Back in the 1970’s and 80’s, there was a different approach to wildland firefighting. In the culture of that day, the number one priority was getting the fire out. In retrospect it often seemed that firefighter safety was a secondary goal. More risks were regarded as acceptable in the name of extinguishing the fire and protecting structures. For the most part we got away with it and being young, enjoyed the thrills and the challenges, but a lot of the stuff we did was stupid. A lot of things we were told to do were stupid, but we did ‘em, because that’s how it was and we were young, full of energy and invulnerable.
It was like being in a war, or at least what I imagined a war to be like; constant fear and vigilance, a continuous threat of injury or worse and a rock-solid conviction that I’d rather be somewhere else.
The year was 1983 and I was with nine other Forest Service firefighters from the Cle Elum Ranger District, Wenatchee National Forest. Our crew had been sent from Cle Elum north, up to a lightning-caused fire on Blag Mountain near Cashmere, WA.
At 5 p.m., after an hour and a half drive, we arrived near the base of the fire in Ollala Canyon. It was a hazy, hot afternoon in early September. Weak, orange sunlight leaked through the smoke. Other crews from all over the Wenatchee National Forest showed up at about the same time. The dirt road was lined with green vehicles. Far above us, on the top of the ridge, the helitack crew from Cle Elum had been dropped off by helicopter earlier in the day and was furiously fighting the fire. We learned later that they came close to being burned over and had to run several times to escape the flames before finally being evacuated.
We piled out of a green crew van and pulled firefighting gear out of the back; shovels, pulaskis, grub hoes, a chainsaw with chaps and fuel/oil container, gallon canteens. It looked like we’d be working all night, so I filled my small rucksack with extra clothing, water bottles, food and a headlamp. Add to that a shovel, a two-way radio, hardhat, emergency fire shelter (or “shake and bake bag” as they were called), ear plugs, extra gloves, safety glasses and a first aid kit. That’s a lot to carry but I knew from experience that I’d probably need it all. Except for the fire shelter. I’d do everything I could to make sure I didn’t need that.
Once we got geared up and organized, RJ, the crew foreman, returned from a briefing with the incident commander. He gathered everyone together and gave us the run-down on the fire. There wasn’t much information yet other than we were going to go dig fire line. He led us up the gravel road toward the base of the fire. It had burned most of the way down Blag Mountain and was close to the valley bottom. Now it was burning up canyon, propelled by the wind.
Most fires burn uphill, but due to the steepness of the terrain and the sparse ground cover, this fire spread both downhill and uphill. It continuously sent burning logs, pinecones and other debris tumbling down for great distances. This ignited new spot fires, which in turn started burning uphill toward the main fire while also sending more flaming debris downhill to start even more fires below.
It was a hellishly steep hillside of rock and sandy soil covered with thin bunchgrass and scattered ponderosa pines, Douglas firs and highly flammable ceanothus brush.
On RJ’s instructions, we started digging a standard 24” fire line down to mineral soil. Swinging shovels and pulaskis, we initially worked along the bottom of the fire, not far above the canyon road. Along the way we dug in a cup trench on the downhill side of the line to catch burning debris.
As we dug, we were sucking in the acrid fire smoke as well as thick dust from our digging. Eyes were watering, mucous was dripping from noses. Another crew started a fire line above us and accidentally sent rocks flying down the slope. The warning cry of “Rock!” soon became constant. We worked around the bottom of the fire, and away from the other crew and continued our line along the bottom right hand side of the fire.
Everyone started out full of adrenalin, energy and high spirits but we soon sobered up as we got into our work and began to fully realize the hazards of our position.
As the fire continued burning, rocks were loosened and rolling downhill constantly. It wasn’t so bad when you could see and hear them coming, but the daylight was fading away. The fire wasn’t providing much light at that point since it was primarily burning ground cover and barely touching the larger trees. We had to rely primarily on our hearing and quick reflexes.
Carrying a shovel, I was the last one in line and spent most of my time scooping out whatever organic debris remained and digging out cup trenches to catch burning chunks of wood. Ahead of me was a young woman named Ronna. She was new to this and pretty frightened. I tried to reassure her, but wasn’t feeling all that brave myself.
The ten of us continued digging along the bottom and then curved uphill along the right, or north, margin of the fire. We were now working up a very steep slope in the dark with rocks and burning debris rolling down on us. We were not thrilled to be there. In retrospect, we should not have been there at all.
