Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  “I do have a special like for you,” Glenn said, massaging his forehead as though stimulating his memory. “I don’t remember exactly what I told you that night, and maybe it’s best that I don’t.”

  After an interminable minute, he offered no more.

  Smiling, I said something lame to make him think this wasn’t important. “Oh, that’s okay.” Okay? It was not only not okay, it hurt like hell. A “special like”?What was that? Nowhere near love, I thought. But why would he say something he didn’t mean, even if he didn’t remember saying it? You must let this go. But could I? Maybe I should focus more on Joe. But even he had me baffled. When he’d said he wanted to come see me, I’d replied, “Sure, come if you want.” I didn’t get why, if he wanted to see me, he didn’t just show up. What did these guys want from me anyway?

  OUR LAST CREWMEMBER arrived in late May, a direct order from Washington D.C. to fill the minority quota, or so the rumor said.

  “Wait ’till you guys hear this,” Eric said after delivering the new guy to his quarters. “So I get this phone call from the dispatcher’s office saying our new hire is sitting at the Tucson airport waiting for a ride.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I walk into the Forest Service terminal, and here’s this huge linebacker of a guy, black as the night is long. So I’m thinking, man, this is one big dude.”He held his hand over his own six-foot-plus height. “We’re driving back to Florida, and the poor guy asked a hundred times, ‘What towwnn is this?’ Farther we got from Tucson, the more scared he got.”

  Ed, a University of Georgia college student on a football scholarship, certainly fit the football player part. He was a big, brawny guy with a big laugh, so Mark nicknamed him, Big Ed. But why in heck would a football player from Georgia fly all the way to Arizona to be a firefighter? Tom asked him.

  Ed’s emphatic response was, “Oh, I didn’t know this was a firefighting job.”

  He what?

  Tom tipped his head sideways. “Really. So why are you here?”

  Ed reared back, his eyes wide. “I thought I was gettin’ me a cushy fire-lookout job.”

  He didn’t know until he got here? Really? But a cushy lookout job? That’s what I’d first thought when I filled in for Wilma, the Mt. Bigelow fire lookout, last summer in the Santa Catalina Mountains. Within five minutes she’d enlightened me on all of the responsibilities: locating smokes with the complicated Firefinder; knowing the difference between water dogs (vapors that appear when cold rain hits warm soil) and smoke; how not to report a campfire by mistake; talking on the two-way radio without sounding like an idiot. All had gone fine until a thunderstorm erupted. To avoid electrocution, I sat on a glass-footed stool. Lightning bursts turned the tiny room white with light, strikes hit the ground all around me, thunder claps boomed so loud they rattled the windows and shook the building. Hail beat against the glass panes until I thought sure they’d break. And those switchback steps, seventy-five feet worth, up and down at least twice a day, excluding bathroom breaks. Nope, being a fire lookout was not in any way, shape, or form cushy.

  AS OF THIS summer, the Forest Service required all fire personnel to wear fire resistant Nomex pants and shirts, even when not firefighting. That was unwelcome news. I loved my comfy cotton workshirt and jeans. Nomex clothes didn’t breathe worth a darn. Who needed that on a hundred-degree day?

  “Why can’t we carry them with us and change if we get a fire call?” Tom asked Eric.

  Eric scowled. “Because Forest Service head-honchos think we sit around all day waiting for fires. I’m not crazy about this either, but we don’t have a say.”

  That wasn’t all we didn’t have a say in. Eric said we’d also have to carry a fire shelter from now on. More gear? As if my pack wasn’t heavy enough.

  “Listen up about how this puppy works,” Eric said, during the training session. “It’s designed to protect you from becoming a crispy critter, but isn’t failsafe. You’ll have a better chance of surviving a burnover, though. I’m only going to show you once, because they’re expensive, and they aren’t reusable.”

  The fire shelter, tucked inside a compact orange canvas carry-case, shook out into what resembled an aluminum foil pup-tent. Eric lay face down and covered himself with the shelter. “I’m assuming you’ve already cleared the ground of flammables,” he said from underneath. “To keep it from getting sucked off you when the fire passes over, put your elbows and feet into the corner pockets.” He crawled out, stood up, and brushed himself off. “Remember, this is a last resort. Do not deploy it unless you haveto.”

