Fighting fire with the fire of youth

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Fighting fire with the fire of youth

Friday, July 13, 2001

By CANDY HATCHER
SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER COLUMNIST

They seemed so uncommon, these young people who trudged into battle with a forest fire Tuesday but didn't come out.

One was only 18, a few weeks out of high school. One had two little children. Two were women.

In fact, the four who died fighting wildfires in the Okanogan and Wenatchee national forests this week are fairly typical of firefighters, in demographics and demeanor.

They loved the outdoors. They had boundless energy and thrived on adrenaline.

So many of the thousands of firefighters are college-age kids because the rest of us can't do this job. For the past 30 years, some of the soot-stained heroes have been women.

It's tough, physical labor. It's seasonal. And it doesn't pay well -- between $7 and $12 an hour.

The job requires firefighters to be able to carry a 50-pound pack for miles, run fast -- at least 1.5 miles in 11:40 -- and eat freeze-dried pork briquettes and rainbow meat. They joke about DBH -- death by ham.

The work is stressful because of the exposure to trauma and tragedy. It requires nights and weekends away from home. It attracts people who can run toward, not away from, a 40-foot-high wall of fire. Mostly, it requires people who understand -- and can revel in -- the dangers of the raging red devil.

Early Tuesday morning, 30-year-old Tom Craven of Ellensburg and three Yakima residents -- Jessica Johnson, 19; Karen Fitzpatrick, 18; and Devin Weaver, 21 -- packed the red bags all firefighters use to carry their water, equipment, jackets and extra socks. They plunged into the dense, gray hell with 17 other firefighters.

It was supposed to be a quick job: Extinguish a 5-acre blaze apparently started by a campfire. But it became a 25-acre fire racing through dry underbrush and pine needles.

And then, fueled by wind and heat, it blasted out of a canyon as what is known as a blowup.

"A blowup to a forest fire is something like a hurricane to an ocean storm," Norman Maclean wrote in his book "Young Men and Fire," an account of the Mann Gulch fire near Helena, Mont., which killed 13 firefighters in 1949.

Then, as now, the firefighters were young. Seven victims were college forestry students. Two survivors had just finished high school.

"In 1949," Maclean wrote, "the Smokejumpers were still so young they hadn't learned to count the odds and to sense they might owe the universe a tragedy."

Their world is the forest, and they are never so alive as when they go up against a natural enemy.

"It's the good team against the red team," one firefighter wrote, describing the job. "Each fire is different and is a living, breathing thing that is just waiting for a chance to clean your clock."

They fill a red duffel or backpack with water, a headlamp, spare batteries. Toilet paper. moleskin. Extra bootlaces. They put on yellow shirts and forest green pants. Boots. A hard hat, goggles, gloves.

Firefighters know the shortness of breath that comes from climbing and running, lungs seared by the heat. They hear the trees crackle and feel their way through the smoke. They deal with toxic gases.

They know what it means when flames whirl and roar, as they did Tuesday.

Their families, many of whom have fought wildfires for generations, automatically start their mornings reading daily fire reports. They pray for rain. Their hearts sing when they hear a fire has been contained.

Wednesday, the complaints and second-guessing began. Too little training. Too young and inexperienced.

But fighting wildfires is a dangerous, deadly job. Firefighters know that better than anyone. Their camaraderie is legendary. They hunker together, save a neighborhood, douse a forest.

They get us past a crisis, and we forget until the next fire blows out of control.

They don't forget. They always end their missives with a plea.

Stay safe.

P-I columnist Candy Hatcher can be reached at 206-448-8320 or candyhatcher@seattlepi.com