One Careless Moment (3 page)

The trail to the ridge is overgrown. Trees lean threateningly and the trail winds like a goat path. Heavy green branches brush side windows, slapping the glass and thumping the roof. I've given up readjusting my side mirrors, and my radio antenna is in serious jeopardy. Brashaw stares gloomily at the wall of green around us.

“Piss fir,” he mumbles. “Nothing but piss fir.”

“What?”

“Alpine fir. Burns like piss.”

We drive in silence for a few more minutes. The trail hugs the backside of the ridge, rising but still a good distance from the crest. It looks like we'll have a bit of a hike ahead of us, which makes me nervous. I don't like to be on foot anywhere near a fire in bush this dense. Wind direction is straight up the canyon too. We'll be fine, but I'm still nervous. Maybe it's Brashaw's spooky campfire story. He shifts his bulk and sits up, looking ahead intently. “I know this road,” he says.

“How close does it come to the ridge top?”

“This is the road to that bear hunting camp.”

“The one from your story?”

“Yeah.” He has an almost comical look on his face. He's working on his story, building it up again. “We shouldn't be here,” he says. “We should turn back.”

“What?”

He looks at me. “This is a bad place.”

I'm not sure if he's referring to the heavy timber or if he's just superstitious.

“We'll be fine. The wind is steady up the valley and there's a dozer-line to the cliff.”

“Yeah, I know. But I got a bad feeling.”

A bad feeling. He's played this about as far as I'm willing to take it. I'm about to tell him so when we come around a bend and find a small tree across the road. I brake and get out, expecting BB to follow and help move the tree, but he just sits in the truck. I give the tree a few tugs — it's just a big sapling from the understory — but it's too resilient to snap off. So I get an axe from the toolbox and whack it into a few chunks. By the time I've dragged them off the road, I'm sweating and in no mood for campfire stories. Brashaw must sense this, because he doesn't say anything. We gear up and lurch forward. The trail continues to rise, then levels for a short stretch, wider where someone cut out a few trees. Brashaw frowns and, looking ahead, points to the widened area.

“Pull over,” he says. “We'll have to walk from here.”

The fir on the slope is dense enough that I hang a few orange ribbons on the trek to the top of the ridge. The slope is steep and we grab onto slender tree trunks to heave ourselves up. When we break out of the trees near the crest of the ridge, we both lean forward, bracing arms against shaky legs until our breath returns.

“I'm too old and fat for this shit,” Brashaw says between lungfuls.

The view from the ridge is worth the climb; it's like standing at the lip of a volcano. The fire has widened from its origin near the road and the head spans the width of the canyon. Smoke boils up in a dense grey column. Flames glow orange, like glimpses of flowing lava. The canyon is a perfect chimney up the side of the mountain. There's no way we're getting in front of that.

“Christ,” says Brashaw. “That's a real burner.”

We need aircraft. Heavy bombers. Helicopters with buckets.

I call Dispatch. Kershaw Lookout compliments me on my spectacular smoke, but relays the same response. Houses threatened on a fire to the south. All available aerial resources committed. I grind my teeth, wondering how they expect us to accomplish anything. I call Kershaw Lookout again, get the winds and RH, request Dispatch do a spot forecast. The wind feels stronger up here and the change of the smoke from white to grey is not good.

Radio chatter from the crews on the fire indicates the show is heating up on the ground. I call Galloway, confirm her men have fallen back. They have. Brashaw calls his crew, tells them to make sure they're on the dozerline, not in the dense fir and larch. They acknowledge and pass on that the dozer is still a few hundred yards from the cliff. I pace nervously, watching the fire. I'm not letting it out of my sight until we get some aircraft. I call Kershaw Lookout and tell them that the fire is now two hundred acres and growing rapidly, stressing the limited window we have for air tanker drops.

Kershaw tells me to stand by.

I continue to pace, shale grinding under my boots. A strip of rock just back from the drop off, about twenty yards wide, has been blasted by wind and exposure. Nothing grows here except a few hardy junipers, low to the ground. Perfect spot to jump into. There's a small pile of gear from Galloway's crew: neatly-stowed parachutes and jump helmets. I call Galloway on the radio, confirm Hutton and his men are working with them. While I'm on the radio, Brashaw stands at the top of the cliff, shaking his head and muttering. He squats and carefully takes a seat on the edge of the cliff.

After a few more minutes of pacing, I join Brashaw at the lip of the volcano, dangle my feet in the air. Rock drops a good hundred feet to a jumbled talus slope, then to burnt trees farther down. The sound of clanking treads and splintering wood drifts up like an overheard conversation. I look for the dozer but it's invisible from this angle.

“Nice view,” says Brashaw, spitting, watching the foamy flecks descend.

