The monkey made me do it

The Times I Almost Died (Part One)

It was my first season as a Forest Firefighter (not through the Forest Service, it was for the Washington State Dept. of Natural Resources). I had taken a summer engine crew position despite my father's oh-so-unsubtle pushing toward the less risky radio dispatcher job he had originally sent me to procure. He was worried at first, particularly since he had worked in roughly the same job during his forestry studies and understood the testosterone-fueled world I would be entering. I was stubborn, however, and assured him that the world had changed and that women would be welcomed and respected in any field. Right? Right?

Wrong.

Wait, I take that back. Wrong-ISH. Women who looked and acted exactly like men were treated with a bit of respect. Women who put out were tolerated, not respected at all but valued for their usefulness. They had no idea what to do with me when I refused to take either path and decided to try my own. I didn't let go of my femininity, but kept up as best as I could with my engine leader (you can call him Al) and worked hard to build up my upper-body strength so the boys wouldn't be able to mock my carrying of two hose rolls while they carried five. We hiked constantly, doing odd forestry jobs, and I learned to move fast through thick underbrush with heavy, spiked boots weighing down my feet. Al was a master in the forest, he ran blithely down the slick tops of fallen logs and leapt without fear into creeks that I had to wade carefully across. He was luckily one of the ones who reserved immediate judgment on me and allowed me to prove myself. By the end of the first year we got along great and I kept up with him on our forest treks, he even helped protect me the few times I needed it in the fire camps. My technique eventually paid off, I was able to gain respect without giving up my personality and was, after three years, an engine leader and respected by most of the guys, allowed to hang without compromise (though one of the guys kept daily challenging me to wrestle).

Some of the holdouts, however, really made it hard...

Neil was an older fellow, in his 60's and rather tiny. He had been a firefighter for over 30 years and was very respected by his coworkers (the male ones, that is). He was also a disgusting, lecherous old man who gave me goosebumps and who had been caught peeping multiple times. I first met him during our First Aid courses where he taught us CPR. I had to look away when he demonstrated on the mannequin - it was wet, mis-aimed, and far too enthusiastic. He was overly friendly to me and to the one other older woman in our district, but in private we heard that he thought our inclusion into firefighting was the worst kind of affirmative action and that he reminisced often about the rough-and-tumble boy's club of yon. Whenever he was at the same fire, I changed inside my sleeping bag even when in a separate tent.

Dennis went to high school with me and was a total bully back in the day. He joined a year after I did, luckily giving me seniority over him, and was assigned to be crew for the older woman. I laughed, he seethed. His resentment exploded one day when our two crews were assigned to do maintenance on one of the State's campgrounds, including repainting a shed. He snapped when he found out what the task was and yelled that he wasn't "going to do no more bitch work!"

Then I got my own engine and he got his own engine and I (yes, a bitch) kicked his ass in the relay races. HA haaaa! Some days, I am twelve.

Getting ahead of myself here, though...

The first time I almost died happened while I was still Al's crew person, during the first year of firefighting. It was a good fire season, we kept busy running all over Washington and Oregon putting out blazes. The State has a rule, though, that you are only allowed to work on a fire for 14 days, then you have to come home and recuperate (fires are exhausting, sometimes I'd only get 5 hours of sleep in the first three days and was going on pure adrenaline). We were home on a forced break and restless, so we got together with a neighboring district and planned a mock fire to help train some new recruits and work on technique. They set the fire in a big empty field surrounded by fire engines after looking at the weather report and carefully calculating the wind, humidity, etc. We thought we were prepared.

What we didn't know was that the field's previous life was as an artillery range and that there were shells and live ammunition littering the ground that we had just set aflame. As soon as we lit the first section, shots started firing in every direction. People dove for cover and started yelling as the fire grew happily and freely, igniting more and more ammunition (you could almost hear it laughing). We ran to set up a hose lay around the fire, sprinting up the hills with arm-loads of supplies and dodging other crews and inmate crews who were rushing to dig a trail to try and contain the wildly spreading fire. Everyone would have to drop their loads and duck from time to time as a new batch of ammunition was engulfed and exploded.

I ran back and forth from the engine countless times along the far edge of the fire, trying to keep an eye on the tall flames and losing track of Al completely. I went and got a full load of hose (I could carry 4 by then!) and an axe, dropped off the hose at the end of the line and was halfway back to the engine when the wind suddenly turned and drove the fire directly toward my side of the field. The wall of scorching grey-orange smoke engulfed me immediately, making it impossible to breathe and near-impossible to see through my madly weeping eyes. I turned away and ran toward the forest, diving for the ground once I felt a hint of softness under my feet. I buried my face in the underbrush, getting my nose as close as possible to the source of oxygen as the heat pounded on overhead. My mind reeled, I knew that if I had to deploy my aluminum-foil fire shelter in that dry environment, more than likely I would be baked like a potato in the flames. I couldn't see well enough to run, and had no idea which way to go even if I could manage to stand up.

After an eternity, the wind changed again and the heat was suddenly lifted. I looked up from my sprawled singed position, trying to get my bearings, and realized that I was surrounded by people who had exactly the same idea that I had and were just then raising their heads from the underbrush. Then I noticed their red jumpsuits. It was a full (10-person) inmate crew who had been interrupted from their trail digging duties by the fire's turn. I smiled in a friendly manner while subtly (frantically) scanning for their crew chief, who I discovered had been caught further up the line. So basically, it was ten inmates who had been convicted of serious crimes and little ol' me with no means of protection or prior experience with anything even remotely like this. I didn't even have my axe, I had dropped it when I dove for the forest and didn't see it anywhere. They looked at me with blank faces, sizing up this tiny soot-covered woman with empty arms and a crooked hard hat, and my brain suddenly clicked. I remembered that training is supreme in drastic situations and learned behavior could come in handy. I used my sternest voice, stood tall and took instant command, leading them up the trail to their relieved crew chief (all the while amazed that the number/strength inequality had not registered with any of them) and then ran back to my engine and found Al nearly frantic with worry that I had been lost or injured.

This took place in Olympia, of all places, and was a source of embarrassment for many years to come. When we were mopping up the fire, making sure it was completely out, I secretly grabbed a spent, charred chunk of shells and put them in my pocket to remember the day and the adventure. At least I hope they're spent, since they are now on my bookshelf.

posted by LadyJay @ 9:20 AM