Suddenly Mark was
standing over me. “Wake up. Tim, wake up.”
There was smoke in
the air, all around us. I sat up feeling
as if I had died and woken in the land of the dead, or in some Dantean level of
Hell. Voices wandered through the thick
smoke.
“Did I fall asleep?”
“Well, if you did it
was only for a minute.” Mark was taking
the orange plastic safety cover off his shovel, revealing the razor-sharp
edge. “The hotshots got up a minute ago
and started cutting line around the fire.”
“Mark, I need some
help. I think I’ve got a huge blister
and the back of my foot is just killing me.
What can I do?”
He rummaged around
in his shirt pocket, pulled out a strip of something and tossed it to me. It looked and felt like hairy duct tape.
“Moleskin.” He
said. “Take the cover off and put it
over the blister. It will adhere pretty
strongly. Then put your sock and boot
back on in a hurry, so your foot doesn’t swell.”
I stood quickly
after following his advice, excited now that I would finally get to work. No more climbing. I removed the safety cover from my own
shovel.
The two of us
followed the sounds of tools clanging and scraping ahead and discovered the
fire line. It verged off the trail to
the left, skirting the edge of the fire.
The trail served as a fire line itself, the fire unable to jump the
strip of bare earth to the dry leaves and grass beyond. Thus, the fire was, for the moment, trapped
in the V created by the trail and fire line.
Our intention would be to close that V and surround the fire.
We walked a short
distance along the scoured stripe of soil until we found the Mormon Lake crew.
When hotshots ‘cut
line’ they attack the earth, in single file, with chainsaws, pulaskis, shovels
and rakes. The chainsaws go first,
circling the fire, cutting limbs and roots and even felling small trees in
order to clear a path. Those carrying
pulaskis follow, chopping and prying at what is left, removing large obstacles
and digging up roots and grass with their picks. Shovels come next, scraping all the detritus
of this assault away from the fire, leaving nothing but exposed soil. Rakes come last, taking care of details,
making sure that the line is wide enough and clear of all flammable
materials. When the fire, separated from
more fuel, reaches this line it dies there, leaving nothing but charred earth.
The line we followed
was a foot wide. The hotshot we found
was a middle-aged black man down on his knees with a little, yellow, plastic
hand-rake in one hand and a small paintbrush in the other.
“Hi there.” He said
without looking up. “Name’s Quality
Control. Work’s up ahead for you
boys.” He waved the little hand rake up
the line. I thought it was cool that
people had code names, like G.I. Joe.
Quality Control was
several yards behind the last shovel bearer, whom we could see in the smoke
ahead of us. Mark and I filled this
gap. I put on my goggles. The smoke and the dust was so thick I took
off my helmet, peeled off the sweaty bandanna that I had worn under it and tied
the wet cloth over my face. It stank of
sweat and hair.
We went to work,
prodding and scraping the soil and stones below. With twenty people ahead of us there was
little work left, though Quality Control, who had slipped back a few yards
since our arrival, stayed busy, touching and brushing the line delicately. He reminded me of a baker finishing an
expensive cake.
An hour passed like
a dream. Smoke rolled above and all
around us. The flames were at times right
up against the line and as high as my knee.
The heat was fierce on my face and noticeable even through my protective
gloves. Every now and then I was
startled by a sudden sense of certainty that the fire was all around us, that
we were trapped. But I continued
stepping up the line. Somewhere ahead,
lost in the smoke, chainsaws screamed.
The rushing whir of helicopter rotors briefly burst through the din of
the fire and the clatter of our tools.
Up ahead, people
began to pass a message down the line, from person to person. Though few of us were more than six feet
apart, the message had to be shouted. I
watched the hotshot in front of us bellow at Mark, his lips moving extravagantly. Then Mark turned to me.
“They say you should
only put dry cloth over your mouth.” He yelled. “To breathe through.”
“Why?”
“Because the hot air
will steam your lungs through wet cloth!”
Steamed lungs, I
thought. It sounded like a dish in some
Chinese restaurant. Steamed lungs of dugong.