  I refused to accept I’d ever need to deploy—period. What fire official would ever let things get that bad? Certainly, they were on the ball, right?

  Tom whispered in my ear, “We’d be a human baked potato.”

  Nervous, I laughed, but my skin crawled. I didn’t want to bake in one of those things. Aside from the weight, the time it took to clear the ground, deploy, crawl under—I wasn’t the only one who thought the time could be better spent making a last ditch effort to run like hell.

  Texas John asked the question that was probably on everyone’s mind but mine, because I refused to go there. “What would happen, Hoss, if a fire burned over me?”

  Eric cleared his throat. “Well … it’s not totally protective. You might get away with burns on elbows and feet in light fuels like grass … but a timber fire … well … I’m told severe burns are your least concern, because your lungs will blister from breathing the superheated air, and you’ll suffocate from lack of oxygen.”

  Burned lungs? Blistered, peeling skin on feet and elbows? Suffocation? A death trap. Count me out. I’d rather take my chances and run like hell.

  Texas John squared his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “Well, hell’s bells, why carry the durned things?”

  “It’s mandatory,” Glenn said, his voice stern.

  That ended the discussion and added one more thing to our gear.

  ON MY DAYS off, other than grocery shopping and laundry, I stayed home. The last thing I wanted was to miss a fire call. After five, beer and bullshit often flowed at Pete and Mark’s quarters. I ate a simple dinner, and then, wanting company, I walked over to visit. About an hour later, Tom and I moved outside to get away from the commotion so we could talk. Tom often said flattering things, which naturally I loved to hear.

  “Everyone thinks you fit in here better than Jodi,” he said.

  I didn’t respond—but how much I wanted to believe that. Although Jodi and I got along okay, I liked being the center of attention and wanted the guys to like me more than her—that darned ego thing.

  Then Tom said, “Their only complaint …”

  Wait, they complain about me?

  “ … is, they wished you drank more.”

  They what? That was too funny. I suppose the definition of “more” depended on whether they meant per hour or week.

  JODI AND I shared a day off. Bored, we discussed our options.

  “How about we catch some sun?” she asked. “I’m sick of my farmer’s tan.”

  I didn’t like my tan lines either. We decided the roof would make a suitable tanning bed. Jodi went to get a ladder while I gathered up towels, pillows, baby oil, a book, radio, and tall glasses of iced tea with lemon and Sweet-N-Low. It took us several trips up and down the ladder to get settled on our roof-top sunning spot. To maximize our new tan, we both took off our bikini tops, giggling about what we’d do if one of the guys came up the road. Could they see us?

  At most, five minutes had passed, when Jodi said, “You know, it’s hot up here.”

  “It is,” I said, relieved she brought it up. “Too hot!”

  We carried everything back down.

  After quitting-time, I checked to see what the guys brought back from the mailbox. Thrilled when I saw the letter from my mom, I tore it open to find several pages in her lovely cursive handwriting: our cat’s antics, the red-ripe tomatoes in the garden, and how she’d already picked sweet raspberries. A
lthough I loved my independence, her letters tugged at me. I missed her. Would twinges of homesickness ever go away?

  At work the next day, and enjoying the last of a cool morning, Jodi, Pete, Ed, and I waited on the office steps for the University of Arizona researchers we were asked to help. Like clockwork, at eight, cicadas began to buzz, signaling a hot day ahead. A white State of Arizona pickup swung up, and its driver waved us to follow. Dirt clouds billowed, suspended in the air, as the truck ahead of us sped off. Pete hung back so we wouldn’t have to eat their dust.

  Countless dirt roads zigzagged across the experimental range, an outdoor lab of sorts, for plant and animal studies. Cattle gave us curious glances as we whizzed by. Not much for them to eat here, so they ate everything and anything, evidenced by cactus thorns protruding from their mouths. Someone must pull those out, I thought, but I couldn’t think of how.

  An hour passed of turning onto roads with no names, and I worried about getting back by ourselves. I hated not knowing where we were, and Ed hated it even more. He hung out the window, craning his neck to find some sign of civilization. “What towwnn is this?”

  Civilization to Ed: a grocery store, Circle K, McDonald’s.