Headlamp beams bobbing in the smoky dark as we dug, we came to a gully choked with brush. I heard the chainsaw start up and Jim, our sawyer, started cutting through the vegetation. Now, with the roaring of the chainsaw, we weren’t able to hear the rocks coming.
While Jim sawed a path for us, I paused to stare uphill at the orange glow and the silhouettes of tree trunks and brush. I could see sporadic flames flickering and flaring up brightly as the fire gobbled small trees and brush.
Jim was an experienced sawyer and soon had a path cleared through the brush for us to continue. About half the crew was across the bottom of the gully when a group of rocks and boulders thumped and crashed out of the darkness like a herd of stampeding cattle. Everyone managed to run up either side of the gully as the rocks thundered past and continued down toward the road.
It was a close call. If the saw had been running, we wouldn’t have heard the avalanche until it was too late. Being the end shovel, I followed the crew, working quickly across the gully and up to the other side where it was relatively safe, or at least safer.
Now we came to an open rocky stretch of ground and had a good view of the fire above us. Scattered flames flickered and occasionally a tree exploded with a crackling roar and a burst of bright orange light. Jim stashed the chainsaw and fuel can and went with RJ to scout ahead for a good fire line route. Behind us, we heard more rocks smashing down through the dark gully.
I was getting pretty spooked at this point. The slightest noise made me jump and look uphill. RJ called me on the radio and told us to dig up to where he was. I could see him and Jim above us, silhouetted by the fire and digging. I was shocked to see a large bush next to Jim explode into bright flames. The wind sent the fire right over his back and he had to roll out of the way to avoid getting burned.
“This is a hell of a way to make a living,” someone said. No argument there. We continued up the hill.
The digging was easy in the loose soil and we moved at a good pace. I constantly kept my eyes peeled for a big rock or tree trunk to hide behind in case more crap came rolling at us.
Up ahead, the line’s route lead to a steep, rocky gully. Another goddamn gully! Someone suddenly started swearing and I heard the sound of stones ricocheting off of rock, then a scream and someone yelled, “I’m hit!”
Those of us at the end of the line scrambled up to find out what was going on. “Hobes is hit!” yelled RJ. “Stay out of the gully!” We stopped and soon RJ and Jim trudged down the line, Hobes limping between them. He was swearing and crying at the same time.
A rock had struck and glanced off of RJ’s hardhat and hit Hobes in the foot. RJ looked shaken. Hell, we all were shaken. He said the rock was the size of his fist and moving fast. Ed, another crew member, had been drinking from his plastic water bottle when a flying rock smacked it out of his hand.
RJ got on the radio and called for an ambulance. Jim helped Hobes limp downhill to the road. The rest of us scurried across the dangerous gully and up into some rocky bluffs where we took a break, huddled against rock outcrops where we were protected for the time being. Except when we needed light, we shut off our headlamps to save battery power and to avoid annoying each other with sweeping beams of blinding light.
I took the opportunity to get some C rations out of my pack and used my little P38 can opener (courtesy of previous C rations) to crank open a can of “Pork, In Juices”. It was pretty bad. The juices consisted of a congealed block of gelatinous fat surrounding the shrunken, diseased looking chunk of pork. Someone remarked that judging by the flavor, these C rats were probably from the same stock that fed Lee’s army and undoubtedly led to the downfall of the Confederacy.
RJ had a serious talk with us about our situation and stressed safety. Usually a very cool character, he seemed as nervous as the rest of us, and with good reason. While we rested, we heard another injury report broadcast on the radio. Someone had caught a rock in the face and it sounded pretty bad.
Jim finally reappeared and said it looked like Hobes had no broken bones and would be all right. Break was over. We switched on our headlamps and resumed the climb up the steep rock bluffs. I heard more rocks zinging and crashing down the gully below us.
This was about the time I started praying to every god I’d ever heard of, just to be safe. The old saying that there are no atheists in foxholes is true.
We finally climbed past the bluffs and started digging line again. By this time, we’d worked our way above the most dangerous areas and I started to relax. Somebody above shouted, “Heads up!”. A big log, completely engulfed in fire, was rolling toward us, bouncing crazily. We scampered to one side and the log roared and thumped past us, flames hissing and crackling. At least it was lit up so we could see it coming.
