The Crew
I.
Dillon had a
bit of ocean tattooed on his right leg and Lynn had the long angled eyelashes
of a filly and Lee was missing a row of bones on the cuff of his left wrist.
Olivia had the strong, thick hands and feet of her father, and Jack, who had a shiny scar patch on his right cheek, called me “Clarise,” said “you’re my tough
girl.” There were eight of us: the Kings Peak 2012 crew, residents of lonely
Stockmore Guard Station; eight of us with thoughts and intricacies; eight of us
complicating one another.
We came from
all parts—from Georgia and Montana, from Washington, California and Michigan, from
Salt Lake City and small town Duchesne and little Waverly, Iowa. Our module
leader, Jack, had twelve fire seasons to his name; our permanents, Lynn and
Lee, eleven and seven respectively. Olivia had rung up six seasons, Denny had
five, and then there was Dillon, Mason and me, rookies looking down the barrel
of our first fire season.
Every member
of a fire crew has a job, finds themself slotted into the hierarchy. Jack, our GIS
whiz, wrangled data in all of its mappish and other forms; Lynn often stepped
in as operations, helping Jack with crew decisions and assignments; Lee and
Denny ran the saws, Dillon and Mason swamped for them, chucking away cut brush
and trees (occasionally giving themselves bloody noses or disappearing in
theatrical acrobatics down the sides of hills); Olivia sat lookout, or ran the
squad, or did what I did, which was digging line and a bit of everything else,
of whatever else was needed. We all had different roles, liable to change, and it
took some navigation at the beginning to get the hang of how we fit together.
And then one day, not too far along, it happened: as Lynn liked to say, we got dialed.
II.
Lynn had
started out on a throw-together handcrew, sampled hotshotting a few years later, and once turned down the invitation to try smoke jumping; Lee got his permanent
position after switching to an engine crew; Olivia had tried engines,
progressed to helitack and now found herself here, on a fire use module.
There are
six types of fire crews, each with their own specialties, rivalries and
reputations—some, I came to learn, more fitting than others.
Smokejumpers
Jumpers
parachute into remote wilderness fires where they will receive minimal outside
support. They are usually self-sufficient and able to fully oversee fire
operations. Jumpers don’t work in set crews; instead, they are associated with
certain jump bases—McCall in Idaho, Grand Junction in Colorado, Missoula in
Montana— and will jump in sticks of two firefighters or loads of seven. The
command hierarchy is also somewhat more fluid: the JIC, or Jumper In Charge, will
vary depending on jump order as well as quals.
Because jumpers
are working unassisted in difficult-to-reach areas, they need to be able to
handle a variety of situations, not the least of which is landing without
busting a femur or two. For this reason, rookie jumpers are put through boot
camp to test their dedication: fitness tests with 45lbs, 90lbs and 120lbs
packs; 24-hour line digs on rough terrain; marathons; an entire season of being
early-morning-coffee-boy. And that’s before they’re pushed out of an airplane
with nothing but a chute and some Spam shoved down their jumpsuits.
.JPG)
If there is
a fire food-chain (which there is), smokejumpers—having beaned hotshots with a
can of Spam—are at the top. Once on a fire, they generally seize all control,
which might be a bigger problem if jumpers weren’t (as a general rule) very
qualified. The recipe for the perfect jumper candidate goes something like
this: a few years on a hotshot crew, a basic understanding of module work
(smoke and weather observations, GPS missions, fire behavior), certification as
a C sawyer (A=beginner, B=skilled, C=masterful) and the overwhelming ability—nay,
desire—to eat shit as a rookie. (I once discussed this stereotype with a “snookie,”
or second year rookie jumper, who denied it amiably: “Anyone can jump,” is what he
said. A 6’5’’ former Marine, he was built like an action figure and had run the chainsaw on a hotshot crew for four
years prior. Yes, clearly “anyone”
can jump.)
Perhaps not entirely
unsurprisingly, jumpers have earned quite a reputation for themselves in the
fire world. Because they usually run the show and don’t have to fear angry
overhead telling them to get their shit together, they’re known for being lax
about certain things, namely PPE. Most firefighters aren’t huge fans of wearing
their hardhats and yellows in areas not yet touched by fire, but jumpers are
about the only ones who will actually shed gear. For example: going “jumper
style” refers to not tucking in a yellow, not wearing a hardhat, not carrying
line gear, etc. Then there’s the
preening bit of their reputation, eloquently put in this joke (most likely made
by a hotshot):
Q: How do y’know
a jumper’s at the party?
