Summers of Fire

by Strader, Linda;

  “He was riding Gardner Canyon Trail, oh, ’bout fourteen years ago. His horse spooked and fell, dumping him off. When the horse scrambled to get back up, it kicked Glenn in the head. Cracked his skull wide open. Ol’ Jack was with him. He got out the radio to call for help, but accidentally dropped it. Batteries flew everywhere. Glenn was conscious at that point, ’cause he’s told me he thought for sure he was dead if Jack couldn’t get the radio to work. Jack managed to, and Glenn was airlifted to Tucson. Tough old coot.”

  What if he’d died that day? I would’ve missed knowing him, learning from him. This tough, quiet man, full of backcountry knowledge and skills was essential to the operation of Florida. A real Forest Service employee. Why, he knew everything that I wanted to know: How to supervise a fire crew, fix a water line, build a fence, blaze a trail, ride a horse, pack mules up a mountainside … Would he teach me all of these things if I asked him to?

  A few days later, Glenn surprised me by saying I’d ride with him to a meeting in Nogales. Why me? What would the crew think? But then I thought, who cares? Glenn lit a cigarette, turned on the Forest Service radio, and focused on the road.

  After a few comments about work, he glanced over at me. “You know, I don’t understand how the guys stay away from you.”

  For a heart-stopping moment, I couldn’t think of anything to say. First off, the guys didn’t stay away from me, but I didn’t want him to know that. I forced a light-hearted laugh. But alarms went off in my head. Why would he say this? He must have feelings for me. Silence hung in the air for a few moments.

  “Now, I want you to be okay with this. All will be fine,” he said.

  Wait, what? This was so off topic, he lost me.

  “I’m going to assign you to the tanker crew with Tom and John.”

  My disappointment that he’d changed topics turned into an even bigger disappointment that he’d changed my assignment. Why? Did he think I couldn’t handle the suppression crew? Did he worry I’d get hurt? I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  “It’ll be a good experience for you,” he said, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.

  To heck with tanker experience. I wanted to stay on the suppression crew. We went to more fires than the tanker crew did.

  As if reading my mind, Glenn said, “Don’t worry, you’ll still get to go to plenty of fires.”

  That didn’t help. This felt like a demotion. I bit my lip and turned my face toward the window so he couldn’t see the tears threatening to fall.

  FOURTEEN

  May 28TH, 1977

  I had just finished writing what happened when I turned off the light and heard Glenn pull up at his house. And walk over here. And walk into this house looking for me.

  AT THE SOUND of my door opening, I leapt out of bed and dashed into the living room.

  In the dim light, Glenn swayed slightly, the strong odor of whiskey surrounding him like an invisible cloud. “Linda, I need to talk to you.”

  My heart pounded so hard, I thought it would push right through my chest.

  He stepped closer to me and fingered my hair where it lay upon my shoulder. “I think the world of you, you know.”

  Could he see me trembling in the dark? Or maybe he could feel me shake, because I sure could. He pulled me into his arms. “Linda, Linda … I really like you so much. I would love to make love to you, you know. I would. It would be wrong, but …”

  All I could do was stammer, “I … I …”

  Abruptly, he released me, and turned away. “God, Linda, this is wrong. I just can’t do this.”

  Before I could react, he pulled me back into his arms. “Come over to my house. Please. I’ll remember this moment, I promise. I won’t forget.”

  A reality check. As much as I wanted him, I made a firm decision. No way would this happen unless I was willing to let it happen—and letting it happen while he was drunk did not work for me. I told him so. Angry, Glenn jumped into his truck and left. I went back to bed, but not to sleep. Despite my fear that he would hurt me emotionally, deeply, I couldn’t think of a way to stop where we were going—to be honest, I didn’t want to.

  In the morning, on our day off, I walked next door to Glenn’s house for answers—sober answers. Sitting at his kitchen table, I found the courage to ask him, “Why do you always have to be drunk to tell me how you feel?”

  Glenn took my hand, pulled me over him, and kissed me, his fingers in my hair sending tingles down my neck. Drunk with desire, my knees weakened. I sat down on his lap, resting my head on his shoulder. How wonderful it was to have him hold me. My feelings were so strong, I had to say, “I love you.”