Soon after that, one of the guys said he felt sick and thought he better leave the fire line. RJ brought him down to me and gave me the unenviable job of escorting the sick guy down to the road.
Inwardly, I swore. I’d been so relieved to be in a safer spot and now I’d have to go back down through that gauntlet of flying rocks and logs. It was almost too much, but there was nothing to do but do it. The sick guy only looked sick with fear, but I said nothing. I felt the same way. None of us should have been out there that night.
We quickly made our way down to the road without mishap. Along the way we encountered another crew heading up the hill. I warned them about the hazards and told them where the safe spots were. Once down on the road, I delivered the sick guy to some people there and headed back.
I worked my way up the hill, taking a wide detour to the right to avoid the hazard areas. After a long, steep climb, I finally managed to meet up with the crew and resumed my place at the end of the line.
A couple of hours later, we saw headlamps above us. It was another crew and they were digging fire line down from the top. This meant we were close to completing the fire line. The end of our labor was in sight! We kept digging toward the other crew and 30 minutes later connected with their line. Now, unless the fire jumped over its dirt barrier, we would disperse along the line and hold it until a new crew replaced us in the morning.
It was already almost 4 a.m. and the fire was finally dying down due to coolness and humidity. Here and there we saw flames eating a log or pitchy stump inside our fire line, but that was the only fire we could see.
The radio chatter died down as crews all around the fire finished their sections of line and rested. We were exhausted after almost eleven straight hours of hard work and tension. It was definitely Miller Time, but we had none. I wanted to crawl off somewhere in the darkness and sleep for a while, but RJ called me on the radio and said to tell everyone to stay awake and alert. There was still debris coming down the hill.
We waited as the cold hours went by and the sky slowly, gradually lightened. I was falling asleep standing up and would jerk back to wakefulness as soon as I started to topple over. I was also hallucinating and at one point could plainly see a goat standing in some open flames. I knew it was a hallucination, which made it fascinating to look at. I finally shook my head, rubbed my eyes and looked again. The goat was a rock.
Where did the goat in the hallucination come from? The previous evening, we’d seen some goats along the road near where we parked so later my tired mind supplied that image for my hallucinatory enjoyment.
As it got lighter, some of us gathered together and talked, trying to stay awake. A light drizzle started to fall from a grey, dim morning sky and we smiled wearily. The fire was down and now we knew it would stay that way.
At around 7 a.m. we started our march down the mountain, seeing things for the first time in the light of day. The bottom of the valley, where we had started the previous afternoon (seemed a long time ago) was a long, long way down. I was amazed at how high we were. In the darkness, all we saw was the work in front of us, one tool swing at a time. There was no way to gauge distance.
We were damn glad to be coming off that mountain and we felt very lucky that no one had suffered any serious injuries. Near the bottom, Jim tried to find the chainsaw and the two-gallon fuel can he’d stashed there. Unfortunately the fire had jumped the line and burned over where the saw was stashed. We finally found it and were surprised that all that was left was the steel bar, the sprocket and a saw-shaped white patch in the ashes. The plastic fuel can was gone too and some of us remembered seeing a big flare up during the night. We started laughing at the sight of the pathetic remains of our saw.
Jim patiently collected up the pieces and carried them out. Later, back at the ranger station, someone made a hanging sculpture out of it that hung on the wall of the fire warehouse for many years.
We went directly from the fire to the fish hatchery in Leavenworth. That’s where the fire camp was set up and that’s where we ate a hearty breakfast. I think it was the usual pancakes and syrup, soggy bacon, some lumpy but tasty scrambled eggs and little cereal boxes. Way better than C rations. Appetites satisfied, we were soon in the van and on our way back to Cle Elum. We were beat, but very glad to be heading home.
I fought wildfires all over the west and can honestly say that, in terms of immediate danger and feeling intense fear, the Blag Mountain Fire was one of the worst. In retrospect it was an amazing experience but not one I would ever want to repeat.
Thankfully, safety standards and protocols have improved dramatically since “the old days” and firefighter safety is paramount. New technology and information systems make fire fighting more efficient, and if used wisely, safer. There is no way that firefighters should or would knowingly be sent into a situation like Blag Mountain. Fortunately, another improvement over the past is that firefighters feel much more empowered to say “no” to a situation they don’t like.
XXX
J.R. Herman 