Maybe a Norwegian meal. I pulled
the bandanna down around my neck, found a new one in my pack and put it
on. Quality Control bumped into me.
“Lift ‘em up and put
‘em down, kid.” He said, never taking his eyes off his work. “The work’s that way.” He gestured in the familiar manner toward the
wall of roiling smoke into which Mark had disappeared.
Following the
furrowed path I soon found Mark, who was diligently scraping dirt. I did the same, grimacing in pain every time
I swallowed. I assumed it was the smoke
I had inhaled while changing bandannas.
The ground became
hilly and, following the line, Mark and I sidestepped up and down the rises, wordlessly slashing at the terrain with our now less-than-razor-sharp
tools. The smoke cleared up some, as the
hotshots began to cut farther away from the flames for strategic reasons I
didn’t hesitate to ponder. Glancing up
occasionally, I could see smoke-shrouded figures at the front of the line,
chainsaws shrieking in their trembling hands.
Behind them, helmeted men and women swung their tools, gouging the earth
and gelding the fire. Mark and I made up
the near end of this line. Quality
Control followed at some distance, but never out of sight.
Mark tapped me on
the shoulder. I looked up. He was pointing up the line. Brian, Manny, Chad and Helen were coming our
way, pulaskis in hand.
Sedona crew is gonna
move off the line.” Brian shouted a
little louder than necessary. He
continued in a lower tone. “The Mormon
Lake crew is about to join their line to the Flagstaff crew’s line and close
this side of the perimeter. We’re going
to the helicopter landing to unload supplies.”
“How’d the Flagstaff
shots get ahead of us?” I creaked.
“Same way the
Prescott crew got up.” Brian replied without looking at me. “By helicopter.”
“Mountain’s getting
kind of crowded.” Mark said, smiling like well-educated, middle class men like
him smile when forced to spend time with inbred folk like Brian. We moved out.
I was a little
disappointed. As tiring as cutting line
was and as much as my joints ached, I wanted to keep going. Instead I was being demoted to loading
lackey. And I had the strange feeling
somehow that it was my fault.
We walked up the
line, behind the hotshots. Soon we could
see the Flagstaff crew, their blue helmets bobbing up and down in rhythm with
their tools. They were only ten yards
from connecting their line to Mormon Lake’s.
We walked along behind them for a while.
They were cutting a fair distance from the fire and lighting backfires
inside the perimeter, igniting the pine needles and undergrowth with spitting
flares. For a few moments we were
enveloped in smoke as the backfire exhaled all over us. Still, I could see the black earth of the
fire line to my right and the occasional pair of legs, clad in Nomex, and I
followed them.
When we emerged from
the smoke the Sedona crew was still together.
Led by Brian we departed from the line and set out into the ‘green’, the
unburned area outside of the fire’s perimeter (the burned sections were called
the ‘black’). The fire line, clean
enough to eat off, arced away beneath the trees. The ground burned beyond that thin
stripe. For a long while we could still
distinguish the whine of chainsaws from the general roar of the raging
mountaintop.
“Just how big is this
fire?” I asked.
Without turning
back, Helen said, “Brian talked to Doug over the radio. He estimated about forty acres, but there
are-“
She stopped speaking
when Brian came to an abrupt halt and raised one hand in the air. He appeared to be listening to
something. A few seconds later I heard
it as well — a growing buzz that threatened to become a roar.
“It’s coming from
there.” Helen said, pointing above the
trees forward and to the left of us.
“Let’s take cover.”
Brian said.
Manny, Chad and
Helen needed no further instructions.
They sat down against the trunks of nearby trees, facing away from the
noise and towards the fire. Mark and I
looked at each other and at Brian.
Grumbling, he led us to two other trees and told us to sit down, facing
in the same direction as the others, with our arms over our heads holding down
our helmets and our knees drawn up.
The noise increased
as he spoke, drowning out his words. I
wondered hysterically about what the hell was happening. I didn’t have time to figure it out. There was a loud whoosh overhead. Disobeying Brian’s orders I looked up. A C-130, which I recognized from my eldest
brother’s photos of his days in the Army Rangers, flew low overhead, toward the
inferno. The treetops swayed.
