is roughly 350,” the chief said.

  A collective gasp followed. The Casper Fire Department was not equipped to handle a fire of this size without additional help.

  “What caused the fire?” The question shot out of my mouth. It was the most rudimentary question a freshman reporter would ask, but that didn’t negate its importance. The answer would direct the focus of my story.

  “Lightning.” The fire chief took off his helmet and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “We received reports of lightning throughout the night.” He tucked his helmet beneath his arm. “However, there weren’t any reports of fire until late this afternoon. The lightning squall started a series of fires on the face of the mountain that has grown to about two football fields in length.”

  While I could visualize this, I needed specifics. Joe wants readers to feel this, and Wyomingites know acreage. “How many acres have burned?” I asked.

  “Thirty acres so far.”

  “What are your crews doing to control the fire?” another reporter asked.

  “We’ve focused our suppression efforts on the ground. There’s a layer of fuel beneath the trees—juniper, sage brush, and subalpine fur—and it sits like a fuse with the potential to burn from the ground to the top of the trees. By containing that layer, we’re hopeful these fire suppression efforts will prevent further burn areas,” the chief said earnestly.

  “How is that area suppressed?” another reporter called out.

  The chief pointed toward the ground. “We soak it. We drench it with water and keep it wet.”

  “Won’t the temperatures freeze the water before it has the ability to do its job?” someone asked.

  “Normally in November, yes, but the fire has dramatically increased the temperature on the mountain, so freezing isn’t an issue,” he said. “At least, for now.”

  Suddenly, the slick mud beneath me was a welcome relief. The distinct buzz of helicopter blades cut through the night.

  “Chief, is that reinforcement?” an anonymous voice asked from the crowd.

  “The National Guard assigned two Black Hawk helicopters and two single-engine air tankers to the fire. The steep and rugged terrain of this mountain has forced my crew to build containment lines by hand until we can get bulldozers up here. The air tankers will hit those areas in the middle that we can’t access.”

  “Has the fire claimed any homes?” I knew I was jumping in on Kelly’s turf, but I had to know.

  The chief looked at me. His brown eyes conveyed the message before he spoke. My stomach dropped. “The fire took two cabins, a barn, and an outbuilding.”

  “Were any occupants injured?” I followed up.

  He shook his head curtly. “No. The homes were vacant.”

  It was the only good news of the night. And suddenly the oddest question popped out of my mouth. “Chief, how old is this forest?”

  This time his eyes warmed back at me. “The forest on Casper Mountain is 130 years old. My father worked this mountain and his father before him. This forest has been here longer than most generations and shares more history with this town than any archive you’ll find in our library.”

  The chief placed his helmet back on his head and nodded toward the crowd. “We’ll keep you updated throughout the evening.” He then turned and disappeared behind the barricade into a cloud of smoke.

  The crowd of reporters dispersed quickly. I found Alan behind the hordes of onlookers, aiming his camera into the night sky as another helicopter buzzed by.

  “Get anything good?”

  Alan nodded. “What about you?”

  I shrugged. “I got everything everyone else got. I couldn’t talk to the chief afterward. I don’t have anything new to report.” I let Joe down.

  “But you have the basics,” Joe’s voice came from behind Alan.

  Joe’s scent cut through the thick, burnt wood and his aroma surrounded me. My shoulders dropped and so did my defenses. Maybe I didn’t blow it. I could add some historical reference to the age of the forest and who knows what else. It’s not over yet.

  “Listen, all these pieces go together to build our story,” Joe said.

  “Our story?” I scratched my head. “Am I writing this piece with Kelly?” Isn’t it bad enough she’s cutting in on my Thanksgiving byline?

  “Kelly’s already at my truck writing. Your notes will build into her piece.”

  “Oh.” If the fire hadn’t already made it painful to breathe, Joe’s announcement would have.

  Joe and Alan were waiting on me to respond. My reaction was crucial. Balk, and I’d be back to features for sure. Cowboy up, Janey. A front-page byline is still a front page.

  “Great. I’ll go meet up with her and give her my notes.” I pivoted to leave and felt my boot catch in the mud. Easy does it. All I need now is to fall on my ass. A hollow emptiness engulfed me as I made my way toward Kelly and the truck. I kicked a rock and watched it careen down the mountain. I did let him down and Kelly didn’t. I reached down and grabbed a pinecone that hadn’t lost its shape. Let’s think this through. I held the rough pinecone and rubbed my thumb across its accordion-like structure. I could blame Kelly for doing exactly what Joe knew she’d do, which was get the locals to talk. The coarse scales pricked my fingers. I chucked the pinecone as far as my throwing arm, which was still sore from when I landed on Joe in the bathroom, would allow. Or I could figure out a different angle to this story and wow them both.

