The crunch from under our boots had become rhythmic as we traipsed single file down off the mountain. With each step, the charred remains of indistinguishable flora wafted into our eyes and up our noses. Ash clung to our teeth like tile grout, with small bits randomly flaking off to escape down our throats.

 

Chainsaws caked with oil soaked wood chips rested on shoulders while dulled Pulaski’s rode low in wilted arms. Though the air had cooled, sweat continued to stream beneath our line packs down our backs. The sun had long dipped below the hills, taking sounds of nature and our voices with it.

 

We burned up Terra today. “We”. I don’t know exactly why firefighters tend to use this jargon. It’s certainly not to mislead anyone into thinking the event was intentional. We failed. We lost the fight. We couldn’t do what we were sent out here to do, and we feel responsible. Once we reached the trucks, we loaded our gear without the typical end of shift banter.

 

We had been fighting the Patch Springs Fire in an area known as Skull Valley, after a band of Goshute Indians of Utah, for almost a week. This area is well known by wildland firefighters to burn like hell. This fire season had proved no different, and today, well, yea.

 

Terra, Utah is a very modest community just a few foothills away from Skull Valley. There’s no Walmart or Cracker Barrel; simply families living on ranchland at the base of Victory Mountain, along Highway 199.

 

Over the course of the week the fire had chewed its way up into the uninhabited mountains. Most resources were then focused on securing the edges along the lower elevations to ensure it didn’t flank into populated areas. This is a common tactic. If an area with no values at risk is permitted to burn, the over accumulated fuels are consumed, eliminating future conflagration potential.

Once overhead recognized the change in course this beast was taking, crews were rerouted southeast to corral the fire away from Terra.

 

We started out the shift by watching a small fleet of Skycranes’ drop buckets on troublesome flames that were creeping towards us. An unfamiliar face started to nervously bark orders once all the crews gathered at our designated drop point.

 

This new Division Supervisor made me anxious as he laid out his plans to perform a burn out. Before this could happen, crews were to widen a dozer line to use as a fire break on the only ridge that now stood between the fire and the town. We knew we didn’t have much time before the heat of the day was upon us, so we quickly devised tactics and went to work.

Often, for handcrews one challenging feature of this area is the lack of tall trees. When fighting fire in timber, the trees at least provide some relief from the blistering rays of the sun. Here in the high desert of Skull Valley though, you are smack dab in the middle of it all for sixteen hours each shift. You’d be amazed at the difference in temperature between the two. I once attempted to power nap on the shady side of a fire engine in eastern Oregon, only to jolt awake to what felt like my left boot had been set ablaze. I must have crossed that fine line between serenity and ignorance by inadvertently shifting it into the sun. I immediately had to remove my boot to allow my burning foot to cool.

 

Here, without a single place to “shade up”, the stakes are higher for a wildland firefighter for multiple reasons. You are forced to carry double the drinking water to stay ahead of the dehydration curve. You must pound food despite feeling nauseous from the heat, as to not flush out the ever so important electrolytes from your body. Blistered feet, sunburn, and swamp ass are a few more annoyances one must contend with in the high desert.

 

Though, personal comfort wasn’t our only limitation this fire. A few days ago, we attempted a burn out despite our reservations. Overhead mocked our hesitation with a few jabs directed towards our “Eastern ways” of being overly cautious. The relative humidity was insanely low and the ambient air temperature was torrid. They were used to these conditions and we knew our escape routes, so the burn out went forth.

 

I had missed the action since I was bound to take two heat exhausted crew members back to camp for evaluation. The story goes, my crew was lined out to hold the line while overhead put fire to the ground. As soon as a drop of combusted fuel hit the brush it exploded with such force it created its own winds. My crew was split by a wave of violent flames that bulldozed anything in its path. A couple of crew members received minor burns and though not mentioned, I’m sure several soiled their shorts. I can assure you though, that all seventeen pairs of eyes were wide open.

 

Back on the dozer line the number of aircraft dropping buckets and radio chatter started to pick up. The “witching hour” was upon us. Fire intensity was picking up, closing our window of opportunity to catch this thing. The radio beckoned to bump three or four crewmembers with drip torches to tie in with Division on the northern end.

 

I was left in charge of the remaining crewmembers as we continued with our original mission. We were almost tied in when we were ordered to hold tight. Winds increased as a new column of smoke billowed up from the north, signaling the burn out had begun.

 

The main fire and the burn out were now competing for air, pulling each towards one another. Fire intensity escalated to alarming rates. This dog was pissed.

 

The boss from another crew ran up to me yelling over the howling wind that it was time to go. I rounded up our folks and we jetted down the dozer line back to the hard top of Highway 199. Orders came busting through the radio to get back to the vehicles now and reposition to the south.

 

Now staged on the highway and back out of the way, the smoke column turned a pitch-black. We knew the fire had gotten into something more than just vegetation.

 

Most of the crew and I then became witness to things we rarely, if ever experience. The citizens of Terra started to evacuate. I thought they would’ve all been long gone by now.

 

A man on a motorcycle pulled from a side street with nothing more than a backpack. His black and tan coonhound trotted behind him, right down the center of the road. I watched them until they were no longer in sight, wondering how long the dog could sustain that pace on the hot asphalt.

 

A white pickup truck pulled from an adjacent driveway. Sitting in the bed was a lady holding the reigns of a horse who was forced to follow. I didn’t know how much more of this I could witness. They were fleeing for lives, while we stood on the road and watched. What the hell were we doing?

 

My attention was diverted to significant radio chatter and a low roar coming over the mountains to our northeast. Suddenly, one of then only three DC-10 fire tankers appeared in the horizon. A freaking DC-10 repurposed and modified to fight fire. We have got to be in a shit show for this boy show up.

 

A lead plane, who flies out front to set the DC-10’s path, zipped overhead. The air tanker’s thrust reversers engaged to where it looked as if the giant aircraft was hovering. An unknown voice came over the radio stating to make this drop count, for it’s the only one we’ve got.

 

The belly opened and what was most likely the entire 12,000 gallons of fire retardant floated out and painted the hillside.

 

After what felt like an eternity, we were authorized to re-engage the fire. This time we were tasked with mopping up Terra. Moving into position, our trucks passed smoldering vehicles and melted metal.

It might be hard to understand why someone would live in such a fire prone area. What may be harder is the decision to finally pick up and leave. This is their home. Their property. Their livestock. Their income. Their way of life.

 

The year was 2013. Several years before the burning homes in California were seared into our minds by the media. But, this is not new to me. I’ve seen it before. Sierra Vista, Arizona 2010. Twisp, Washington 2014. Omak, Washington 2014. Robertson, Wyoming 2016. And, Terra, Utah.