A: He tells you.
Lastly,
there’s the supposed jumper motto, “sun’s out, guns out.” Initially skeptical, I
realized there might be some validity to this one when I experienced it
firsthand. On multiple occasions.
All that
being said, I’ve got to say that I really liked working with jumpers. Yeah,
they weren’t exactly militant about every little rule, but good God, sometimes
not wearing full PPE on a hot day miles away from a barely smoldering fire wasn’t
exactly the worst thing ever. So, there you go: affable, hardworking and probably
having more fun than you way out in the woods.
Hotshots
Shot crews
are twenty-person line digging machines. They work initial attack, which means
they’re the first ones on a fire, thundering away at the critical moment when
the fire is either corralled or blows up. They’re structured a bit differently
with a crew boss overseeing two foreman, those foreman overseeing two squad
bosses, and those squad bosses overseeing everybody else (“the shitbags,” as a
former shot called them). Hotshot crews rely on efficiency and a certain lock-step
mentality. They’ll send out saw teams (a sawyer to cut trees and a swamper to remove
the debris) to clear a rough path for the line, then follow with a locomotive
of digging power. Not exactly “free thinkers,” shall we say, they dig a
three-foot wide line across, over and through any type of terrain, generally despite fuel type. Every shot
has an assigned position in the line—third Pulaski, say, or first saw—and that
is what they will do all season long. (I have been informed that being first Pulaski—lead P—is an exalted honor for which shots have labored for years to attain.) They will sit in the same seats on their
special buggies and they will not complain about eating MREs day in and day out
and they will, of course, get to see some truly monstrous fire.
And that’s
the up and the down all in one: lots of fire and lots of work. Shots generally
work 700 to 1,000 hours of overtime, which adds up to quite a few 16 hour days. They’re
usually the most military-like crews (although this really varies) and they’re
known for their unflinching work ethic: a shot crew in Alaska, the Midnight
Suns, has a crew boss who (one might say sadistically) won’t let his
firefighters sit down even during mandatory breaks. And let’s talk about hot lining:
hours and hours of hefting a 35lbs chainsaw all over the woods to cut down
trees that are literally on fire
probably with someone screaming at you to move faster. Sounds like a peach,
yes? But then again, here’s the upside: fire. And getting to put fire on the
ground. Whenever there’s a call for a big burnout, shots will often get to step in and have some fun
with drip torches. They sleep in a perfectly spaced line (probably in tool order), work 0600 to 2200, and dig line over some of the foulest landscapes
known to man, but yes, in due time, there is fun with drip torches.
Modules
Modules are
trained to collect data and approach fire from a critical and analytical standpoint. On
suppression fires, in addition to digging line and laying hose, modules track
the weather, record fire observations, take photo points of critical areas,
perform structure assessments, map the fire perimeter and occasionally
interface with the public. They are assigned tasks—such as running browns transects to determine the dryness of an area or collecting fuel samples—that are meant to assist
overhead in strategic decision making. Modules also manage fire use fires in the wilderness, where
they are often the only resource in the area and are in charge of monitoring
fire activity and growth while providing data, maps and photos to nearby ranger
districts. (Check out what I have to say about fire use fires versus suppression fires here.)
As this was
my type of crew, I will avoid going into a paroxysm of information, except to say that what I especially
liked about working on a module was the flexibility of the
crew: sometimes we dug like a handcrew, sometimes we rolled hose with engines,
sometimes we burned with hotshots, sometimes we set up sprinklers with
smokejumpers, sometimes we manifested sling loads with helitack, and sometimes we did those
module-specific things, like wandering down the treads of a wayward bulldozer
with a GPS or hauling propane tanks away from houses during structure assessments or hiking miles and miles through the wilderness to run a portable pump at a decades-old bridge.
Our reputation
as modules—mostly due to fire use fires, where we monitor instead of suppress—is
that we don’t really do anything: “So you just like to look at fires, eh?”
It’s not a totally unfair criticism, as modules do spend quite a bit of time looking at fire use fires while collecting data; that is, after all, kind of the point. (Again, check out fire use versus suppression tactics.) Of
course, spending half of my season on suppression fires (when line was dug and
piss pumps were carried) and logging more than a few eight to fourteen mile
days on fire use fires (sometimes while towing a crosscut saw) didn’t exactly
feel like nothing to me.