  “There is no town, Ed!” I said with a laugh. His bug-eyed stare told me that wasn’t the right answer.

  At Study Plot #45, we pulled over to the side of the road. Walt and Annie unloaded white five-gallon buckets labeled with skull and cross-bones. Poison? We’re handling poison? Could I pass on this?

  Walt sat on his tailgate and explained how they wanted to exterminate both mesquite and catclaw acacia to make room for more grazing grasses. Kill trees so cattle could have more food? Sure, I hated to see them eating cactus, but poisoning trees, not to mention me?I didn’t like either of those options. Now I wished Glenn had picked someone else for this project.

  We waded through rustling, knee-high, tawny grass, stepping around the sharp spines of barrel and prickly pear cactus. Flies buzzed around my head; the sun blazed white-hot, searing exposed skin. Poor Ed clutched his chest, eyes wide, when I reminded him to watch out for diamondback rattlesnakes.

  We stopped at a tree, its lacy leaves offering filtered shade.

  “This is mesquite,” Annie said. “Notice the leaf arrangement, and straight thorns.”

  She took another step, and stopped abruptly to unhook the curved thorn snagged in her jeans. “Catclaw acacia.”

  Much like the “Wait-a-minute” bushes I’d encountered on previous desert hikes, as in, “Wait a minute while I unhook myself.”

  By their furrowed brows and deep frowns, I figured Pete and Ed did not want to do this. Me either. Our reasons differed, though—they didn’t want to deal with thorny plants, and I didn’t want to handle poison. Thank goodness I’d brought gloves. Jodi and I were to drop gigantic aspirin-like tablets at mesquites; Ed and Pete were to sprinkle granules around catclaw acacias.

  We fanned out to cover more ground.

  Ed called out in falsetto, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty … Where are you kitty? Oh, there you are. Baaad kitty. Hiding from ol’ Ed. C’mon out from under there, kitty, Ed’s got a treat for you … bwah-ha-ha.”

  Silly boy. Ed made me laugh until my eyes teared. Later I wondered if the plants died. Mesquites have to be the toughest tree on the planet. It didn’t matter if they were burned, chopped down, or hit by lightning, they always grew back. I doubted you could successfully poison them either. I wanted to check to see if the stuff had worked, but I never could find the test plot again for the maze of roads.

  THIRTEEN

  THE GOOD THING about this summer’s crew: Opie Taylor didn’t return. The bad thing about this summer’s crew: Texas John and Pete did. At least I knew where I stood with John: I was the wrong sex in the wrong job. John I understood, and tried to ignore. Pete still mystified me.

  I finished sharpening tools used on our last fire and stepped inside the fire cache to put them away. Pete stood at the work bench, repairing a chainsaw. I asked if I could help.

  “Why? Do you think I can’t handle this?” he asked, sounding irritated.

  “Oh, no, of course not. I just thought I could give you a hand.” Humiliating.

  Why did I keep trying to be nice to this guy?

  A few days later Skinny Wilson felt the need to tell me Pete didn’t like working with me. That stung. Pete must have known his comment would get back to me and that stung more. Questions and self-doubt clouded my mind. Did he think I didn’t work hard enough? Or that when I tried to be nice I was coming on to him? Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Glenn sent me with Pete in the morning to trim the huge oak trees lining the road to the campground in Madera. Stuck alone all day with someone who doesn’t like me? Just great. I slid into the truck next to Pete, replaying the tape of what Skinny Wilson said on a continuous loop all the way to the job site.

  Once there, anger fueled me like I’d overdosed on caffeine. I pushed hard, sawing limbs of the tall trees with a long-handled pruner, dragging trimmings to the trailer and flinging them inside. I crawled on top of the brush and stomped it down to compact the load. Pete ran the chainsaw, ignoring my furious pace. At lunch, I wolfed down my food, and went right back to work. Pete raised his eyebrows, but said not a word.

  I stormed into my quarters at five-thirty, flinging the door shut with a satisfying slam. Exhausted, tearful, and feeling like no one believed I ever worked hard enough, I took a shower to wash off the sweat, dust, and bad mood. I changed into cutoffs and a filmy India gauze top to connect with my feminine side. Physically I felt better, but negative thoughts continued to spin around uselessly in my head. A few steps from my quarters, I sat down on the weathered bleachers of the former ballfield we used for P.T.s to calm my thoughts. Daylight faded, and a cool breeze drifted down the canyon, sweetly scented with oak and summer grasses.

