Montana Roll

I'm sitting in the Portland airport on a 3 hour layover. After two weeks on two different fires in Montana, the crew has been extended a third week and I have been blessed with a trip home to complete my college applications that open up tomorrow.

I was not excited to be dispatched to Montana, being as Montana is home to the dreaded "bear grass" that nearly made my hands permanently inoperable two years ago. Bear grass does not give way to a swinging tool and the rocks buried between their potato-like roots dull our tools to the point of being like a round rock. If you've never tried to dig a ditch with a round rock, I suggest you give it a try. After 12 or so hours of doing so, your hands, arms and shoulders will know what it's like to dig a day in bear grass.

Anyway, so off we went to St. Regis, MT. We spent several days prepping roads and dozer lines for a burn operation that never occurred. Prepping means to cut down brush and trees within 20-40 feet of the line that you'll be using to burn off of. After the chainsaws cut everything, the rest of us move it to the other side of the road- called "swamping". Swamping is exhausting. There are swampers on the crew who work directly with the chain saws on a regular basis. I do not have the brute strength and stamina of a swamper, therefore I am on a tool. A Pulaski to be exact. Anyway, but when we're prepping the roads, the only person not swamping is the sawyer. So after a few days of swamping, I was exhausted.

One day we actually got to burn. I was in charge of one side of the hill while the rest of my crew worked the other side. All day I hiked around and stood on a steep slope (standing on a steep slope is horrendous) directing guys with drip torches where to put down fire. My feet were done.

We spent a few more days putting out that fire and then were sent to Helena to stage...except that we weren't. We were directed to Philipsburg where there was a fire. After some finagling, my superintendent got us on that fire. It was too far to hike in, so they decided to fly us in to the fire on a helicopter. I like helicopters. I think they are cool and I like that it saves me from a lot of walking. My superintendent does not like helicopters. I think he's been in a few "hard landings".

My superintendent was in the first load, I was in the second. We laughed as he settled into the ship and then waved at us on take-off, knowing that he was thinking how he was about to die and this was the last he would ever see of his crew. Just after take-off, the helicopter stopped it's forward motion and hovered strangely. We saw the pilot's door open for a few seconds. I looked over at the helitack crew (helicopter crewmembers and support personnel) on the ground, knowing that if it was no big deal, they'd be going about their business. They both stood and stared, frozen in place. Oh my god. I thought. They're really going to crash. One crewmember had just finished telling me that she was strangely nervous about this flight, more so than her last one.

"Is the pilot's door open?" She asked. Helicopters are fairly fragile. They're made of very lightweight materials and very susceptible to movement inside the aircraft. A door opening can be very hazardous.

The door closed again, the ship hovered not very far above the ground, the helitack personnel continued to stare. We all watched and muttered obscenities. Finally it lifted a little higher and was off over the mountains. When I later asked my superintendent what that was all about, he said there was a bee in the cockpit. Geezo.

Next it was my turn. My group and I loaded into the helicopter and I got a window seat. We lifted off the ground to the loud drone of the rotors. All of us wore our regular hard hats instead of the flight helmets that allow you to talk to the pilot or the people on the ground. The new guys snapped photos of the mountains and ground that fell away below us. I closed my eyes. I knew when we set down on the ground we would get to work. It was already past 7pm. I was tired and ready to go home. I opened my eyes again and looked out across the horizon. Another fire burned some 50 miles away. Trees killed by bugs lined the valleys below us. We passed a bright green meadow. Suddenly the fire appeared below us, a big column of smoke to the left and a “spotty burn” out the right window. It was going to be a long week. Spotty burns, where the fire’s edge is sporadic instead of one solid front, are much more difficult to deal with and a lot more work. I didn’t want the helicopter to land.

But we did finally land and went straight to work. Within the first 10 minutes I slammed the (very sharp) ax end of my Pulaski into a rock, taking out a large divot. That would take days of sharpening to work out. Loud swearing ensued. I continued on in a bad mood. Finally they called it quits for the night and we hiked to our “spike camp” where our personal bags were waiting with our sleeping bags and snugglies. We ate military rations (MRE’s) for dinner and I got to bed around 11pm. It was a restless night and at 6am I unzipped myself from my cocoon and wrestled my sore feet back into my cold and shrunken boots.

By 9am I had broken open a blister on the palm of my hand and every rock I hit vibrated into my wrist. By 10am a second blister opened up. I asked around for medical tape and no one had any. One guy had “New Skin” which is basically clear fingernail polish that seals off the wound. Not to be taken lightly. I painted it on both blisters as my small squad gathered around to watch the tears flow from my eyes. I kept it together and they were disappointed. We continued on. An hour later the new skin started peeling off. I peeled it off the rest of the way and just dealt with it.

We cut our way through rocks and bear grass to a beautiful wilderness lake. It was dark blue and emerald green and very clear. I was saddened by how we were in such a beautiful place and yet I was so miserable. It just shouldn’t be this way. I imagined being there for fun, camped out by the lake- swimming and fishing in the heat of the day, drinking beer by the fire at night and coffee by the fire in the morning. What a waste.

