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When most of the critters have fled, only the Hotshots remain By
Lizzy Scully
Imagine a landscape charred and blackened by wildfire, with skeletons of pine trees, whose limbs reach out into the night like a beggar's outstretched arms. An outline of short, sharp quills remains on the ends of some of the branches, but most of the rusty orange pine needles have died and fallen to the ground. In the distance you hear the forest fire. It sounds like a huge freight train heading straight toward you. The air smells of campfire, and that's all. The Logan-based Hotshots, one of 70 elite U.S. government groups of wilderness firefighters, experience this scene regularly. Working from February to September, these seasonal employees fight fires in the backcountry of the mountains and deserts of 11 states in the Wild West. Rigorous physical training happens at the beginning of their season; fire fighting dominates the summer months; and the beginning of the fall includes cleanup and maintenance of gear. Their work is backbreaking and their human contact is sometimes limited to the members of the team. During the spread of wildfires, when most of the critters have fled the landscape, only the Hotshots remain. In the darkness, flames high up in a tree radiate like a huge torch; small, smoldering brush fires dot the landscape; and the huge inferno that is a mile away reflects off the gravy-thick smoke, casting an eerie red glow over the land. The scenery and the faces of the women and men working are like an image witnessed through deep, rose-colored glasses. "The sky does look red, it really does," explains 28-year fire veteran Scott Bushman, from his office in the Forest Service building near the mouth of Logan Canyon. "It's because of all the smoke, it gets up there and it reflects the red fire burning. It's kind of like driving into hell or a Hieronymus Bosch painting of the world. It's kind of neat." Bushman, in his late 40s has been the supervisor of the Hotshots since 1988. The Hotshots have not fought night fires frequently in the last few years. The bulk of their work is done during the long, summer days. The government decided it was simply too dangerous because most accidents happen at night. "The cost of putting people at risk like that usually doesn't justify the benefit," Bushman says. "You have to kind of weigh the risk of what you're doing with the benefit of what you're going to get from that. Typically working fires at night, timber fires, you know just doesn't make sense. You might get people killed." However, when they do work at night it means dangerous hard work, extreme fatigue and working in the pitch-black darkness, unless the fire is really active and there is a lot of residual light. "Sometimes you can almost read by the firelight it's so bright," says the 27-year-old team member named Brian Burbridge, from the high ceilinged, grease-covered interior of a Forest Service warehouse workroom. However, more often than not night work means laboring in conditions that are like the depths of a cave near the center of the earth. "You have to worry because at night you don't know what the country's like that your working in," explains Burbridge. "You can't see rocks rolling down on you." Other times, accidents are caused by the inability to judge the terrain being walked on. Bushman knows a man who was disabled after being hit in the head with a rock that he couldn't see coming down a slope at him. "It's dangerous," says Bushman. "You can only see as far as your headlamps," Bright as powerful halogen headlamps are, they fail to alleviate the claustrophobia of working in a black void. Headlamps also fail to illuminate the dangerous swaying of precariously balanced dead trees, called snags that have been hollowed out by fire. Bushman recalls an experience in the Salmon River region of central Idaho, when a burning snag came down on top of him. "I was working in a kind of a ponderosa pine environment at night trying to cut the fire off when several tons of tree fell," he recollects. Immediately he dove 10 feet into some rocks nearby. Buried by a mass of tangled, burnt branches he narrowly missed being smashed by the bulk of the tree. "There was only a second or so where I was being crushed," he remembers. Twenty-eight-year-old, bearded Kendal Wilson also experienced a close call one summer when he was sent out to extinguish a burning tree near Tony Grove. "It was a single tree torching from a lightning strike," this longtime Logan resident remembers. "It was a pretty simple operation to go in and take this tree down, line it and let it burn out." Lining a tree means creating a fuel break around it to halt the advance of a fire. The simplicity the operation, a lethargy born after a long season of hard work and an incoming rainstorm caused the two Hotshots to let their guard down. Beginning to pack up their things, they failed to notice the swaying of the tree. "By the time I looked up with my little hand light I saw this tree in flight," says Wilson. "We were able to move out of the way. It hit the saw, right where we were standing." Wilson thought it seemed like it took hours for the flaming snag to come down. "But it was only two seconds," he says, smiling. "When it broke off, more air hit it and so it torched up more. It was a pretty big Christmas tree coming down on us." Although working at night can be very dangerous, many Hotshots enjoy it. "It's cool, there are fewer people around," Kathleen Korwin says without putting down the well-used, metal chainsaw part she is cleaning. Korwin is a 27-year-old who has fought fires for eight years and been on the Logan team for four years. She explains the only people who remain on the evening scene are the fire fighting experts, the Hotshots. "It's kind of a nice change working at night," states Wilson. "I think during night time your attitude goes up because you get delirious and more jokes come out." "Yeah, you get silly," Korwin says. A deep fatigue