Eric’s head jerked skyward. “Here comes another drop!”
Heading straight for us, too. Somebody screwed up! A direct slurry hit could break bones. Or kill. We saw it coming and knew—there was no way could we outrun this.
Eric tossed his Pulaski aside. “Holy shit! Hit the dirt!”
I also pitched my Pulaski so it wouldn’t impale me and dropped face down, wrapping my hands around my hardhat to keep it from getting ripped off. Paralyzed, heart thumping, I braced for impact. Turbines roared overhead. This is it. Splatters hit my back and legs, like a brief summer shower. At a moment when I should have been contemplating death, instead I thought the slurry smelled sweet, like the Pepto-Bismol it resembled.
Engine noises faded.
Is it over? I raised my head, then stood up. Tom too.
“Damn, that was close,” Eric said, brushing himself off. His relief turned to anger. “Where the hell was the lead plane?”
No kidding. A warning would’ve been nice. We inspected our pink-speckled backsides. Tom chuckled. “Ha! Now everyone will know we fought the hottest part of the fire.”
I’d heard it said that some firefighters intentionally placed themselves to get hit by slurry for bragging rights. Stupid craziness. Later, when dry slurry turned my collar stiff and scratchy, I covered the raw spot on the back of my neck with my bandana.
Eric’s two-way radio spoke: Help had arrived from Sierra Vista and the Florida crew. I kept working, waiting to run into them, but our paths didn’t cross. We three mopped up hotspots as best as we could, without water, or dirt, for that matter, both non-existent on that hell-in-disguise hill of rock.
After dark, with only the minimal glow of embers to guide us, I regretted leaving behind my fire pack and headlamp. None of us had thought we’d be out here this long. To make matters worse, as the fire died down, it got darker. Much darker. At midnight, without even a hint of moon or ambient light from a city, we made our way off the steep hillside. Three Blind Mice. Almost comical, if it hadn’t been so painful. I stumbled over rocks, bumped into shindagger agaves that poked holes in my skin, and cursed the blackness. After at least an hour of this, we paused to take a breather. I rubbed my bruised, bleeding legs through my jeans. Eric collapsed onto a boulder and groaned.
“Damn. It’s darker than the inside of a cow.”
Tom chuckled. “That’d be pretty dark indeed.”
I burst out laughing, and continued laughing until tears poured down my soot-blackened cheeks. Good analogy. I couldn’t see either of them sitting right next to me. Then I had a sobering thought, How in the world would we find the tanker?
“I see it up ahead,” Eric said later. What a relief. Thank God no one broke a leg. We threw our tools into the side boxes and drove back to the station. I leaned back and closed my eyes, exhausted but happy. I’d saved the world today. Or at least that one hillside.
SIX
SPOILED AS THE only female on the crew, I liked being the center of attention. Then I found out another woman would join us for six weeks. Not only did I not want a roommate, but I did not want to share the attention from my crew. What if she worked harder than I did? Would she be competition in more ways than one?
Jodi arrived on Saturday afternoon. I forced a smile, evaluating the potential threat to my status at Florida. A tomboy, I thought, when she said she’d grown up on a ranch. I envisioned her doing cowboy things, like roping and branding cattle. Well, I could be both a woman and firefighter while keeping my femininity intact. Granted, I wore Levi’s and work shirts on the job, but off the clock I loved my cutoffs and halter tops, or a sundress and Jean Naté body splash on an excursion to Tucson. When Jodi said she was engaged to be married, I inwardly celebrated. Still, selfishly, I worried: What if the guys liked her more than they liked me?
Jodi and I interacted little. Different squads, with different days off; we didn’t see each other much. When her name came up in conversation among the guys, I listened carefully to their tone of voice. My ego wanted to know what they thought of her.
Late one night, Jodi and I sat on my bed in our pjs, discussing work and men. Curious, I asked her about the Forest Service job she’d held last summer.
She frowned. “It was okay. What really bugged me, though, is they put me on a tanker crew with another woman and a guy with health problems, then they refused to send us out on any fires.”
This floored me. Why hire someone to fight fires if you weren’t going to send them on any?