  He gently tucked my hair behind one ear. “You can’t, you know, you just can’t.”

  I didn’t ask why. I didn’t want to know. We talked briefly about the consequences of getting involved, with him being my supervisor and all. Probably more for his benefit than mine. I didn’t care. Caught up in him, in the moment, we agreed to meet at a motel in Tucson.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, I lay in Glenn’s arms, a sheet draped across us. The industrial-strength drapes were drawn against the sun’s rude glare, darkening the room. Did I dare ask him “what next?”

  The romantic moment evaporated when he sat up straight. “Lord, I hope there isn’t a fire. They’ll wonder where we are. Let’s go.” After he put on his cowboy hat, he turned to me. “You aren’t going to get squirrelly like women sometimes do after sex, are you?”

  My mouth fell open for a moment, then shut. Somehow I managed to answer brightly, “Of course not.”

  I swung my purse onto my shoulder and followed him out the door. It hit me while descending the staircase, with my feet feeling unconnected to the earth. He didn’t think getting involved was wrong because he was my supervisor—he thought it was wrong because I’d fallen in love with him and wanted a relationship with him, and he did not want one with me. How could I have been so blind? My soul shattered into thousands of glass shards, piercing my heart.

  Together we walked in silence to the parking lot, where waves of heat undulated from the black asphalt, the air motionless, oppressive. Alone in my car, I lay my forehead on arms crossed over the steering wheel and sobbed.

  TWO DAYS LATER, Glenn moved out of Florida to live on land he’d purchased at the base of the mountains. I knew this had nothing to do with me, but it still hurt. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe it was best to not have him living next door.

  When I returned to work, I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want Glenn to know what he’d done to me. He acted like nothing had happened between us.

  Focus, focus, focus. Think about your job and nothing else.

  FIFTEEN

  ON MONDAY, A routine cleanup day, I raked around a picnic table while Texas John shoveled out grills. Something wispy near Mt. Wrightson caught my eye. “John! Smoke!”

  Texas John set down his bucket of ashes, tipped his hardhat up, and squinted where I pointed. “Well, I’ll be hogtied, I think we got ourselves a fire.” He grabbed the radio mike and called dispatch.

  “Dispatcher, this is tanker two-two-zero.”

  “Go ahead two-two-zero.”

  “We got smoke up near Wrightson.”

  Static squawked. “Ten-four, two-two-zero. Report to Florida.”

  We raced back to the station, a surge of excitement erasing all my thoughts except the thrill of being first on the fire—initial attack.

  Glenn waited for us with welcome news. The helicopter from the Catalinas was on the way. That saved us a five-mile hike, with an elevation gain of four thousand feet. Initial attack and a helicopter ride. What could be better?

  Full of anticipatory tingles, I watched the helicopter approach, its blades chopping through the air. Taking advantage of reverse momentum to slow down, it made a wide half-circle, hovered for a moment, and settled in a whirl of dust. Helicopter rides rated near the top of my why-I-loved-my-job list. More fun than planes, they flew so close to tree tops I could wave at the squi
rrels. A Helitack crewman climbed out, placed a hand on his hardhat, crouched low, and scurried toward Glenn, downdraft flapping the legs of his Nomex pants. They shouted greetings and stood close to talk.

  Standing in line, I waited for the crewman to jot down names and total weight with gear to calculate flight order. That done, he said, “First up: Barclay, Richardson, Linda—with Linda in front.”

  Same as before. Using last names for everyone but me. Amusing. I liked that a little chivalry sometimes snuck in.

  Blades whirring overhead reminded me to duck low. I climbed into the front seat, the cockpit bouncing like an buoy. Joe said the privilege of sitting up front came from my weighing less, often matching a pilot’s small stature. Friends said that if I believed that, I was way too naïve.

  Engine high-pitched and whining, blades picking up speed, up we rose—while my darned stomach again took seconds to catch up. Soon we circled the Wrightson Fire, stirring smoke around like a giant blender. Our pilot made another pass through the shroud of smoke, flying blind. We hovered. And hovered.

  “I can’t land here,” the pilot yelled. “It’s too smoky.”

  I stared at him blankly. Wow, I guess we’re going back.

