Chapter 6

The smell of wildfire is a unique yet familiar one. It’s smoky, with an added layer of sweet or acrid, depending on the organic compounds released. When Ponderosas burn, they have a sweet aroma like vanilla; Aspen, on the other hand, smells bitter.

As the crew clears trees and undergrowth, the annual easterly winds during early fall continue feeding the fire and make it a real bitch to work. Occasionally, our eyes are blasted with dirt and smoke, making every blink scratch and sting.

The sawyers and crew have been clearing a line twenty feet wide through the mountainside, dropping trees and removing brush that could carry fire into the canopies. The guys scrape the vegetation and other natural debris in the fire’s path, hoping to choke off its fuel supply. It’s a tedious process, but lines are made one Pulaski swing at a time.

Wildfires like this one are examples of why we need more prescribed burns. Overgrowth and vegetation feed wildfires, allowing them to spread wider and faster, causing more destruction. But if we can clear the forests of the overabundant ground fuel, then it gives us a chance to contain the fire ourselves, and prevent natural fires—due to things like lightning strikes—from getting out of hand. Which is why this job is so important. We don’t only manage wildfires, we also try to prevent them from happening.

Every year, less and less fire positions are filled. Less wildland firefighters equal less fire suppression and preventative measures. But hey, recruiting is a bitch when the perks include sleeping on the ground, spending time away from family for weeks or months at a time, pushing your body to the absolute limit day after day, and risking your life and safety in inhospitable terrain—all for the same base pay as a Starbucks barista.

You have to be a little bit crazy to choose this profession. Every person on this crew is here because they are passionate about the environment and care about our nation’s forests. Or they love setting shit on fire. Which, to be fair, the majority of us land somewhere on the spectrum of pyromania.

Truthfully, there are some fantastic rewards. I get to work outside, help the environment, travel through some of the most gorgeous, unseen places on Earth, and have coworkers who are closer to family than colleagues. When you trust your crew with your life, you become close. Some call it a trauma bond. Whatever it is, it’s forged through hard labor, sweat, and pain. Everything we do is a coordinated effort, and you give it your all. There is no work-life balance here. It’s all or nothing.

We’ve got three burners with drip torches lighting small fires as they go, burning out any pockets of fuel on the line. It’s damn near impossible to stop a raging wildfire head-on, but we can burn ahead of it, and meet it in the middle. By removing its fuel and cutting it off, we’ll have a much better chance of it dying out. Or at the very least, slowing it down.

I take a drink of water and stuff the bottle back in my bag. I’m mostly serving as quality control today, but occasionally, I reach down to collect brush, or whatever organic material we’ve torn up behind us, to throw into the green. The wind picks up, and I straighten my spine the same time King does. Then we hear it—the telltale sizzling of a tree torching. Shit.

We spin in time to witness ladder fuels transforming one of the tall pines into a towering pyre, with flames soaring up the trunk and into the crowns. Pockets of sap boil and explode from the bark with loud snaps as the tree is engulfed by the blaze, and air rushes toward the fire as it sucks in fresh oxygen to fuel itself.

The wind carries a dense stretch of smoke over our line, and a wave of hot, torrid air surges through the timber, sending fiery ash and glowing embers from the fire ahead into the unburned trees like a thousand angry fireflies.

Glowing sparks land among the pine needles on one of the tall pines, and the bough slowly catches. Flames from the first tree spread to the neighboring one, which is already igniting from the raining embers. I lament as two more trees are engulfed. Other small fires quickly catch on the forest floor below.

King lets his Pulaski drop to the ground and leans on the handle. “Well, that fuckin’ sucks.”

While there’s something alluring about massive trees turning into angry infernos, this feels like a big fuck-you from Mother Nature herself.

“Ember wash! Fifty yards!” I boom, alerting the squad leads downrange, who echo the warning to others.

I grab my radio and request Alpha and Bravo squads to help cover the area and make sure we get the spot fire put out before it gets out of control—I’ve seen embers cause spot fires over half a mile away. If it’s not dealt with quickly, that slight shift of wind will have undone eight hours of painstaking labor.

A red-hot ember slips under my collar and down the back of my yellow Nomex shirt.

“Fuck,” I grit out, slapping my hand on the scorching cinder and searing it into my skin to tamp it out. I hate when that happens. They’re worse than fire-chasing beetles .