  I scuffed the tip of my boot on the craggy mountainside, trying to dig up another rock or something to hurl. Instead, I found more pinecones. Or there’s always the third option. The twins and I could make Christmas trees out of these little pine nuggets and I could start writing a craft column for the paper.

  I glanced up the mountain. I was far enough away from the fire danger; my only real danger was of losing myself in self-pity.

  I’m thinking the wow factor is in order.

  I went around picking up as many pinecones as the bottom of my outstretched sweater would hold. I held up one. “This may be one of the last relics from this mountain,” I said and then shook my head. And that may be the last original thought I have before I meet up with Kelly to hand her my notes.

  At some point, I zigged when I should have zagged because soon I realized I couldn’t see the makeshift parking area.
/>   “Awesome.” Kelly was burning the midnight oil with Joe, and I was just burning time. I continued to wallow when he appeared out of nowhere.

  “Lost?” The unfamiliar voice startled me.

  I jumped. Pinecones flew in the air like wild turkeys startled by a pilgrim’s musket shot. In my befuddlement, I not only surrendered my sweaterful of souvenirs, I forfeited my foothold against the muddy terrain. I began to tumble when he reached out and grabbed me. But the ground was too slick and I continued to lose traction. Suddenly, I saw the jagged grade of the mountain, and it wouldn’t be a friendly fall.

  “Oh, no!” I tried to hold onto his hand, but my palm was slick with pinesap and slipped away from his. He braced his leg against the shoulder of the mountain, scooped me up into his arms, and swiftly carried me to a small plateau further down the side of the rocky terrain.

  “Who are you?” I asked, breathless and curious. “And where are all my pinecones?”

  The brim of his cowboy hat shielded his face.

  When he set me back down on the ground, I saw older eyes the color of the evergreens before they had ignited.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Nothing to thank.” His voice was edgy and rough. “Just happened to be at the right place, at the right time.” He tilted his head, and the angle brought his entire face into view. Deep-set, green eyes that seemed to size me up softened when he asked, “You know where you’re going?”

  I chuckled. “I only look lost. I’m heading toward the parking area thingy.”

  Now he laughed, and it was deep and robust. “Then you’d better head north.”

  “Ohhh-kay.” I gave two thumbs up.

  “You don’t know which direction north is, do you?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. No clue.” I can dodge through lanes of L.A. traffic, weave between semis and sedans to merge at the last second from one multilevel California freeway to another, but somehow, even with GPS or this seasoned Wyomingite in front of me, I still manage to get lost on a one-way Wyoming mountain road. What the hell is wrong with me?

  His gaze zeroed in on me. “When you’re in town, the mountain is always south. So when you’re on the mountain … ”

  I leaned toward him, waiting for him to finish his sentence, when I realized he was expecting me to fill in the blank. “Right. So … if I head toward the town … then the town is always … north. It’s north.”

  When he smiled, a dimple appeared on either side of his mouth. “You got it.”

  I pumped my fist into the air that billowed with smoke. Trees covered my line of vision. I grabbed my notepad out of my back pocket and used it as a visor to shield my eyes from the overhead smoke, but it didn’t work. I glanced back at the cowboy. “What if you can’t see the town?”

  “Follow the slope of the mountain. It’ll take you north.”

  “So if I keep going down, I’ll hit the truck?”

  He began to laugh again. “Well, hopefully, you won’t hit anyone’s truck,” he said.

  No, but I may hit Kelly.

  “So,” he said. “If you keep heading north, you’ll find the temporary parking lot.”

  And Joe. I want to find my way back to Joe. I exhaled. “Thank you. You’re a real lifesaver.”

  “Just helping out.” He had the look of 100 percent pure western, Wyoming romance, and he wore it well with the cowboy hat, faded jeans, denim jacket with rolled up cuffs, and a can of dip in his front pocket. But my quirky guy in a chef’s hat still looked better “So where’s your horse?” I teased my rescuer.

  “She’s in town at a friend’s barn.” The somberness of his tone brought me back to reality.

  “Of course. The fire.” I flung my hand in the air and accidently tossed my notepad. I scrambled toward it but he deftly caught it midair before it landed in mud. He handed it to me.

  “Well, I’m just a mess.” I brushed debris from my notepad against my jeans. “I’m supposed to get something exclusive about this fire, and I’ve got”—I flipped through the pages—“nothing. Zip. Nada. I’ll never land … ” Joe or my own front-page byline, ever.

  I blew out a mouthful of air. “Yeah, too much information, which is ironic because I don’t have enough information here.” I flapped the notepad shut and stuck it in my back pocket beside my cell phone. “Hey, thanks for all your help.” I turned to leave, when his voice called out after me.

  “It hasn’t burned like this in seventy years.”

  “What?” I turned back and loose strands of my hair hit me in the face. “What do you mean?” I tucked a curl behind my ear.

