The Double Eagle Fire

An excerpt from Working in the Northwest Woods

As I gained experience and established some credibility with others on the district, I had moved up in the pecking order to the point that I was allowed to carry a drip torch as part of the slash burn lighting crew. As I mentioned before, the drip torch is a metal can that contains about a gallon and a quarter of a gasoline and diesel fuel mix that is dripped to the ground through a foot long spiraling metal tube that culminates with a fiberglass wick which has been set alight. The amount of fuel fed to this wick is greater than the wick can absorb so the excess is leaked out and ignited as it passes through the burning nozzle and then drips onto the ground. The mix of gasoline and diesel helps control the volatility and serves to prevent explosive ignition. Mixtures of from one part gasoline to one part diesel up to one part gasoline to four parts diesel allow the fire managers to control the volatility of the mix, thereby assisting in controlling the speed of ignition of the fuel to be burned.

Unlike other, failed attempts at starting prescribed burns over the course of the summer, this event had the right combinations of being preceded by a lengthy dry spell, high temperatures and low humidity. We were going to have no trouble getting this unit to burn.

The terrain for this timber sale was steep, with a road at the top of the cut area. In the middle of the unit the road expanded at its end into a large landing where the logging equipment had been positioned, allowing the loggers to high lead the logs uphill where they were limbed and bucked into appropriate lengths for transport on log trucks. The landing always ended up as a collection site for both the tops and limbs from trees pulled up, as well as containing a large pile of undesirable log pieces that were not suitable for market. Some of these leftover pieces were a result of breakage, with logs that were split or rotten. Much of this abandoned slash would end up as firewood as private woodcutters would visit the sites of recent logging activity to collect wood for the coming winter. This landing had quite an impressive collection of debris collected both on the edges of the landing and over the sides. All of this was contained in large, if somewhat unstable piles.

We started our burn out at the top, as was typical. There were five of us with drip torches making horizontal traverses from one side of the clear-cut to the other. As the newest guy on this crew, I was last, allowing me to watch the others and pick up pointers for how to best get things ignited. With each pass, the crew would stop, one by one, on the far edge and wait for all of us to make the trip across. The crew leader would then gauge the fire we had just started and based on how things were proceeding would determine when it was appropriate to make another pass. That way we managed to keep the fire hot enough to clear out the debris, but not allow it either to get too active or to cool too much. Things proceeded according to plan throughout the day and by mid-afternoon, we were starting on our last pass across the bottom of the unit.

This lower part of the logged area had a large rocky scree slope in the middle. About one third of the bottom traverse would be done through this rock after lighting the slash on the near side. As the last person in line, my crewmates were all on the other side and standing on the fire line as I entered the rocky area.

I was carefully picking my way through the loose rock and boulders, cautiously hanging onto my still burning drip torch while I made sure of where I placed my feet in order to avoid stumbling. I became aware of yelling as I was about mid-way across. It took me a moment to figure out that the shouting was from my crewmates standing on the far fire line. I stopped picking my way through the rocks and looked up at them to see that they were all shouting and waving at the same time. I could not quite make out the words since I was still just a bit too far away, but they were all energetically pointing uphill and waving frantically.

I looked up toward where they pointed. Careening downhill, directly at me was one of the large logs that had been left on the landing. It was big. And it was on fire, leaving a trail of smoke and sparks as it crashed and bounced my direction. It took another moment for me to comprehend what it was I was looking at. The log continued to aim directly at me, making lots of noise now. At some point in what had turned into a slow motion view of the world, I realized I needed to move or this two-foot diameter, twenty-foot long, tree trunk was going to take me down.

Somewhere in my brain, I unconsciously determined I needed to retreat in order to escape. I don’t remember being aware of making a decision, but I turned, dropped my drip torch and made ready to run back the direction I had come from. In that instant of turning, however, I lost my footing in the rocks and fell hard on my back. And at what seemed the same moment in which I crashed painfully onto the rocks, the log passed over me in front of my face. I could feel the heat as I saw its dark bulk miss me by the barest of inches.

From the other side of the clear-cut, my crew mates saw me go down at the same instant the log passed over me. Later they said all of them were certain I’d been hit. They were equally certain I was dead. While remaining inert on the ground, on my back, I assessed myself, to ensure I was not, in fact, deceased. In a bit of shock, I simply lay still on the ground. Taking some time to check for pain points, I confirmed that all my limbs were attached and could be moved and that I was unaware of any blood escaping anywhere. In fact, other than being bruised on the back from crashing onto the rocks, I was unhurt. I was a bit surprised my mustache had not been burned off.

I was still looking straight up into the sky when I saw four faces over me, all looking very anxious. I must have grinned at them because suddenly they were all talking at once. It was as if I had returned from the dead. In truth, I was remarkably lucky not to be dead.

That was not quite the end of fire season that year. Just over a week later, I was working in the east end of the district when I received a call from the station. It seemed a recent lightning storm had started several fires in the vicinity of Glacier Peak, deep in the mountains to the east of our district. Jumpers from the North Cascades Smoke Jumper Base in Winthrop had been dropped into an area adjacent to our district boundary. Over a couple of days, they had suppressed the lightning fire and were making their way out to the end of the nearest road. I was to pick them up.

 

 

Tornado

I grew up in the southwest corner of Missouri. That means I saw a lot of tornadoes in the years I lived there. What follows is an account of one night, living in Springfield, when a storm traveled through…..