  “I’m going to hover as low as I can. You’ll need to jump out.”

  JUMP out? You want me to jump out? Adrenaline kicked into overdrive; blood pulsed in my ears. I trembled as I stepped onto the skid, holding the door frame to steady myself. I leapt into the smoky abyss. Four feet later, I landed hard, stumbling a bit before gaining my footing. Crouched low, I scurried away from the spinning blades and squatted as close to the steep edge of the helispot as I dared, waiting for the others to join me. Seconds later, they knelt beside me, and with hands on hardhats, we watched the chopper fly away.

  At the fire, we spread out ten feet apart and scratched a four-foot-wide line.

  “Bump!” I said when I caught up to the next person on the line.

  They bumped the next person, and so on. When lower limbs of a pine torched, my heart did an acrobatic flip as I remembered the training film about dangerous crown fires. Who wouldn’t be afraid of a fire burning overhead? But winds were light; underbrush minimal. If anyone could call a fire an easy one, this was it.

  By three a.m., we’d contained the eighteen-acre blaze. Wrapped in my Army jacket, I curled up on a bed of pine needles to nap, sandwiching my hands between knees for warmth, half-listening to a conversation.

  “Man, are my dogs barking,” Mark said, shucking his boots. “Did you hear what that Helitack guy said back there? ‘We stop ’em, you mop ’em?’”

  My eyes flew open. What?

  “Yeah,” someone replied. “Fly in, dig a little line, fly out. Lackeys. We do it all, thank-you-very-much.”

  Helitack crews thought they were above mop-up? Here, I’d envied their job.

  In the morning I awoke to dew on my clothes, a golden sunrise, and the sound of hooves striking rocks and scuffling dirt.

  Do I hear horses? I sat up. Glenn, on horseback, led pack mules carrying fresh food and water. Soon the aroma of coffee perking and hickory-smoked bacon sizzling in a skillet made me ravenous. Why did food eaten outside taste so much better? Maybe it was the fresh mountain air, or maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten for hours—but this simple meal combined with the fragrance of sun-warmed pine … heaven.

  Mop-up lasted for two long days until the fire was declared controlled. When the helicopter returned to give us a lift down, I was grateful, but felt guilty. After overhearing Mark’s conversation, I wondered, Is flying cheating?

  IN THE MOOD to do some shopping, I invited Jodi and Ed on a Tucson run. It’d give me a chance to ditch the Levi jeans attire—rare, but fun. I stepped into the yellow strappy sundress I’d made and placed the lovely straw-hat my best friend Gail had given me for my birthday on my head. I slipped on calf-sculpting Dr. Scholl’s sandals and left my hair unbraided.

  Cruising I-19 with windows wide open, a gust of wind blasted through the car, sending my hat sailing out a window. “Oh no!” I swerved off to the side of the road.

  “I’ll get it!” Ed said, jumping out.

  My rearview mirror reflected Big Ed’s huge bulk, dressed in a loud Hawaiian print shirt and baggy shorts, flip-flops flapping, chasing my hat down the interstate while it skipped along with the wind. What in the world were folks in passing cars thinking of that? With my hat now safely in the car, I thanked Ed profusely—one of those moments when I thoroughly enjoyed being treated like a woman. Who said I couldn’t be both tough and feminine?

  In big city Tucson, Ed was in his element—fast food joints galore; and Jodi and I hit up not a mall, but an Army surplus store to buy gear for our fire packs.

  That night, Joe rode up to my quarters on his motorcycle. What a nice surprise! With my arms wrapped tight around his waist, we sped off into the desert. I pressed my body against his back and rested my cheek on his shoulder, the air rushing by, lost in the moment and the pleasant scent of his aftershave. His firm, muscular body felt good—very good. If we could have rode forever, with no destination, no stopping, it would have been … well … magical.

  ALL OF US were ready to go out for the day, when in shuffled Big Ed a minute past eight, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, boot laces dragging on the floor. He plopped into a chair, grunting and groaning with the exertion of bending over and tying the laces.

  Mark folded his arms and laughed. “Are you dying over there, or what?”

  “It’s too damned early,” Ed said.