  “The last big fire we had on the mountain was about seventy years ago. Wildlife walked around the streets. Moose. Deer. Antelope. Brown bears were even spotted in town by the theater.”

  “And you would know this, how?” The reporter in me surfaced.

  “My grandparents.”

  Before he could continue, I stretched out my hand. “I’m Janey Turner with the Wyoming Frontier.”

  “I’m Frank Outterland.”

  “Outterland? Isn’t there an exit off the highway named ‘Outterland’?”

  He nodded. “My grandparents, Bob and Louise Outterland, were married just after World War I ended and had one of the first homes on Casper Mountain. That exit was named in honor of them.”

  I pulled out my notepad and began writing… “And this fire you mentioned, it happened in what … ” I quickly did the math on the page. “1944?”

  “Yup, that’s about right. It happened during the war,” he said.

  “What caused that fire?”

  A wry grin filled his face. “Lightning.”

  “Nuh-uh.” I tilted my head toward him. “Are you putting me on?” Did Kelly put you up to this?

  “I’d let you see their photo albums and the newspaper stories about the fire and the wildlife on the streets, but … ” His voice trailed off.

  I stopped taking notes and looked up. His green eyes watered in a camouflage of color. “Their home didn’t survive this fire.”

  I slapped my hand to my chest. “Oh, no.” A wave of grief settled over me. “I’m so sorry.” I thumbed back a few pages to the press conference notes with Chief Gambino. “So their home was … ” I paused. The reporter in me realized the only way I could quickly vet this source was to see if his notes aligned with the press conference. But even then he could have been in the crowd and heard this information.

  “My grandparents had a cabin,” he said. “And my parents had the neighboring cabin. Neither of their homes survived.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. This must have been a hard Thanksgiving for you.”

  He half-laughed. “We usually spend one of the holidays up at the cabin.” He glanced toward the upper portion of the mountain that glowed from a distance. “But we decided to wait until after Thanksgiving. Now, we can’t … ”

  I kept my pencil on the page during the pause. My gut tightened with the keen awareness that he was about to reveal something big.

  Instead, he reached into his back jeans pocket and withdrew a red bandana. He wiped his brow and repositioned his hat. “There was a radio in my grandparents’ cabin that I wish I could’ve saved.”

  Any question I had about the fire vanished from my mind as his story unfolded. “It was on that radio that my grandparents heard that the United States had declared war on Germany. The next day my uncle enlisted.” He tucked the bandana back into his pocket and his eyes seemed to fade to a memory he had stored in the back of his mind.

  “My grandmother sewed a flag that they hung in the window of their cabin. Mothers of servicemen did it back then to show support. It had a star for each family member serving in the war. A blue star represented a living serviceman. Her flag had one blue star.” His strong voice began to disappear.

  I stood silently in the shadows of his grief.

  “They didn’t get many visitors up on the mountain back then,” he continued. “So the sight of a Western Union man walking up the
dirt road was something they never forgot.”

  “Your uncle?” My voice was barely audible.

  He nodded. “He was killed in Italy. Damnedest thing. Mussolini had fallen and Italy had surrendered, but there were still some hot spots, and he ended up in one of them. They placed that telegram in their Bible and that’s where it remained all these years.” Pain riddled his face, but he had a story to tell. “Before they even got my uncle’s body back, my grandmother sewed a new star on her flag.”

  “Why?”

  “Those who lost their lives in the war became gold stars; moms of fallen soldiers became known as Gold Star Mothers. Do you know they still recognize these women?”

  I slowly shook my head.

  “Sometime in September—right before the rush of the holidays. We always put a bouquet with a gold ribbon on my grandmother’s grave to remember what she lost in the war, too.”

  I exhaled, but my lungs felt tight.

  “You know, what really gets me,” he said, and his voice suddenly sparked, “is that their little cabin survived that first big fire and that was well before there were paved access roads leading up to the mountain.”

  “So this fire happened in 1944?”

  “A year after my uncle died and two years after war broke out. That cabin meant everything to my grandmother, and I think that’s why my grandpa fought like hell to save it. He was a tough old bird. The fire crews came and told him to get out because the fire could be there in a matter of minutes. Instead, he sent his three children and wife down the mountain with them and he fought the fire. The fire was taller than the pine trees. Still, he threw buckets of well-water on the roof of his cabin while the fire blazed around him.”

  “He sounds like he was an amazing man,” I said.

  “He was,” another voice answered.

  I turned toward the gravelly voice behind me. “Chief Gambino?”

  “We had reports of stragglers on the west side of the mountain.” The chief’s voice was nearly hoarse.

  “I just haven’t been able to leave,” Frank said. “I came up late this afternoon and started pouring buckets of water on their cabin roof, but I couldn’t save their home or my parents’ ... ”