red X, along with its current spread. From there, predictive models attempt to guess where it will spread and how fast.
It’s peak fire season in northern California. Months with little to no rain make conditions ripe for fire. Add to that the hot Santa Anna winds and we’re looking at a long hard night of backbreaking work. Our shift is slated at twelve-hours, but we’ve been known to pull thirty- and forty-hour stretches.
Sometimes longer
If it weren’t for George, I wouldn’t be able to volunteer. He runs the estate when helitack and firefighter training pulls me away for days on end.
This job is grueling, but I love it. Some say we’re everyday heroes, but we’re really adrenaline junkies looking for our next fix. As for our workplace? It sometimes looks like the jaws of hell have opened before us, but we love staring down death and walk into that without fear.
Smokey completes our briefing, then we’re off. Grabbing chainsaws, axes, rakes, and other firefighting tools, we’re ready to fight the flames.
Twenty minutes later, we rappel out of the helicopter in advance of the line of fire. She’s spreading fast, gaining speed as the dry brush fuels her lust to consume and destroy.
Our goal is to keep the fire from destroying more forest land. Grady’s job is to keep it from reaching the town. I’m not sure which of us has the worst job.
The greedy bitch sucks air in to fuel her destructive blaze. The resulting wind makes for one hell of a choppy flight. Our insertion is insane and we circle around the fire and come back at it from the side.
It’s clear where the fire started and I wonder at the idiot responsible. This fire is clearly the result of human carelessness. It’s not due to lightning. The skies have been clear for days, which means there’s probably some hiker who thought the rules about fire didn’t apply to them.
The ridge is a blackened crisp. Charred scrub and ash twist in a mockery of life. Devoured by the fire, it’s a deadman’s land. The fire is done with this patch of ground. She’s moving on, seeking nourishment in the valley below.
The roar of the fire drowns out the hissing of the rope as I rappel down the line. We carry heavy equipment, chainsaws, axes, and shovels. I’m on the shovel crew, assigned to dig a trench as a fire break in case the winds shift.
Most of the smoke blows eastward, following the path of the inferno, but we’re still choked out and wear masks to protect our lungs from smoke. Our heavy protective gear hampers our movements, but we take no chances.
I’m the last man down and give the all clear signal to our pilot. The nose of the helicopter dips forward, then he takes off, returning to base to pick up the bucket.
His primary job is to support our crew, but he’ll head back to headquarters to grab a tough, lightweight, collapsible bucket which allows him to pick up water and deliver it on target while we slave away with shovels and chainsaws.
We all multitask.
I free my shovel from where it hangs on my back and join Tyler at the blackened edge of the ridge. In some ways, we’re lucky. The fire did the initial job for us. All we need is to turn the earth and create a ten-foot swath of land stripped down to bare soil. It’s the barrier which will save the forest behind us.
Once we finish, we’ll work the leading edge of the fire, following it downhill until we meet up with local firefighting support crews.
Tyler gives a grin and shoves the blade of his shovel into the soil. “Ten bucks I win.”
It’s a standing bet between us and I take him on. The first to clear fifty yards wins. The loser buys the first two rounds for the team. I’ve only lost once and might be more proud of that than wise.
“You’re on, Cosmo.”
He grimaces at the nickname, but says nothing. He can’t, and while he’s on us to change it, he knows it’s a lost cause. The thing with nicknames is once bestowed they stick. I should know, not that I mind mine. Ace is kind of a cool nickname and I prefer it to the name my mother gave me.
He got his after a particularly grueling job. It was his first with our helitack crew and Smokey bought him a drink afterward for a job well done. The bartender put his whiskey