She assumed a crossed-legged position and faced me. “All we did was sit at high-fire-danger roadblocks the whole summer.”
I couldn’t relate at all. It simply made no sense.
BRIGHT AND EARLY, I sat up front in the six-pack crew-cab on the way, squished between Texas John and Robert, our third fire prevention technician, to work the gear shift between my knees. Three more of our crew sat in the back.
“I’m too big to sit in the middle,” John said, holding the door for me.
Good point.
A half-hour later, Texas John stared up at the mountains, and mused, “Dang it, we need some excitement around here. We should hike up there and put a lightning rod in a tree.”
“John! That’s awful.” I couldn’t believe he’d say such a thing. We weren’t hired to start fires; we were hired to put them out.
“Well, heck. Awright then I won’t,” he said with a deep frown.
An elbow jabbed my side. I turned and glared at Texas John as he reached into his shirt pocket, comically raising his eyebrows up and down. He pretended to take out a book of matches, tear one off, turn the book over, strike it, then toss the imaginary lit match out the window. He snickered at first, then exploded into laughter. Soon we were all wiping tears from our eyes. Although his antics were funny, the reality is, some firefighters have been arrested for arson. My paycheck after the Kent Fire, with all the overtime and hazard pay, doubled my normal salary. I could see how this might tempt an unbalanced or greedy person to start a fire. I’d read about a firefighter who loved fire so much that he started one just to watch it burn. Texas John said all firefighters had a touch of pyromania. Really? Because I liked to fight fire, did that make me a pyromaniac? I didn’t want to think so.
Madera Canyon Recreation Area was under our jurisdiction, and we cleaned it weekly. At the first picnic ground, Robert emptied the trash cans. Texas John and I raked cigarette butts and pop-top tabs. A bucket of soapy water took care of soda-sticky tables.
As a camping enthusiast, I used my share of stinky outhouses. I’d dash in and dash out as fast as possible. But I couldn’t do that now. Sucking in a deep breath and holding it, I rushed in to check the toilet paper situation. It needed replacement, and I needed air. I dashed outside to breathe and get a package. With a reserve of air in my lungs, I ran inside, sprayed the seat with disinfectant, and wiped it down, ran back out to suck in another lungful. One more trip. Back inside, I found a pile of toilet paper on the floor. I picked it up with a rubber-gloved hand. Shit. Back to the truck to get a shovel. On the way I found a baby diaper stuck in a tree crotch. I cringed. What was wrong with people? Didn’t they know what trash cans were for?
Texas John wanted to buy lunch at the Santa Rita Lodge. I treated myself to iced tea. Sitting on their patio, I enjoyed the lush oasis so different from the dry desert a few miles down the road. Gnarled, bright green sycamores lined the nearby creek, and the smell of water, damp earth, and leaf decay cleared the foul odor of the last toilet from my senses. Hummingbirds darted around me, sipping from hanging feeders.
“Oh, great,” Texas John said, covering his plate with a hand. “Here comes a coati.”
On the railing balanced an odd-looking creature: slinky like an otter, masked and striped like a raccoon. Boldly, it leaped onto our table, and snatched a French-fry right off John’s plate. I laughed and pointed at the critter, thoroughly entertained.
Texas John shook his fist in the air. “Damn you. I’ll skin you alive!”
It ran off, but not too far. How could someone not love wildlife encounters like this? But John had already told me that he killed coyotes for pelts, saying he sold them to be made into cheap coats. Just one more thing we disagreed on. I couldn’t imagine killing any animal for its fur—or body parts for that matter. When I discovered my “lucky” rabbit’s foot key chain was real, I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.
I BUMMED A ride after work with Pete, our crewmate from the east coast, to buy groceries and do laundry in Green Valley. Alone with him on the thirty-minute drive, being my sociable self, I tried to strike up a conversation. He sat stone-faced, seldom humoring me with a nod or sideways glance. On the drive back, I decided to test him by not talking to see if he would step up. Silence. Awkward. He must not like me, but why? Uncomfortable twists formed in my stomach.