  Although I liked Big Ed, I didn’t get this. I looked forward to every day and always arrived early.

  Glenn shook his head and frowned. He had no patience for slackers. “The station’s gasoline tank is leaking. We need to pump it dry and dig it up.”

  Sign post holes were bad enough, but a whole gas tank? I sighed.

  With the ground as hard as concrete, we’d need heavy artillery. From the fire cache tool rack, I collected a digging bar. They weighed a ton, but I found them easier to use than a pick. Stabbing at the soil with the bar loosened a few inches. I stepped aside while Pete shoveled. Then more bar work. Then more shoveling. As the hole got deeper, I had to climb out and wait for dirt removal. I paced. Watching someone else work was about as interesting as watching rain form puddles.

  Ed’s turn was next for shovel duty. He stood in the expanding hole and wiped his brow with a bandana. “Lordy, Lordy, it’s hotter than blue blazes.” He removed his T-shirt and wrungout the sweat. “Don’t know how y’all handle this.”

  I felt sorry for Ed. He did seem to suffer more than the rest of us. At break time, I walked up the hill to my quarters and made iced tea for everyone. Smiles of gratitude made it worth the trip. We sat in the shade, sipping, crunching ice cubes, speculating how much longer the backbreaking job would take. Definitely more than one day. Or two.

  At eight-fifteen the next morning, I thought it odd Tom hadn’t shown up for work yet—he was never late. By nine o’clock I couldn’t shake an awful feeling of dread. Something was wrong. I said so, but everyone said I worried too much.

  When Robert walked up to us at the gas tank, head down, brows drawn together, my heart turned cold. No. Don’t say it. I knew something was wrong.

  “Tom’s been in an accident,” he said.

  No, no, no … this can’t be happening.

  “Clark and Pete found him next to his motorcycle in the middle of Box Canyon Road,” Robert said. “He’s in bad shape.”

  While the guys commiserated among themselves, I left, not wanting them to see me cry. On my bed, between sobs, I prayed to the powers that be, Please don’t let Tom die. An hour later, wrung out, I forced myself back to digging. I had to do something, or I’d never stop crying.

  When I arrived to work in the morning, I found everyone gathered in the office, solemn.

  Perched on a table, head bowed, Pete said, “At first we thought he was already gone. Then he opened his eyes.”

  Clark’s
cigarette smoldered between his fingers, a long ash forming at the end. “We thought he’d die there. Took the ambulance forever to find us. I’ve never seen time move so slow.”

  Afraid I’d lose Tom, I poured all my despair into excavating that gas tank, refusing breaks or trading off.

  More long days passed until I heard Tom would recover. But hearing it wasn’t enough—I wanted to see him. Standing at his hospital room door, I winced at the unmistakable hospital smell of antiseptic and bleach. A heart monitor bleeped. Was that really Tom? A shattered leg in traction, a broken arm in a cast, his head wrapped in white gauze—he looked so … fragile. But his scratched and bruised face lit up when I approached his bed. I rested my hand oh-so-gently on his lower left arm, afraid my touch would hurt.

  “Oh, Tom, I’ve been so worried about you.” My voice cracked. My resolve not to cry failed. Tears began and soon flowed freely down my cheeks.

  Tom’s eyes moistened. “It’s okay, Linda. I’m going to be just fine.”

  I both wanted and needed to believe him. I kissed him lightly above one eye, the only spot not red or purple. His eyelids threatened to close. “I’ll come back to see you, Tom.” I gave him a small smile. He feebly smiled back.

  Weeks after Tom went home to recover, some of us stopped to check on his progress.

  “You guys been to any fires?” he asked, his leg propped up on pillows.

  “A few,” Mark said.

  “We sure miss you,” I said. “When will you be coming back?”

  Tom smiled, but with sad eyes. “Prognosis is not good.” He sighed. “Looks like my firefighting days are over. I’m sure gonna miss them.”

  I understood why. I couldn’t imagine not being able to fight fires.

  “So did the sheriff ever figure out who hit you?” Mark asked.

  Tom explained all he knew. “Rancher’s kid didn’t check for traffic when he pulled onto the main road. Broadsided me, panicked, and drove away.” He didn’t know if the kid had called for help.