FrostedFlake
Posts: 3084
Joined: 3/4/2009
From: Centralia, Washington
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Nearly thirty years ago I was working a fire near Lake Cushman in the Olympic National Park, about 20 miles west of Olympia. The crew I was with was a good one, and we called ourselves Hot Shots. But we were not Hot Shots. We were silvaculturalists. We were naturalists. We were campground custodians. We were backcountry ski trail breakers. Fire was our job only when there was one to set or one to fight. But the St. Helens crew had been through tough spots doing tough jobs in Idaho, Oregon and California all season long that year because things were tough that year. We were known for handling challenging Control Burns on our own Forest that Spring and so we were trusted with the wildfire work the real Hot Shots were too busy to do that Summer. One success led to another and each led to a more challenging task being given our team. An example being the nighttime heli-tack on Salmon Ridge. Lake Cushman was the last fire of the year. We were on top of our game and the Bosses knew it, so we got the most important job.
Between the fire and the highway, all roads went through a canyon. In a Park, no woods work takes place, it is left natural, so the fire ladder was well developed. There was everything an arsonist could dream of, almost no moisture at all, and it was on fire. The job was to go in, put the fire down, open a door for the Hot Shots to get through and hold the door open untill they got back out. Bonus, there is no heavy equipment allowed in the Park. We were not allowed to take our saws. The park had thier own fallers and had a meeting before every cut. The size of thier saws was difficult to believe. We did get to use our pumps, we are not magicians, but we had to put diapers under them to catch any oil drippige. Equipped with these handicaps the St. Helens crew stepped off an hour before dawn laden a hunderd pounds each with pumps, hoses, resivours, valves, nozzles and hand tools of every make and model. And ten more pounds of food, water (coffee!), radio and a tinfoil tent.
By the dawns early light the crew started to lay hose. Site pumps and resivours. Douse flames. And move on. We worked without haste and without delay. As we worked the Bosses and the newsman crept up behind us. They had been doing thier jobs, watching us do ours, all morning without being noticed. We laid a mile of hose that morning. We made the news at Noon. It wasn't until about then, when Ed Brown sent a runner to fetch the Fire Boss, that we noticed he, and the press, was already there. In another hour the Hot Shots started passing, saying nice things. Five 20 man crews. They were planning to be in the woods until the fire was out. We were holding their supply and escape route. We all knew each other, knew exactly what was what. We knew they were the best and that was why they were gong in. They trusted us and made it plain. It was a good feeling. They didn't come back for a week. We didn't leave until they did.
Along about the afternoon of day four, the crew was cutting a trail meant to catch embers rolling down a steep hillside. To reduce the number of spotfires. Cutting trail is a team event. The man in front takes a few bites, calls out, "Bump up!", scotches sideways a shuffle, and takes a few more bites. Every man in line behind does the same thing, calling "Bump up!" if they feel the need.. By the time the last man is past a point, there is a big fat fire trail there. Many hands make light work. But hard work makes trail fast. I was probably a bit tired. Had my nose to the grindstone. Shoulder to the wheel. Eye on... the end of my Pulaski. Wasn't really paying attention to my surroundings. This you could usually get away with in the middle of a crew cutting trail. But not always. There was a root sticking up out of the ground. It was going to be cut off, but hadn't yet been, when I bumped up and tripped over it. And fell. Right off of the cliff I hadn't been looking around to see.
(Cue theme music) "Oops. Uhmm... gosh. Hmmm..."
That's what you call one uh them there disconcerting sorta situations. Now, I could tell it wasn't going to be a problem for long, because it was only about fourty feet to the jagged rocks below. Still, I thought maybe I should do something. I cast about for a better idea and noticed I had a REAL tight grip on my Pulaski. With no more thought than that, I reached out with my tool and snagged a passing bit of dirt. The tool dug in. I did not let go. As if I had actually planned it, I swung up against the cliff face into a three point stance, toes and tool digging in and slowing me down. I got both hands on the pulaski and rode it to the bottom, where I landed as casually as stepping off a porch.
I looked up to consider how best to get back to work. First two, then four, then eight, then more, baseball sized eyes appeared at cliffs edge. After a moment one turned to another to say, "Well, hell! He ain't even dead!" I asked if someone would please throw down a hose. Down one came. WHUMP! A couple feet to my left. I asked if someone would please throw down one end of a hose. That soon happened. I went up the cliff one handed, hose and pulaski in my left. After trimming the root, I went back to work.
And the moral of this story is... ...hold onto your tool!
< Message edited by FrostedFlake -- 1/28/2012 5:17:29 AM >
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Frosted Flake
simul justus et peccator
Einen Liebhaber, und halten Sie die Schraube
"... evil (and hilarious) !!" Hlen5
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