Pete dropped me off. I stashed groceries and tucked clean clothes into the heavy wooden dresser, the only piece of real furniture in my room besides the bed. An apple box draped with a towel served as my nightstand. I tidied up a bit, sweeping dust bunnies and dirt off the bare wood floor. Ticking from my windup alarm clock echoed off the walls. Only seven o’clock. Laughter drifted from Pete and Mark’s quarters, Florida’s hotspot for nightly entertainment. They had the only television. I decided to walk over and visit with Mark.
Inside, a TV blared, leftover pizza sat on the table, and the air smelled of yeasty beer. Rum and coke in hand, I sat down on the couch between Mark and Tom. Mark swung his arm onto the couch behind me, discreetly fingering my hair. My neck tingled from his touch. Tom leaned against my shoulder, the contact intimate, warm. Flattered, I pretended not to notice the two men flirting with me at the same time.
Pete and Opie Taylor had already consumed enough alcohol to be loud and boisterous, drowning out the movie on the black-and-white set. Sitting there with four guys, I wondered how much my presence cramped their style. Maybe not much, since they certainly didn’t curtail swearing. After a while, Opie Taylor’s obnoxious behavior cramped mine. I finished my drink and stood to leave. Tom offered to walk me the short distance home. I smiled and said, “sure.” We paused beneath a canopy of stars.
“Will you look at that,” he said, gazing skyward.
A midnight-blue sky sparkled with pinpoints of light, the Milky Way as a sheer white brush stroke. The breeze carried a chill, raising goosebumps.
Tom faced me, his eyes full of affection. He placed his hands on my shoulders, sliding them gently down my arms, warming them. “You’re a really fine woman, Linda. Everyone here thinks so.”
I avoided acknowledging Tom’s compliment because first off, I didn’t believe everyone thought so. Second, his comment made me self-conscious. I felt the need to say something, so I protested, saying Pete couldn’t stand me.
Tom shook his head. “That’s not true.”
That Tom found me attractive made my heart palpitate. At fifteen years my senior, his life experiences were way beyond mine, which made me both wary and curious. Could I believe what he said about me? Surely he’d met many women better than me. He leaned in for a kiss. I stopped him.
“I think it’d be better if we stayed friends,” I said.
Dejected, he stood with a long face and lowered eyes. I figured he’d get over it. But I began to worry. We were such a close-knit group here. Was everyone back at Mark’s speculating about what was going on between Tom and me? For sure Mark would be jealous. If I’d watched soap operas back then, I would’ve thought I was starring in one, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
SEVEN
BEFORE THE ALARM even thought about going off, I bounced out of bed, excited about the workday ahead. What would I do today? Maybe I’d be able to work with Mark. That would be great. Sometimes I thought he arranged for us to work together. It made me feel special. Working with Tom or Joe would be good, too. When Glenn sent me to work on a trail with Texas John and Opie Taylor, my heart sank. But trail work it would be. I heaved my fire pack off the shelf and carried it over to the truck. Always fire-ready, our packs followed us everywhere.
As I swung its thirty-pounds into the bed, Opie said, “Let me get that …”
Before he finished the sentence—pack loaded. I turned to him and glared.
In a sing-song voice he said, “Guess I’m just used to those helpless Southern belles.”
My mouth fell open. Helpless? You think I’m helpless? This made me furious. Too bad I could never think of great comeback lines.
Texas John parked at Madera’s Nature Trail. Tourists avoiding the Santa Ritas’ steep hikes frequented this trail with its gentle grade, winding through white oaks and pinyon pines, offering decent views of the rugged Mt. Wrightson and the flat desert of the Santa Cruz Valley below. I’d just started improving the tread by removing toe-trippers, when Texas John started yakking.
“Eee-yup, I was buddies with good ol’ Marlin Perkins,” he said in his thick southern drawl.
Skeptical, I gave him an I-don’t-believe-you look. “Really. The Marlin Perkins.” Famous host of TV’s Wild Kingdom?
He crossed both arms on top of the shovel handle. “Oh yes, sweet thang, me and Marlin hunted lions on one of those, whaddaya call ’em … safaris.”
I shook my head and cleaned out a water bar so it would drain properly. I hated it when he called me sweet thing. I had serious doubts he really thought I was sweet. My activity disturbed an ant den, sending out its strong, pungent odor. I winced, checking reflexively to make sure the ants didn’t swarm out to defend their territory.