We split into small groups again and we started at the lake to cut our way up the steep mountain side to the rest of the crew that was on the slope. As we headed into the open meadow, one of the helicopters that was filling buckets out of the lake came in real close and nearly landed on us. We moved out of the way while he measured to see if it would make a good landing spot. He told us over the radio that it would need a few trees cleared, so we spent the next hour clearing trees. When we were done, we called the helicopter back to check it out again. He declared the work good and named it H3 for helispot 3. We got back to work, climbing over rocks and cutting around hot areas of the fire. When we were done, we hiked straight up the hill to the rest of the crew. By the time we made it back to spike camp (a camp out in the woods away from the main fire camp) my feet hurt so bad I could hardly walk. I limped around camp to get food and then crawled into my sleeping bag. As I started to doze off, sharp stabbing pains shot into my feet and jolted me awake. It continued for about half an hour before I sat up and dug through my bag for the last of my Motrin.

The next day we became mules and carried and deployed a mile and a half of hose that was supplied water by a small pump put out at the lake. My feet were crushed. It was at that moment that the team in charge of the fire decided we were going to stay an extra week. I told my superintendent that I had college applications to do and had hardly gotten started. I also need to paint my house and hire a contractor to build a fence in my back yard. Oh yeah, and I gotta get the spa guy to come fix the heater on my Jacuzzi. And cut down the dead tree in my front yard. Yikes.

He decided to fly myself and another guy home while the rest of the crew stayed. I was grateful. I didn’t know how I was going to make it another day, let alone another week. I had to survive one more day.

The next day was much easier. We cooled down the fire’s edge that was mostly out then drove out to fire camp for the night. This morning was a ridiculous display of the chaos that comes out of a fire camp.

I went to briefing at 6am to get our times signed by the division supervisor. It was near freezing so I hovered over a small outdoor heater with my supervisors while holding a cup of coffee that was still too hot to drink. Over the loudspeaker they called the name of the other guy (we shall call him Jack) that was flying home. I went up to see what the deal was.

“Jack’s flight leaves out of Missoula at 8:30am. He was supposed to be here at 4:30am. He’s going to miss his flight”. Another guy walked up and said “No no, he already left. He left at 4:30 this morning.”

“No he didn’t” I said. “He’s waiting in the parking lot”.

“Well he’s not going to make it, but we can take him anyway”.

I told my boss. “Run and get him.” He said. “Run!”

I turned to take off running and realized there was no way I could run across a big field, cross the road and run across another field while carrying a hot cup of coffee. I handed it over to the supe (superintendent). “Here, hold this.”

“Thank you, I shall drink this”.

I took off running. I got Jack moving and he quickly shoved his gear and clothes into his bags. “Don’t forget to remove your fusees (flares) from your gear, take your knife off your belt, no siggs (fuel bottles for chainsaws).” Then I went to go meet his driver.

The driver pulled up and I asked if Jack was going to miss his flight.

“I don’t know, which airport is he going to? Here, read his itinerary, I don’t have my glasses on.”

I picked up the itinerary and had to laugh. “Wait a minute. This says 7:35 PM.” I read it again. I looked up at the driver. “PM” I repeated. I read it a third time. We laughed. It was now 6:15 am. Oh no, what if it was my flight that was that early?

I ran over to Jack and told him to take his time, then I ran back to briefing to seek out the ground support supervisor again. I explained he had made a mistake. We were all relieved. I asked when my flight was and they said 1pm, and I would leave camp at 10am. “Are you sure?” I asked. We went back to the support tent to get the itineraries. Sure enough, my flight was at 1pm. I went back and showed my supe who laughed. Mysteriously my coffee was gone and an empty cup sat at his feet. I went back to the trucks to pack my bags. Ground support decided they would take Jack and I to the airport at the same time to save a trip.

We got hot showers, coffee and started the demobilization process. The crew had long since gone back up the hill an hour’s drive away. I called our home unit to make sure I had a ride back to our base. Our admin lady informed me that our chief was waiting for me at the airport and had been there since 6:30am (it was now nearly 8am California time). “We have an itinerary that says you land at 6:30am”.

“PM!” I said. “It’s 6:30 PM!” Wow, what a crazy morning.

We went over to ground support around 9:30am and started getting our gear loaded up. Then I remembered I had forgotten to tell Jack to make sure he had his wallet.

“Jack, you have your wallet right?” I asked as I rummaged through my bag.

“Oh my god!”

I looked up at him. “Are you f’ing kidding me (censored version)?”

He continued to look panicked.

“Shut up.” I said.

“Oh no.” Maybe he said more than that, I can’t remember now. I was busy racking my brain about how we were going to get his wallet that was now an hour away out on the fire line.

I radioed to our boss over the command frequency to try to figure out where they had parked. After studying the fire map and finding the right way, Jack took off for the fireline and I hopped into the truck enroute to Missoula.

At the Missoula airport, I thought about all the homesteads I had seen, surrounded by mountains and trees and rivers. I wondered if I could live in Montana. Then I thought about the winters. My driver said it was not uncommon for the mountains to get 15 to 20 ft of snow. There’s no way I could live there, but still it made me a little sad to leave. On the flight over to Portland I faded in and out of consciousness.

At the Portland airport I found some lunch and then went in search of coffee. I chose a sugary espresso drink and a magazine at a nearby store caught my eye. Triathlete magazine. In the right hand corner it said “You eat too much sugar”. Indeed I do I thought as the barista made my drink. I grabbed my cup and headed back towards my gate. I got stuck behind a slow lady and wondered what her problem was. Why are you so slow? As I went around her I looked at her feet and noticed she was wearing high heels. I vowed that I would not wear uncomfortable shoes in my next life. I took inventory of the pain in my feet that were laced loosely (breakfast laces) into my work boots, and passed her.

Why do people wear uncomfortable shoes? For some reason this bothered me more than it should. Maybe because my feet have been in unbearable pain for two weeks now. I need to spend the next few days off of them.