27 May (Tue) Never have to pause to think of first words
for the first entry of a new season’s log: Today is day #1 of my 15th season on the Bridgeport
Ranger District, 13th as a
wilderness ranger, 10th summer
at Piute Cabin. Reduced crew this year: Mike didn’t come back; Brian Cochran
returned for a second stint in Bridgeport; Yeti…me…that’s it. Greta is here for
perhaps her last summer. This year, she’s also in charge of the Carson-Iceberg
and Mt. Rose Wildernesses until they hire a new manager on the Carson [another district
of Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest] so our be-loved boss gets to take care of
the whole bag. She’ll be gone more and I’ll likely be almost boss-free. Too bad
for us—we need her more than ever on the local turf. ◦◦◦◦◦ Rick Dunlap
(helitack foreman) came into the room while we were signing papers and said he
was doing step-tests [physical fitness test seasonals must “pass” to qualify
for firefighting duty]. Everyone knows I have zero desire to fight fire (quite
an anomaly that way…no one can understand why I routinely turn down the
opportunity for “easy” money in the form of boo-coo overtime) and I haven’t taken the thing for
probably ten years. Brian said he was ready and then Greta piped up, “Tim’ll
take his, too.” I said nothing but arched my brows questioningly in her
direction. We took it and passed. Minutes later, Stuart, our AFMO [Assistant Fire
Management Officer] came in looking for bodies to help with a prescribed burn
up in Buckeye Canyon tomorrow and just
like that (snap fingers here) I was signed up for fire duty. Groan. Oh,
well; it’s good to help out with the other shops from time to time as a show
of, um, solidarity. Gotta show up tomorrow
morning at the warehouse, oh-seven-hundred. Went over there and some kid on one
of the engine crews issued me my web-gear [a sort of small backpack made
largely of flat nylon webbing]. ◦◦◦◦◦ Brian and I finished the day out at the
barn organizing the tack rooms [where saddles and pack equipment are stored] and
visiting the ponies. Great to see old Valiente (who’s starting his 19th season!). Surprised
by the hearty little burst of emotion I felt in our greeting, scratching him behind
his ears just the way he likes, seeing his mildly quizzical recognition…almost as if he was a bit glad to see
me. Since I know horses just a little, I can’t feel any vanity because that
quickening in his eye and perking of his ears when I approached was entirely a
sudden remembrance: Oh! It’s that scruffy
guy with the round glasses who sometimes gives out free snacks for nuthin’.
28 May
(Wed) A most enlightening day but a
complete fiasco. ◦◦◦◦◦ The burn was up the Buckeye Road a couple miles, halfway
to the campground. No idea why they chose this particular patch, 80 acres worth
of “fuels reduction.” Of course, it’s a drop in the bucket. Cost: about
$10,000. Districts are allotted funds for these deals. Half a dozen engines, 20
firefighters and their various supervisors. ◦◦◦◦◦ Got off to a slow start thanks
to waiting 45 minutes for a young lady from the office to show up (she to
contact curious visitors on the road) so we could begin the briefing. Things
got bad for me right off, then got worse. It was time to head up the
already-dug fire line and I strapped on my fire pack which I’d not even tried
out yet. The thing was loaded with four quarts of water, fusees, headlamp,
meal-in-a-box, file, gloves, extra batteries…a heavy lump of a pack. I’d managed
to be issued this thing, this spider-web of a pack, that was sized to fit a dwarf. I let out all the straps as far
as they’d go but the waist belt came right over my navel and was so tight I
couldn’t take a full breath. The padded sections of the shoulder straps didn’t even
come to the top of my shoulders and thin, 1” nylon webbing dug into my
collarbones, causing arms to go numb. My radio was hanging from the waist belt
and, on the stiff hike uphill, its weight caused the 2” webbing band to slip
through the buckle and, twice, our group had to stop when my radio fell into
the dirt and I had to put myself back together. Couldn’t breathe! Arms going
numb, grumbling & whining. Put my radio inside the pack (big no-no) and
pressed on, sweating already. Briefly wondered if I was being hazed. ◦◦◦◦◦
Started the show. My job was to “hold line” at the top of the burn…keep a sharp
eye out to prevent embers from starting spot-fires up the slope. In minutes we
were all engulfed in dense smoke, choking and wiping tears away. I wondered,
for the umpteenth time, How do these
people do this for a living? Small trees were “torching”: within seconds, a
