Chapter 9
Blaze
Under the Orange Sky
“The fire is acting erratic,” Don, the fire chief shouted from the edge of his truck bed where he stood with a pair of binoculars to see on the next ridge.
Pulling out his radio, he made another frantic call.
The third of this morning, myself, and the rest of the hotshots waited to dispatch.
“Craig, we need to put another fire line in, stat. I’m sending the men in. ”
“Excuse me,” Misty, the lone woman on an otherwise all-male crew, piped up. Don put his free hand in the air.
“Sorry, Misty.” You could tell he was holding back an eye-roll.
“While now is not the time to be politically correct, here.” He held up his radio to his face again and pressed the button.
“Craig, I’m sending the men and women in.
” He turned and gave Misty a look like, “Are you satisfied?” and it appeared she was, as she crossed her arms and smiled.
“Alright, round ‘em up, guys–” Don paused, “and gal,” referencing Misty in the singular. We’ve had female hotshots before, but Don wasn’t used to it. Especially one like Misty, who wouldn’t let anything slide.
As the crew loaded up their gear—shovels, hard hats, radios, and as much water as everyone could carry—Don motioned me over to him.
“Blaze, I need you to, uh, keep an eye on everyone. For safety. I’m not trying to be sexist—” I waved him off.
Don and I both knew that this was Misty’s first season.
This was her first wildfire. Heck, outside of training exercises, this was the first wildland flame that she would ever be working with.
We looked out for the rest of our crew, and with Misty being brand-new, it had nothing to do with her also being a woman.
“I’ll make sure everyone is safe, Don.” He nodded, staring back at me like he was contemplating my words one by one.
“You’re my number one, Blaze. Don’t forget that.
” Don gave me a pat on the back. It was lesser-known information, but not a secret, that Don was my uncle.
After my dad, who was an infamous smokejumper, died in the Yellowstone fires of 2008, Don took me under his wing, where I’d remained ever since.
We had a strong bond, but we did not let work get in the way of this.
Here, out in the field, in the face of fire, we were completely professional.
Outside of work, we were riding bareback horses around his ranch.
We were fishing out of the same streams that grizzly bears fished from.
We were outside, in nature, exploring all of the wonders that made up Wyoming.
Doing cowboy stuff, as my mother liked to say.
Don never married. Rumors always swirled around that he always had a huge crush on my mom, but his brother, my dad, had the courage to talk to her first. When they married a few months later, Don was my dad’s best man.
He was there for every holiday, every birthday, every peewee rodeo event I had growing up.
My uncle was already like my second father.
It also helped that they looked so much alike—Don, and my dad Dave, were identical twins.
Part of me always wondered if my mom would marry Don, like some Old Testament tradition. And also because he was just like my dad in a lot of ways. But nothing ever crossed that line as far as I knew.
Now, out here in the field, I was dressed head to toe in my fire-resistant clothing, and I led the group of men (and Misty) into the flame.
We all started digging the fire line, while I sent Daniel to do a small, prescribed burn on the end of the next ridge.
In firefighting, sometimes you needed to burn out risky spots while you were there to control it.
As we dug, the loud noise of the slurry bomber could be heard in the close distance.
Popping tree branches could be heard everywhere.
I was constantly looking around me to see where the trees were falling—all in a great distance from me still.
In a great distance from my crew. Misty wandered a little farther, but I became consumed with the sound of the airplane.
I was almost done with my section of the fire line when I heard Misty let out a shrill scream.
Before my shovel even hit the ground, I was halfway to her.
A tree was cracking in half in slow motion, not ten feet away from her.
I ran like I was chasing after a roped calf.
The ground below me was heavy dirt, and I was surrounded by arena lights. A voice called out my name.
“Blaze Johnson might just be seven years old, but this kid has a future in any sport he chooses! Look at this kid go! Rumor has it, his dad is in the stands tonight—he came home from fighting the fire in Yellowstone to watch his son rope!” The first sign of stress, and I was transported to my childhood.
My childhood before my dad… I refocused.
If I didn’t get us both safe before this tree fell, I’d have no more opportunities to make memories.
Misty was immobilized by fear, stuck standing way too close to this tree.
I told Don I would make sure she was safe.
I told Don I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
And here I was, putting us both in danger because I didn’t notice this tree was rotted from the inside.
That this tree was going down no matter if it was burned or not—the root system was already uprooted from high winds.
It was already dead from the pine beetles that took out most of this section of forest. I didn’t notice how close Misty had been standing near it.
I tackled Misty, pushing her out of the way, my body horizontal on the dry ground.
The ground was covered in pine needles, dead branches, crispy leaves—all fuel for this fire that was moving quickly in this wind.
This hot, dry, zero-humidity wind that Wyoming was known for.
I lay there for a second as I watched the large tree fall.
And for a second, I thought it was going to miss me entirely.
It all happened so fast, that I didn’t even have a chance to pray.
I didn’t think about God. I didn’t think about my family.
All I could think about was small things.
About my horse back home, Smuckers, that I got and named when I was five.
About how I’d been born and raised around fire, born and raised in the Wyoming wilderness, and I had still let myself get into this situation.
The guilt was unreal. The tree finally hit the ground, mostly missing me.
A branch hit my leg, hard. I couldn’t tell if the crack was from the branch or the bone in my leg.
It echoed in my mind. My crew ran to me.
Misty was looking at me with wide eyes. Seeing her unharmed gave me a sense of relief.
Assuming that I’d live gave me a sense of relief.
I let out a prayer to God. Then, hearing Don call me over the radio, with the fear in his voice, did not give me a sense of relief.
*****
It took four crewmembers, plus two working on the tree, to get me off the ridgeline.
Misty was profusely apologizing, but I waved her off.
This wasn’t the time to worry about what happened or how.
This wasn’t the time to cast blame. It wasn’t her fault the tree was already dead.
These were things you learned with time in the field.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have.
If there was any blame to cast, it was on me.
Misty proved to be a competent firefighter in training.
She passed tests of physical fitness. She was a great person for our crew and brought with her a happiness that was contagious.
We were blessed to have Misty. This wasn’t her fault.
And that was what I told her right before the EMTs fit the oxygen mask over my face as they cut into my few layers of clothing in order to get to the break.
To get to my veins. The pain in my leg subsided as they slipped an IV into my arm.
Whatever happened next, I didn’t remember.