We got moving again. Helen explained to Mark and I that planes
dropped flame retardant on the fire, but occasionally they missed their mark
and dropped thousands of gallons of pink foam on firefighters.
“The new stuff they
use won’t kill you, but if you get hit it could knock you down and cause an
injury.”
There was a new
spring in my step. It was worth leaving
the fire line to nearly get bombed. In
my mind’s eye I saw myself; one man on a blazing rock. With others, I struggled to master an
unleashed force of nature. Overhead,
helicopters and planes buzzed and hovered, attacking and reforming to attack
again. I was proud to be a human being,
a member of such a brave, sturdy race that we dared to defy the very forces of
nature that had created us.
Brian decided that
we should stop and eat. None of us had
eaten during the entire ordeal and it was past noon.
Everyone began to
ask questions and discuss what they heard as they pulled fruit, sandwiches,
MREs, and water out of their packs. Doug
had apparently been put in charge of the fire by the District Fire Chief, which
was why we hadn’t seen much of him.
There were sixty fire fighters on the mountain with several helicopters
and a C-130 attached to the operation.
As everyone else
chatted I was having a hard time swallowing my food. My throat ached. The crumbs I managed to swallow felt like
shards of glass caught in my esophagus.
I said as much and asked if it was due to smoke inhalation.
Helen shook her
head, chewing on a government issue frankfurter. “You probably steamed your esophagus. Did you have a wet bandanna over your mouth?”
I nodded. “But I took it off after a while.”
“You got lucky
then.” Manny interjected. “Much longer and you would have steamed your
lungs as well. Then you’d be in bad
shape.”
Mark looked at me as
if he had just heard that I had cancer.
“What’s going to
happen to me?” I asked hollowly.
The professional
fire fighters laughed out loud at that, choking on their food.
“Nah, man.” Brian
said. “If you’ve made it this far, it’s
probably no big deal. You’ve got a
sun-burn in your throat is all.”
I was so relieved
that I forgot to be dazzled by Brian’s eruption of vocabulary.
“It’ll go away.”
Helen said. “But it’ll be hard to eat
for a day or two.”
We continued
chatting for a few minutes, eating and staring out at the terrain. The fire was a few hundred yards behind us
but we could still hear it. A hundred
yards ahead of us, according to Brian, the trees ended and a clearing dominated
the South end of the plateau. There the
supply helicopters would soon begin to descend.
Eventually we moved
on and set up camp near a decent landing spot.
Manny, Brian and Chad unloaded the helicopters as they came down. Helen, Mark and I organized the supplies and
base camp.
By sunset the fire
was contained, caught inside a boundary of fire line, bare rocks and flame
retardant. Not far from the camp, pink
flame retardant had been dumped on open ground between the fire and the edge of
the plateau. Squads of hotshots took
turns walking over this Martian landscape that glowed at dusk like the embers
of the fire they had extinguished.
That night, in one
of many paper sleeping bags flown in by the USFS, I bedded down beneath a pine
tree just two hundred yards from the dying fire’s futile glow.
I awoke. Pine branches shuddered above me in the early
morning light. The wind blew gently,
cautiously returning to the scene of the crime.
Brian whispered my name.
“Get up. And wake up Mark. After breakfast gets here you two are going
on patrol. Get your boots on.”
I laced up my boots
with a smile on my face, noticing that it took Mark just a little bit longer to
rouse himself. The resilience of
youth. I had that, at least. I felt wonderful, though I was filthy,
covered in dust, smoke, ashes and sweat.
Nascent cramps whimpered in my legs and back and shoulders. But my head was clear, as if something heavy
and dark had been purged from my mind.
The distant sounds
of helicopter rotors beating the air brought a smile to my face. Breakfast was served. Before heading to camp I walked across the
Martian surface and looked down upon Sedona as the Sun burst into the sky.
For a moment I felt
a connection with the vortex hunters. If
you were unbalanced enough to believe all that garbage, this was good place to
be crazy. God knows, it was a great
place to be a fire fighter. And, after
all, it wasn’t such a bad place to be a janitor.