30 foot Jeffrey pine would go up like a flaring match and just as quickly die
out, leaving a smoldering skeleton with all needles gone. Most impressive. Saw
one incredible thing, the only event that made this day rewarding: a “fire
whirl” was born on the slope just below me and roared to life. These things are
common in this game—like a dust devil made of fire. This one was only about
five feet high, a twirling bundle of dense orange flame that walked over the
ground emitting a sound like nothing I’ve heard: a small, muffled roar with a
raspy-scrapey quality. Stood and gaped at the thing in awe. ◦◦◦◦◦ The day was completely
boring thereafter. Had to breathe much smokage at first but when the guys
torching it off had moved downhill and the upper part of the burn was settling down
it became tolerable. I just had to pace back & forth across a section and
keep an eye out for spot-fires. Almost immediately I broke one of the premier rules:
just couldn’t wear that pack; way too
painful, so I took it off and walked around without. Something firemen never do—never! (You have to be ready to move out in a serious hurry and never leave your gear behind.) But when
others were around I’d put it back on again. Once, got called on the radio by
George—the foreman whose crew I’d been assigned to—but my radio was in the
pack. Darcy, standing right beside me, let me talk into her radio when she saw me like some idiot trying to struggle out of
my rig to get at the thing. She suggested that I put the radio in my shirt
pocket. ◦◦◦◦◦ Somewhat later I embarrassed myself again, working with Wes. We
were trying to dislodge a burning log that threatened to roll, sending embers
over the line, and turn it perpendicular to the slope. Both of us were wedging
shovels under the thing to pry it up (very hot!) and I was bending over it when
the radio fell out of my pocket and tumbled right into the fire. I yanked it
out in a flash and blew all the ash off the thing to Wes’ obvious amusement.
(Stories for later: Those wilderness guys…haw
haw haw! He dropped his radio right in the fire! Did you see that?! ◦◦◦◦◦
And minutes later, a final insult. Wes says, “Tim—where’s your shelter?” These
things are small rectangular packages, strapped to the bottom of the pack, that
you open up and fold out into small, silver foil “pup tents” that are a last
resort for firemen caught in a tight place, e.g., about to get burned over. If you
need to deploy your fire-shelter, you are in deep doo-doo. Most likely gonna
die. But these 2 pound gizmos are talismanic to firefighters, who never go on the
line without them. Many carry the things for years, wear them out without ever so
much as opening ‘em, and I’ve not met anyone who ever actually used one. (If
you do, and survive, you’ve got a story to tell the rest of your life.) So you
can imagine what Wes was thinking when I took off my pack and rustled around
inside it and told him, casually, “Hmm…doesn’t seem to be in here…guess I
didn’t get one.” Wes was obviously appalled and called over George to tell him.
To my chagrin, George reacted with stunned shock: “He…doesn’t have…a shelter?!” George then led me over to
Geoff, #2 guy on this deal, and told him firmly
that one of his crew members had
issued my gear without (gasp!) giving me a shelter! Oh, dear—now I was getting
someone in trouble. ◦◦◦◦◦ Things were under control by this time so they sent
me down by the road where I’d have an easy escape. I felt mildly humiliated by
all this rank buffoonery but mostly kind of amused; I enjoy being humbled
before my peers from time to time—good for the ol’ ego. The rest of the day,
last five hours or so, was sheer boredom. I sat in the duff breathing fumes,
watching trees torch, stumps smolder, and committed yet another mortal sin. I
confess: Verily, I didst falleth asleep
on the fire line. Repeatedly! ◦◦◦◦◦ It got to be five o’clock, then six.
The show was over and I wanted to go home. We finally reconvened at the trucks
after a complete hour was wasted, with people just standing around talking…no
one at all still working. We finally rolled back to town and got to the
warehouse at 8:00. I was in a foul temper. Never! Again!
©2015 Tim Forsell 22
Apr 2015
I remember that day well. I immediately thought of the radio incident. Great stuff! I also remember one of the fire guys with a fully loaded backpack sprayer (which hold about 4-5 gallons of water I think) running flat out into our area, hosing down a hotspot we were working on, and then dashing off before I knew what was happening.
ReplyDeleteFire management is such a fiasco. I still experience fire crews every summer and do what I can to avoid it.
Good story!