Handcrews
Also
twenty-person line digging crews, handcrews are often brought in after hotshots
and do a lot of mopping up, or post-fire cleanup. This could include (but is
not limited to) checking an area for hotspots, putting in more line, putting in
indirect line, or containing spots. The firefighters on handcrews truly deserve
a pat on the back: they’re often doing the long, monotonous, seemingly endless
work that everyone else is avoiding at all cost. With twenty people, they pack
a lot of manpower and cover ground fairly quickly, which usually means their
arrival is lauded by other crews eager to do something—anything—besides cold
trailing through miles and miles and miles of woods.
Engines
The number
of firefighters on an engine crew depends on the size of the engine. Engines
come in an array, from the leviathan Type I to the more modest Type VI. For
practical reasons (bad roads, switchbacks, trees), the biggest engines used to
fight wildfires are Type IV engines, which are hose-laden, large-wheeled and sport a
collection of nozzles. Type VI engines—big diesel trucks with fitted tanks—are also
extremely useful and are wrangled by just two crew members. Apparently only
California uses Type V engines (not a clue why), and Type I – III engines are only used
by structure firefighters.
For obvious
reasons, water is a very good thing when it comes to fighting fires. Sadly,
engines aren’t always able to make it into a fire—making everyone’s day just a
little bit worse—which is where hose lays come in. Hefting a coiled roll of
hose, generally a few hundred feet long when extended, over a shoulder, firefighters’ delicately
fling the mass and, if all goes well, a line of hose unfurls itself
tangle-free. (I’m sure this does happen, quite frequently, on engine crews.
Unfortunately, all of my experiences with laying hose involved either a wild
swing which unrolled about three feet of hose before tangling, or the middle of
the coil falling out, thus forcing me to unroll the whole mess by hand. I remain wholeheartedly convinced that rolling
hose is an art form.) Hoses are connected with
gated wyes and nozzles, which can lead to a spider-webbing of hose
through the woods. Keep in mind that people are hauling and unrolling this hose
as they go (and those rolls are not light), that all the right sized pieces are
needed to connect hose (the magnitude of which cannot be understood until you’ve gotten many miles out before making this discovery), that hose has the tendency to leak, burst and get burned over, and that the engine must have adequate pumping power to produce more than a slight drizzle at the end and, well, you’ve
got an idea of some of the headaches of engine life. Not to mention
collecting many, many feet of hose after the fire's been dealt with. Hoo boy.
Helitack
These fine
folks work with helicopters. Helicopters are used to transport personnel and
supplies, drop buckets of water on particularly ripping areas, and give
overhead a better view of the fire. Helitackers facilitate all
of this by communicating with the pilot in the air and firefighters on the ground,
making helipads so the helicopter can land, briefing firefighters on flight
policies and etiquette before they go up, and manifesting sling loads so that
helicopters aren’t attempting to lift supplies that are too heavy, which could
cause the craft to crash. Helitackers get to pick up on the intricacies of
their aircraft (there’s a whole lot to learn about helicopters, most of which
sounded like gibberish to my unknowledgeable ears) and the idiosyncrasies of their pilots; they’re also, affectionately,
known as “helidonnas” and “helislack” because, a perk of traveling with a helicopter,
they often spend nights in hotels while everybody else tosses out sleeping bags
in the woods.
Brief (but
necessary) disclaimer: I’m a GS-3.
These definitions are based on the things I saw and learned during one season
of fire; I am in no way an expert, nor can I claim any great, all-encompassing
knowledge of fire crews. Again: I’m a GS-3. That fire food-chain I mentioned
earlier? I’m at the bottom.
*Names and
some details have been changed.
Lingo
Permanents: Firefighters hired to work beyond the immediate fire season; they are officially absorbed into the government apparatus, which means a 20-year retirement package, paper work and job security.
Rookies: First season fire folk.
GIS: “A geographic information system (GIS) lets us visualize, question, analyze, interpret, and understand data to reveal relationships, patterns, and trends.” Using GIS, Jack was able to
display fire progression, fire perimeter, structures, key areas, and other data
in map form.
Dialed: An efficient crew that works in
synch.