“Did I tell you about that danged monkey?” he asked, still leaning on his shovel.
All clear with the ants. “No, John, you did not.” I dragged a cut branch off the trail.
“Well, heck. It’s a great story. You see there was this danged monkey who used sign language and mimicked people. So, I figured maybe that ’ol monkey would enjoy a good smoke.” Texas John set his shovel aside and lit a cigarette.
“John, I don’t think you’re going to get me to believe this one.” I scraped loose rock off the trail.
“Hey, Linda Lou, it’s true. Just ask Glenn. I gave the monkey one, and I’ll be danged if he didn’t take a puff.”
John calling me Linda “Lou” also irritated the daylights out of me. I happened to be quite fond of my middle name, Marie. However, John didn’t see fit to call anyone by their real names, so I figured I’d have to get used to it.
That night I lay awake, contemplating my life at Florida. John and Opie were annoying, but I could handle them. At least I got along well with everyone else. What surprised me, though, is that although I’d been prepared for hard work, I never thought that working so darned hard would be so much fun.
ABOUT THE FOURTH of July, monsoon season arrived with its own unique fireworks. First, out popped dry lightning, setting fires here and there. It kept fire crews on their toes. A week or two later, torrential rains scoured the landscape, sometimes falling at a rate of several inches per hour. Nothing in the world smells as wonderful as a rain-washed desert. Much like sheets dried outdoors on a brisk, sunny day, spring water cupped in my hand before I sipped, an early morning hike in a forest of quaking aspens. Heaven should smell that good.
Mid-afternoon, lightning ignited several fires, with ours located in a roadless, remote canyon near the Mexican border. Remote plus roadless equaled a long, tough hike. Good thing Glenn arranged a helicopter ride.
Blades whirring to life, off we went. Confident and comfortable this time, I sat up front, electric with excitement for both the fire and flight. I even took advantage of the view through the floor as we passed over the smoky grass fire, heading for a hilltop landing spot. A figure stood ready to guide the pilot down. The chopper slowed, hovered, and landed gracefully in knee-high grass. An “all’s good” nod from the pilot; I hopped out.
Our guide placed a hand on the back of my neck, reminding me to crouch down. His face lit up. “Linda! It’s me, Tim!”
It took me a moment to recogniz
e him. “Tim!” I knew him from the Santa Catalinas last summer. I’d often visited him and his Helitack crew. I felt so far removed now from that me, the office worker.
“I heard you made it to a fire crew,” he said, beaming.
Word sure did get around. “Yup! No more timekeeping for me.” Yeah, this felt good. I wanted to talk more, but we had no time.
With the fire contained earlier using a perimeter fireline by the Nogales suppression crew, we faced a long night of hard, dirty mop-up. Cooler temperatures, higher humidity, and calm winds helped, but the fire had scorched a hundred acres of rocky hills covered with sotols, a squatty, grass-like plant with sawtoothed leaves. After flames burned off the leaves, what remained resembled a giant pineapple. There were hundreds of them, many puffing smoke like tiny chimneys.
Headlamp lighting a small yellow circle in front of me, I weaved through the black and gray landscape until I found a sotol radiating red at its base. A hard push with my boot knocked it over, and I used my leg to prevent it from rolling down the hill. Scraping at the ground, I tried to muster enough dirt to smother the coals.
“HEY!”
I turned toward the voice in time to see a sotol-pineapple tumbling down the hill, starting little fires in unburned grass all the way to the bottom.
“I’ll get it!” I scrambled down the ankle-twisting terrain. Supercharged with adrenaline, I smacked the flames out with my shovel. I stood over the sotol carcass, heart hammering. Where did that energy come from? I’d experienced that phenomenon often. When I needed it, it appeared.
Rolling, burning sotols had serious consequences, and by God we did not want to be on that rocky hillside any longer than necessary. A yell of, “Sotol!” sent everyone into action. Eric threw a Pulaski at one beginning its tumble downhill, imbedding the ax-head in the fleshy pulp and bringing it to a halt.
Summers of Fire Page 4