sometimes causes strange hallucinations. "Oh yeah, there was one time when Paul Bunyon talked to me," remembers Wilson, after working a particularly long day and night. The situation was dangerous and Wilson was monitoring a freshly dug line. He was suddenly struck by a vision out of the smoke of Paul Bunyon. "This big, 80-foot man was talking to me," Wilson smiles. "He said, you gotta stay awake. I had a great conversation with this guy!" Burbridge interrupts, "You probably shouldn't have been on the line that time." The four Hotshots in the workroom break into laughter like that of longtime college friends sharing a great joke over good beers. In addition to strange visions and shared jokes, there are physical benefits to working at night. "Working at night is good," says Bushman. "It's colder, the temperature goes down. The fires tend to slow down." In addition to this the scenery is often surreal and breathtaking. "At night everything looks different," explains Bushman. "The fire looks bigger. The flames might be just four or five feet high, but they look like they are bigger than a house. It's kind of fun to watch." Because of the government's decision to reduce night accidents, Hotshots only fight fires after dusk when there is a level four fire. A level four fire, sometimes called an initial attack, generally is a small or moderate size fire. It is necessary to work during the night in order to contain the fire within a day or two. This type of fire includes the single, burning snag that nearly hit Kendal Wilson last summer. If not contained quickly it turns into a level three, two or one fire, which are bigger fires that require extended plans of attack. The extended plans often involve other types of firefighters such as the armed forces, various forest service employees or volunteers. The fire that burned Yellowstone in 1988 was a level one fire. For a level one fire the Hotshots work 14 to 16 hours, but when a level four fire needs to be fought they sometimes have to work two to three times as long. "The first 48 hours of the initial attack you work constantly," explains Korwin. "The worst part about working at night is the fatigue." Burbridge once fought a fire for 72 hours. Two years ago his team was sent out on an initial attack. Unable to contain the fire in a day they worked through two nights until backup finally became available. The work Burbridge and the others do during either an initial attack or a more extended fire is varied and intense. Most frequently they are creating fuel breaks. "Basically you're building a trail" says Wilson, "You're making a fuel break with the saws." Removing fuels stops the progress of incoming fires. They call it cutting a fire line. It entails digging, taking down trees with chainsaws and cleaning out brush. Depending on the terrain they will dig a line that is one and a half to two times the width of the height of the fuel that is carrying the fire. "Once they get the fire contained, when they fully get a line around [the perimeter of the fire], they like you to go in through night and start mopping up the hot spots," states Bushman. The term "mopping up" refers to putting out small fires that remain after the big fire moves through. While they didn't have a chance to go back and clean things up this summer, the general consensus of the Hotshots is that "mopping up" is one of the more enjoyable aspects of fire fighting. "It's fun," explains Bushman. "You pair up and walk through the burned area and chop things up. We do that a lot." While the "mopping up" may not be as strenuous as cutting lines, the Hotshots still have to carry their 30+ pound packs. These packs may have up to a gallon of water (per day), food, chainsaw fuel, flares to set "back fires" in an emergency, extra clothes, a space blanket, batteries, fire shelters and fireproof tents. So how do they do this backbreaking labor all day and all through the night? "You need to get people down to get a little rest," explains Bushman. "I like to bed them down and have them take a nap for about an hour. We'll have someone watching for safety." Sometimes other crews will be rotated in so team members can take eight-hour breaks, in which they can set up camp and eat full meals. Other times Bushman says, they just fall down in the dirt and try to sleep. Periodically stopping for coffee also helps them combat weariness. "We have lots of fire to make coffee," Bushman chuckles. "You can usually find something hot to put it on. Well, we just get some water in a tin cup and throw in some instant coffee." At the end of the drawn-out, hot summer, however, even coffee fails to elevate energy levels. Especially after one of the worst fire years in half a century. Over 4.7 million acres burned in the western states in 2000. The aftermath of such a crazy summer has left the Hotshots burnt out and ready for a break. Korwin and Burbridge are traveling to Australia and Wilson wants to take time off to hang out with his girlfriend. Bushman moves back into the office for the winter season. He will spend 50 percent of his time recruiting, training and meeting with the Hotshots and 50 percent of the time on special projects. Bushman says that his hardest work comes in the winter months. "During the summers all I have to do is fight fires," he states. "That's easy." While battling raging fires seems like an action packed and exciting job, it also offers opportunities for solitude and peace. There is serenity and silence in a space that is no longer occupied by coyotes, squirrels, blue jays or human beings. The crunching and snapping of scorched sticks, browned leaves and pine needles are the only sounds the Hotshots hear as they walk through the mutilated forest. The seared landscape is calm now. Occasional flames flare up from the dark red embers that were left behind. It's like being utterly lost in an almost-extinguished campfire. It's beautiful. "It glows," sighs Bushman. "It's like a thousand city lights."
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