PPE: Personal Protective Equipment,
including green nomex pants, yellow nomex shirt, earplugs, eye protection, hard
hat, fire approved boots, line gear and gloves.Burnout:
Line digging: Creating a fuel break (using chainsaws and tools) by removing standing fuels and scrapping down to pure mineral soil; when the fire reaches the line, it cannot move beyond it because there is nothing left to burn.
Pulaski: A tool used to dig line; good for breaking up rough ground; always positioned at the head of the line.
MREs: Initially designed for military use, a “Meal, Ready-to-Eat” is a small brown package containing a high-calorie meal and is eaten when other food cannot be delivered to firefighters; it includes such delights as instant coffee (usually taken as a swilled-with-water-in-mouth shot), a flameless heater (which must be leaned against “a rock or something” while in use), jalapenos cheese spread, Hoo Hah! chocolate bars and such wonders as “Boneless Pork Chop,” “Beef Patty” and “Sloppy Joe Filling”; according to the inspired packaging, MREs are “Warfighter Recommended, Warfighter Tested, Warfighter Approved.” After discussing said MREs with a former-Marine-current-Smoke-Jumper, who lived on nothing but for six months, this was clearly not the case (although he did show me how to make a cookie with the creamer, sugar and matches in the condiments package).
Burnout: When a lot of unburned fuel exists between the fire line and the head of the fire, firefighters will conduct a burnout wherein they light the unburned fuel on fire; this creates a backing fire which slowly burns from the line into the main fire; when the backing fire from the burnout meets the head of the wildfire, the wildfire is unable to progress because all of the fuels in the area have been burnt; this method is used to stop particularly fast moving wildfires but, for obvious reasons, must be deployed and executed with extreme caution.
Drip torches: Tubular metal canisters filled with
fuel mix; a “pig-tail” snout runs out the end of the canister so that, when
pointed down, a small amount of fuel will continually run out; thus, when lit,
this snout remains on fire and shoots fuel, setting other materials alight;
used to start a prescribed fire, backing fire or burnout.
Crosscut saw: A six-foot(ish) lumberjack-of-yore saw with large teeth and wooden handles on both ends; used by two sawyers to fell or buck a tree (instead of a chainsaw); available in a variety of sizes for a variety of different cutting projects; requires coordination between the two sawyers, sharp teeth and frequent care, as a crosscut with a pinched bar will get hung up and prevent cutting; used by fire crews that need to remove fuels in wilderness areas where mechanized equipment, such as chainsaws, are not permitted.
Hotspots: Buried heat (usually in roots or stumps) that have the potential to reignite a wildfire
Spots: Spot fires refer to small fires that have jumped (or spotted) across the fire line; they are surrounded by green and have not grown back into the main fire.
Cold trailing: Running the back of one’s hand through ash on the fire’s perimeter to check for hotspots or creeping heat; a last form of mop up before a fire is declared officially dead.
Manifesting: Weighing all items so that each sling load of supplies is within the correct weight limit.
GS-3: The General Schedule (GS) is the
government’s pay scale; a GS-3 is the lowest pay grade; more experience and
qualifications equals a higher GS level (with people topping out at GS-13 or 14); by this logic, GS-3s are fairly
worthless, or so the humor goes.
Photos 1. The Kings Peak 2012 crew (looking a wee bit worn after our first two-week roll) 2., 3. & 4. Receiving cargo from jumpers in the Bridger-Teton National Forest in Wyoming (crew member's photos) 5. Friend wielding a drip torch on a burnout (crew member's photo) 6. Dillon with the crosscut saw (crew member's photo) 7. Squirt, a commandeered Type VI engine 8. Olivia manifesting herself
I’d missed the “fun” bits according to Lynn: billowing smoke
(lovely in the lungs) and ground so lively that hot boot was epidemic. By the
time the three of us arrived—now retrospectively a very, very short walk—there was
little more excitement than some slightly puffing trees and ash. It was a human
start, some poor guy lighting up his house by accident, and despite
its coverage on the evening news, not too wild a thing. That first night I was
saddled with a pencil hose (undoubtedly my blank-in-the-face look inspired
pity), and I spent the evening spraying ash, the occasional on-fire tree and whomever
happened to be near me.
We employed a search-and-destroy stratagem. Wisps of smoke
beckoned. I stirred hot dirt. I dug out burning root systems. I wacked on
stumps with my Pulaski until they were pulpy bits of scattered wood scrap. And
yes, when all else had failed me, I dutifully rubbed some dirt on it.
.jpg)
.JPG)
.JPG)
