On the Front Lines of a Wildfire

A P P L E G A T E, Ore., Aug. 18, 2001 -- Fifty-five hundred acres, scorched and smoldering. The day shift's job is to mop up.

"It's a regular wasteland down here," one firefighter said this week, walking through a patch of smoldering trees burned by the Quartz Fire in the Rogue River National Forest, one of several recent and ongoing wildfires out West.

"Yeah, the moon," another said.

The fire, which began with a lightning strike early last weekend, may look like it's out but that's just an illusion. Among the biggest problems are trees where the fire burns on the inside. Left alone, they could burn for a month. Firefighters call a tree like it a hooter and they will usually chop it down.

"It's a hazard tree. And that's a big tree you don't want that one to hit you on the head," says firefighter Bob Wilkens.

Danger isn't just from above. A fire like this can burrow two feet underground. Any hot spot could flare up or just smolder unseen, spreading the fire along the roots of the trees. Firefighters work through these areas with picks and shovels.

From his mountaintop perch, task force leader Joe Linn's job is to coordinate the attack. Pointing out his domain, he gestures out over the valley below.

"Into the smoke there," he says. "Our division is responsible for the whole area that you see."

From the Air

One of the most powerful tools at his disposal is the ability to attack the fire from the air. His arsenal includes a special helicopter whose twin blades are synchronized to rotate in opposite directions. Like many helicopters, it looks a bit like an insect — narrow, brightly colored, bulbous at the head, and vaguely menacing.

There are only 25 of these helicopters in the world. Because of their unique counter-rotating blades, they can carry heavier loads and get into tighter spots than other helicopters. This one can make a round trip every two minutes, carrying 600 gallons per load.

"If we didn't have this, we'd still be burning," says a ground controller, charged with filling up the giant tub in which the helicopter dips its bucket.

The crews know they're going to be here for a while. Exactly how long depends partly on the weather, partly on their own hard work.

"There's no way to prevent the fires. This fire's lighting strike, it's a naturally caused fire. Unless you make a deal with God, you're going to have these kinds of fires," says one firefighter, his face brown with soot.

For now, the best the day shift can do is to deal with the trouble spots before the fire is likely to flare up again and the night shift takes over.

Night Shift

The night shift begins at 5:30 p.m. with a briefing. Firefighters get updates on crew assignments, on the critical weather forecast, and on the fire's behavior.

Organizing 1,200 journeymen firefighters is no small task. They're all experienced. Most have worked together before. But in this line of work, no two nights are the same.

Crews wearing yellow jackets and red helmets with a bright light affixed to the front fan out across the 5,000-acre fire zone. At night, with temperatures as much as 50 degrees cooler, they'll have their best access to the fire.

"Okay, the fire made a big run today, we're going to see if it's in our ridgeline," one firefighter says.

Before they can fight the fire, the Winema Hotshots must first climb a mountain in pitch black. The two-mile trail will take them to an altitude of 6,000 feet.

It's 9 p.m. and the fire is just 500 feet to the west, close enough to hear it crackle.

There's little energy for small talk now. The firefighters are tired. They're thirsty. Their feet hurt. And the real work is just getting started.

The Winema crew widens the path. By morning, the trail itself will be the fire line.

At the top of the ridge, another crew — the Graybacks — is just getting started.

"What time is it? It's almost midnight. Such a long walk in here. By the time you get in here you only have five or six hours to work," says Andy Barrey of the Grayback crew.

The Graybacks' job is to burn out the brush between the trail and the fire. They pour on a flaming mixture of gas and diesel fuel.

It may seem counterintuitive fighting a forest fire by essentially pouring gasoline on it. But once this dry brush burns out, the fire will have no place to go.

Taming the wildfire, one ridge at a time. For these men and women, just another 12-hour day on the job.

Fire Camp

6 a.m. is shift change. The day shift heads out, the night shift — on since 6 p.m. the night before — comes back to camp.

The first stop: food. John Lincoln has worked up an appetite. Yesterday he drove in from Virginia.

"We've been up since 5 o'clock yesterday morning," he says, as he washes the soot off his hands before breakfast. "We traveled here by bus, got here in the afternoon, worked all night last night, so with any luck this morning we'll get a little sleep."

After a 12-hour shift on the fire lines, exhaustion comes easily. But sleep can be a bit more of a challenge. During the daytime the temperature can get up to 100 degrees — hotter still in the tents.

"They get pretty hot, but we don't have no other choice," says one firefighter who has rolled out his sleeping bag under a picnic table.

Many forsake their tents, finding shade wherever possible.

The riverside campground where the firefighters live normally accommodates 25 campsites. Now there are 2,300, including people from as far away as New England. In this tent city, the brightly colored domes that serve as home are inches apart.

The camp has showers, but with thousands vying for them they smell bad and water is in short supply. Many prefer to bathe off an evening's sweat and soot in the slow moving river that snakes through the camp, even though they risk catching hepatitis by doing so.

Inmates from the Oregon Department of Corrections provide meals. By 8 AM, more than 1,100 firefighters had gone through the breakfast line.

This is life reduced to its base elements.

"Work, food, shower, sleep," says one firefighter, as he gulps down a helping of bacon and eggs.

Lifestyle

Most could probably make more money flipping burgers, but at least they get to bank all their money when they're living in fire camp and working 12 hours a day. Wages start at $8 an hour, but some specialists and supervisors are paid as much as $20 an hour.

Still most of these people keep coming back. One woman in the Winema Hotshots has been doing this work for seven years. When it's not fire season, she likes to travel. And, she figures, she gets to see the world fighting fires as well.

"You're not sitting at a desk," she says. "We went to Yellowstone, we went to Alaska, you get to see a lot of cool ground and get paid for it."

These firefighters expect to be here at least through September 1st. After that, most will pack up their tents and move on to the next wildfire.