After I’ve asked for more guys, I contact the division to request the ship do a recon flight and some bucket work to catch any spot fires we don’t have eyes on. If we can douse the nearby area, it’ll slow it down, but for now, the priority is to retreat a safe distance, anchor back into our line, flank, and pinch off the fire.

Radio static interrupts the crackle and pops of burning timber, and we get confirmation on a water drop. There’s a short turnaround with the nearby lake.

Less than ten minutes later, the steady thump of helicopter blades roars louder as it flies overhead, releasing a deluge of water and sending mist in all directions. On its way out, another radio broadcast comes in. “ All resources on the Mahonia fire, stand by for an incident weather update. ”

The Incident Meteorologist called in over the command frequency with a division warning that a massive thunderstorm is headed our way. While we get the spot fire under control, more reports come through the radios that air traffic is being grounded. It isn’t long after that we’re being instructed to return to camp.

Perched on log stumps, guys huddle around a few different campfires as they eat an early dinner. It’s eerily quiet with everyone shoveling food in their mouths without the usual dinner conversation and banter. Those who have finished eating have begun setting up their tents. Most of the time, we just sleep on the ground in our bags. Staff and crew around camp scramble to batten down the hatches as we prepare for what sounds like a wallop of a storm. Even the IMET says it’s the largest storm cell he’s seen in ten years.

As soon as I’m done scarfing down my plate of food, I head over toward the ambulance. They should be receiving the same storm updates we are, but since it’s a Sky Ridge rig, I better double-check, as a courtesy. They’re parked in a grassy area, but if they stay there, they might end up with a stuck rig when this place turns into a mud pit.

I haven’t heard who the paramedic leading the new guy is, but Matt is one of the medics from Sky Ridge, and we’ve shared a few beers in the past. He’s a decent guy, so if he’s on-site, I wouldn’t mind saying hi anyway. I jog over to the ambulance just as Matt pops out of the side door.

“Hey, man.” I grin. “Didn’t know you were going to be joining us.”

“Yeah, neither did I. We got a new hire—never been on a wildfire. Chief wanted to get some extra training in before the season’s up and see if we can offer any support.” He opens one of the exterior rig compartments and produces a couple binders with instruction materials of some kind.

“How’s the training going?”

“Great!” He throws his thumb over his shoulder. “Prescott’s in the back if you wanna introduce yourself.”

“Sure. But, hey, I actually came over because we’ve got some storms coming in. You guys may want to pull onto the gravel soon so you don’t get stranded in the mud later.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

Matt rounds the cab and hops in the driver’s side with his papers and booklets. I knock on the side door to meet Prescott, which isn’t necessary, but since he suggested it, I can’t avoid it now. I step back when I hear the handle unlatch, and damn near fall over when Scottie braces herself with her hand above the door. My smile grows bigger.

She seems just as confused to see me here. “Hi?”

“Hi… I was actually looking for Prescott, but this works too.”

She jabs a finger to her chest and grins. “Prescott. ”

The names click in my mind, and I hang my head and nod. Fucking duh . “Scottie… short for Prescott. Got it.” I’m a dumbass . When I glance back up, her smile widens.

She lifts her chin, gesturing toward the smoking hills. “Forestry, huh?”

“Firefighter.” I shrug. “I probably should have clarified, but anytime you say firefighter, people think of, well, your firefighters, and then it leads to more questions about wildfire and?—”

She holds up a hand. “No need to explain. It’s the same reason I didn’t say EMT. I was hoping to avoid the ‘ What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen ?’ interrogation.”

Guess neither of us are big fans of talking about work. A silence settles between us, and Scottie’s gaze darts left to right. “So, was there something you needed or…”

Already getting the shove off. Cool. “No, I just got done telling Matt that we’ve got some storms coming in, and since I was here, thought I’d introduce myself to the new guy, but it seems we’ve already been introduced.”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I glimpse behind me and notice our crew still setting up tents. “See those guys over there?” I point. “They’re a bunch of assholes. So if they give you any trouble, let me know.”

“So far, you’re the only one giving me trouble.” She cocks her head to the side with a friendly smile.

“And I hope to keep it that way. I gotta get set up, but have a good rest of your day, Prescott .” I turn on my heel, returning toward camp.

She chuckles. “You too.” The door of the ambulance snicks closed behind me. I shake my head. What are the fucking odds?

On my way back, I pull out my phone and shoot off a text just as raindrops start to fall.

Maybe we can still grab that dinner after all.