“Wonderful. So what happened to the Indians?”

“What?” He squints at me, his face glistening with soot and sweat.

“The Indians — the ones who cursed this valley?”

He shifts on the hard rock. “A long time ago, settlers and Indians were fighting over some valley land, farther down. Settlers wanted to put their stock there, but the Indians wouldn't let them. Kept killing the cows. One day, a girl goes missing — one of the settlers' daughters

— and someone gets into their head that the Indians took her. They form a posse and raid the Indian camp, but the girl isn't there. So they figure the Indians killed her and there's a big fight. The Indians are outgunned and make a run for it, the posse in hot pursuit, and they chase the Indians into this canyon.”

Brashaw pauses to dig a can of chewing tobacco from a pocket — the skilled storyteller.

“Well, they got the Indians trapped, but the bush is too thick to go in and find them. They know the Indians will hide in the canyon until they're gone. You want to guess what they did?”

Brashaw is watching me, his lower lip bulging with tobacco. I shrug.

“They started a fire at the mouth of the canyon. Burned them all up.”

We both stare at the cauldron of fire and smoke in the canyon below. I'm getting an uncomfortable feeling that everything Brashaw has told me is true, and start to appreciate his reluctance. Firefighters can be a superstitious lot — comes from living so close to danger — and for a minute there's a hush. The dozer has paused in its operation and even the radio is silent. It's eerie. Then the radio barks, snapping us both out of our reverie. It's Kershaw Lookout.

“Cassel here.”

“Dispatch says they'll free up a bomber group for one run, after they dump once more.”

“Great. Any word on a helicopter?”

The voice on the radio is apologetic. “Not until tomorrow.”

One tanker drop is better than nothing. If the drop is good, the

wind dies down a bit, and we have a decent RH recovery tonight, we might be okay. I'm thanking the tower and getting an update on the winds when a worried voice cuts in.

“Break — break. This is Galloway. We've got fire over the line.”

I turn to look toward the tail of the fire — the only place there is any line — and as I key the mike on the radio I see a sheet of grey smoke rising over the treetops of the ridge, feel an anxious clench in my gut. This is no little spot fire. This is in the crowns of the piss fir coming up the side of the ridge. Toward us. I should have seen it minutes ago but was looking the wrong way. I release the transmit button on my radio and Galloway's voice comes back on, controlled but wavering slightly.

“— didn't see it until just now. We thought it was in the canyon.”

As Brashaw and I watch, radios in hand, the sheet of rising smoke quickly doubles in height. A fire on a slope preheats the fuel in front of it, the pitch of the slope acting like wind, accelerating the speed and intensity of the flame front. With the wind we already have, it's a dangerous combination. Curls of black smoke boil up — the fire burning so hot it's not getting enough air — and for a moment all I can do is stare at the wavering serpent rising above the treetops. Then Galloway's voice cuts through.

“It's really moving. You guys had better get the hell out of there!”

Together we bolt for the trees, knowing the only way out is on the trail, in our truck, but we can't find the ribbon line I'd flagged on the way up. Hearts thumping at the sudden precariousness of our situation, we run back and forth along a solid wall of green. Brashaw swears and crashes into the bush. I follow. Going downhill, we have to hit the trail. We're not far into the trees when Brashaw trips. I run side-slope, ducking branches, and help him to his feet.

He staggers when I let him go. “Twisted my damn ankle.”

“You okay to keep going?”

He looks at me, knowing that he's far too heavy for me to carry. That I may have to leave him behind. It's not something I'm prepared to do. He takes a few steps to test the ankle. He can move on his own, but he's going to be slow and the fire is rapidly gaining on us. What was just a distant crackle is now a steady roar and when I glance toward the noise I see the space between the trees is filled with orange. A gust of hot air blasts across my face. We don't have much time to decide.

Keep going downhill and try for the truck? Return to the ridge and deploy our fire shelters in the open?

The truck is halfway down the slope. If it doesn't start, we're dead. If there's a tree farther up blocking the trail, we're dead. If the trail ends, we're dead. On the other hand, we're not far from the ridge, but it's uphill all the way.

“We're going back up,” I yell at Brashaw. “Deploy in the open.”

He nods, the look in his eye deeply concerned.

“Come on,” I tell him. “I'll help you.”

He drops his pack and together we start up the slope, using tree trunks and branches to heave ourselves forward. Barely audible against the roar of the fire, our radios blare a mix of urgent voices. Brashaw has an arm over my shoulder but he's doing most of the work. We divert around a massive old ponderosa — survivor of some earlier fire — and Brashaw pauses for a moment, wheezing. His cheek has a strange hue to it, a sort of glow, and I look past him. It's a mistake.