  A screen door slammed; footsteps headed my way: Pete, with two beers in hand. “Mind if I join ya?”

  Oh, great. Resigned to his company, I accepted the offered beer. The bleachers creaked as he settled next to me and tipped his bottle up to take a swig. “Why’d you knock yourself out today?”

  Surprised that he’d notice, or care—unlike me, I spoke my mind. “I’m sure having me around ruined your day.” I immediately paid for my honesty with a major stomach twinge.

  Amused, he offered a crooked smile. “What makes you think that?”

  Was he serious? “You always give me a hard time! I must be doing something wrong.”

  “Who? Me? I give everyone a hard time.” He grinned.

  “I heard you don’t like me.” My chest tightened and my eyes watered, but blinked them back. I would not give him the satisfaction of reducing me to tears.

  He glanced at me sideways, his mouth lifting in one corner. “You don’t bother me.”

  What was that supposed to mean? That I wasn’t important enough to be liked or disliked? I didn’t respond. Crickets chirped, filling the silence between us. We finished our drinks and said goodnight. Unable to sleep, I ruminated about Pete’s indifference. Pings of self-doubt again filled me. I wanted him to like me, but couldn’t figure out how to make it happen.

  BECAUSE OF A doctor’s appointment, I missed going out with the crew, and Glenn asked me to ride along with him to check the station’s water lines. Although I tried not to think about Glenn romantically, I couldn’t control the thrill of his presence. At the Santa Rita Lodge, Glenn pulled into the empty parking lot. “I want to stop for a cup of coffee.”

  Inside, we perched on bar stools, waiting for someone to notice new customers. From the kitchen came the owner, who also served as our waitress. I recognized her from Monday cleanup days, when I ordered an iced tea and sat on the patio. With dark circles under her eyes, hair askew, and shoulders slumped—she always looked like she’d just crawled out of bed.

  Moseying over to us, lit cigarette between her lips, she asked, “What’ll you have?” She brushed stray hair from her
eyes.

  I ordered iced tea.

  In his usual gruff demeanor, Glenn said, “I’d like a cup of coffee … today’s coffee.”He winked at me.

  Her frown deepened as she snatched the coffee pot and poured the dark brew. She slammed the mug down in front of Glenn. Next she plopped down my glass of tea and retreated into the kitchen. We spent a silent, but comfortable, fifteen minutes, while Glenn drank his coffee and smoked another cigarette. I nursed my vile-tasting beverage, which had never spent any quality time with a real teabag. He tossed some change on the counter, and we left.

  Back on the road, he gave me a wry smile. “Too damned cheap to brew a new pot.”

  For a moment, I thought to touch his arm when I laughed, but stopped myself. This was not the time or place, and besides, he didn’t have feelings for me. At least, not that I could tell.

  Most of the morning, we walked the water line originating from springs in the mountains. Springs always fascinated me: pure water, leaking out of the ground from rains and snowmelt, even after months of dry weather. I envisioned a labyrinth of tunnels, weaving and meandering underground, before finding a place to surface.

  The sound of gurgling led us to a broken pipe. I returned to the truck and brought Glenn a hacksaw, two pipe wrenches, and a repair coupling. We sat on the ground while he patiently showed me how to install the part. He stood up and adjusted his cowboy hat.

  “Good skill for you to learn,” he said.

  We found no more leaks to repair and returned to the station mid-afternoon. I assumed I’d be on my own until five, but Glenn wanted to show me how to splice rope. After a stern reminder to myself to not read into this, I sat with him on the steps of the fire cache, very close, almost touching. He smelled pleasantly of tobacco and leather.

  “You start by untwining one end,” he said, giving me a length of rope to unwind. “Now, overlap both ends and braid together.” As he took my hands in his to demonstrate, his touch was electric. Our blue eyes met for a fleeting moment. He turned away.

  This man was such an enigma. I wanted to know everything about him. Joe had mentioned that Glenn was a mule-skinner, someone who led pack-mule teams. Texas John told me about the metal plate in Glenn’s head.