A hundred yards away, the forest is engulfed in pulsing orange. Tree trunks are slender stems amidst a mane of gushing flame. There's a pounding, thundering roar like standing under a waterfall. The skin on my cheek tightens against the uphill blast of heated air. We have a minute to make it to the top. I glance forward, pushing Brashaw ahead.

“Run, goddamn it!”

Brashaw surges forward, scrambling, lugging himself up. I no longer hear him wheezing; I hear only the growl of the beast at our heels, crunching up trees. Thirty more yards to go uphill, then another ten or so in the open until we can deploy. A rabbit blurs past me on the ground. Twenty yards. My shirt is hot against my skin. Ahead of me, Brashaw's damp shirt is steaming. I push him forward, trying to will him up the slope. His steps are awkward, stilting. Ten yards to the edge of the trees, the fire seems to pause, take a deep breath. I pass Brashaw and he looks at me, his brow deeply furrowed, a look of intense concentration on his face. We're almost clear of the trees when the fire exhales, knocking us both down, blowing my hard hat off my head. I scramble forward, grab my hard hat and cram it on, feel the hair at the back of my head curl and singe. We break from the timber and run in a crouch toward the cliff. I want to keep going, throw myself over into cooler air.

“Deploy! Deploy!”

I'm not sure if the voice is in my head or if I'm screaming it. We're in an oven. The rock around us glows orange. If we turn toward the fire we'll surely burst into flame. Brashaw is clawing at the yellow pouch on his belt. I pull my own fire shelter from its pouch, yank the pull cord down on the plastic package. The shelter comes out as a small, silver brick, unfolding in a zigzag pattern like some child's Christmas decoration. Hot wind tugs at the shelter as I open it, trying to tear it from my hands. A wave of pain flashes over my back and arms. It's too late.

Brashaw is down beside me, a small silver pup tent.

I pull the shelter over my head, step onto the other end, drop next to Brashaw and press my face against rock and dead moss. The temperature only inches above the ground may be dramatically higher. The flames are over us now, tugging at the shelter, trying to tear it off and flatten it out. The noise is terrible, like the meshing of immense gears in some horrible, angry machine. My radio squawks with distant, unrecognizable voices. Despite my hands and boots holding down the bottom edges of the shelter, my back feels as though it's on fire and I'm overcome by fear that the top of the shelter has been ripped open and I'm exposed to the full fury of the firestorm. A careful glance to the side confirms the shelter is still there. Bright orange spots show through pinholes in the foil.

My gloved fingers begin to burn where they touch the foil, and I want more than anything to let go. I try to focus elsewhere, remembering images from a training video where tests were conducted to determine the limits of a shelter. Silver pup tents, like the one I'm clinging to, are engulfed in whipping flames while the narrator calmly explains: “At five hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the glue holding the foil to the fibreglass breaks down, the layers separate and the foil can be blown out of place or torn by turbulent winds. At twelve hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the foil itself begins to melt —” The silver pup tents in the training video whip in the wind. Foil contracts and lifts. The shelters vaporize like houses during a nuclear bomb test. This isn't helping and my mind searches desperately for something reassuring. I close my eyes and think of my sister Cindy and her three kids. I think of Telson and our sometimes relationship, vow I'll spend the rest of my life with her if I survive this. I picture my parents at their coffee plantation in Jamaica, working on a lush green mountainside.

A splintering crash jolts my thoughts back to the present. I wince as something hits the top of my shelter, pulling it down and drawing a line of fire across my back. Instinctively I buck upward, knocking off the weight of the object and restoring a narrow air space. A line of pain remains on my skin like a brand. Flames gush louder and much closer than before. I feel a sudden rush of heat on my right side and close my eyes, grit my teeth, telling myself this can't go on much longer. Fire needs fuel to burn and fuel can't last indefinitely. But it doesn't stop. It gets worse.

A flash of light burns through my closed eyes and I push my face harder against the rock. The heat is unbearable and I realize with a sickening jolt that the side of the shelter must have lifted, exposing me to the fire. Carefully, I turn my head, see my gloved hand on the edge of the foil. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bright light, turn my head a little further.

What I see confuses me.

A patch of orange behind a hazy film. Flashing ribbons of silver. Then I understand. A flap of foil on the right side of my shelter has separated and lifted, like opening a window. I'm looking through the white fibreglass mesh, the heat of the fire blasting through like a jet engine. The ribbons of silver dancing in the orange are from Brashaw's shelter, only feet away. Beyond that I see a heavy branch, like a fiery groping arm. Then the flap of foil settles back in place on my shelter, and the oven door closes.

“You okay BB?” I shout as loudly as I can.

There's no response.