Storm 

The wind doesn’t blow so much as it breathes.  Like some enormous beast just outside the house. Each breath so massive I can feel it.  I can see the glass in the windows bow in and out with it. I wonder if it can endure the flex. Outside is flat black except when the lightning flashes.  I see reflections of the room on the inside of the glass.  The houselights are almost all on in the vain attempt to soften the fear.  There is a distant rumble of thunder, then a brilliant flash and a second later a terrifying boom as the electrostatic differential between cloud and ground neutralizes, at least for a few moments.  I can almost feel the electrons beginning to accumulate in anticipation of the next earth to sky connection.  Knowing in advance that another blast is coming does nothing to ease the anxiety I feel.

Without warning, a ball of glowing light leaps out of the wall socket across the room from me.  The size of a grapefruit, it bounces across the floor, rolling over wood and rugs and then disappears into the metal grate of the floor furnace.  I can barely believe what I have just seen. There is a brief, almost immeasurable instant between the next crash and its precursor light. That one was on top of me.  Another film of fear washes over me, like walking through a bead curtain.  I can feel it on my body.  The storm moves closer.

Why must it always happen in the dark?  I know why – it’s because the heat of the day returning to the sky condenses into these ten-mile high monsters that mature as the sun sets, but I ask the question anyway.  I do not fear the dark, but I do fear these storms.  And when they come at night, as they almost always do, I can’t see them.  I am afraid of that.

In the tropics – the Philippine Islands, in Vietnam, in Costa Rica – I’ve sat through long dark evenings and been enraptured by thunderstorms.  I remember sitting on the veranda of an isolated jungle hotel, Pacific in sight, power out, thunder and lightning thrilling me.  I recall the sweet and unmistakable smell of rain and ozone.  But here, it’s as if the storm is out to get me.  It is as if the weather is a thinking, analytical life; moving, shifting, examining, and deciding which place to strike and which place to destroy.  Here, the weather is mean.

I’ve seen several of them, always some distance off.  One time as a child, riding in the backseat of my dad’s car as we drove home from a nearby city, I remember seeing three at once.   All light grey and slender, miles away to the north of us, moving east as we moved west, looking alive and like swaying snakes as they hung from the overcast above.

The television is on.  I pace back and forth between it and the front door, alternately listening to the storm reports and looking out the door, sometimes stepping onto the porch and scanning the western sky.  That’s where it will come from – the west; bearing down like a demon freight train.  Out of the dark.

Another flash.  Another crash.  The timbers of the eighty-year old farmhouse vibrate with the concussion.  I think of the dirt-floored cellar under the house.  A place to store the jars of food sealed up from summer gardens.  Cool in summer, not too cold in winter – a place to hide if it comes here.  A place below the level of the earth where I can escape.

The television continually spouts warnings in the form of a small white square that blinks in the corner of the screen.  A text message runs across the bottom, providing details of the warning area.  At every commercial, sometimes more often than that, a weather broadcaster provides a live update with radar reports.  The storm has hit a small town to the southwest of me.  Power is out. Lines are down. Information is sketchy.  It is not known how much damage or injury has occurred.  The storm moves closer.

The impacted town is about ten miles from me.  It will be only minutes before whatever passed through there arrives here.  The television broadcaster says to take cover immediately.  I go to the front door and step outside just as a flash of lightning illuminates the sky to the west.  I see nothing.  As the thunder envelops me, jostling my internal organs with the low frequency compression, I note that the rain has stopped.  They always say that as long as it’s raining you’re all right.  When it stops, watch out.  I don’t know what is true, but when the rain stops my heart beats faster.

I hear something different now.  It is the rising wind.  It is coming.  Another flash and another gut-throbbing explosion.  In the illumination of lightning, I still see nothing.  As the thunder rolls past, I hear it more clearly.  A rumble, a roar.  I go into the house again and look at the television.  The broadcaster again warns me to take cover.

I take the flashlight from the kitchen pantry, go outside, leaving lights and television on, and walk to the south side of the house where I open the cellar door, enter and climb down several steps, pulling the door closed overhead as I go.  I fix the bolt and climb the rest of the way down.  A wooden bench runs along one dirt wall.  I sit down, laying the flashlight beside me and breathe deeply.  I am afraid.  I wait to see what the night will bring me.

Silvertips Show Us a Lesson About Life

At the moment when that final shot slipped past Simpson and entered the net, the emotion drained from not only the ‘Tips on the ice, but from the fans as well. While we listened to the Tri City faithful celebrating their victory, we saw three Everett players prone on the ice – clearly devastated by the loss. In just seconds, the entire stadium was on their feet – Tri City fans ecstatic over seeing their team move on, but Everett fans quickly realizing what they had just witnessed.

Sports is often used as a metaphor for life. “The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” has become a public domain phrase to us all. On Wednesday night, we certainly saw that, but we also saw so much more. Tri City has an incredibly skilled team of hockey players, the kind of talent that comes from a combination of gifted ability and endless years of hard work.  We have to admit, given the performance of that team over the season and for the last four games against the Silvertips, they clearly deserved to win this series and move on in the playoffs. But what I saw out of the Everett team in the face of that reality was inspiring. Tri City player Brendan Shinnimin, an outstanding talent, said after Tuesday’s game, “They’re a team that doesn’t quit”. And that is what we saw in the final game of the series.

If sports is a metaphor for life, this display by our local hockey heroes was an inspiring lesson. Do not give up, no matter how hard it is to keep going; never let go of your dreams, and fight until you can fight no more to achieve your goal. To the ‘Tips team, a tip of the hat – you have shown the city and the league what character is. You simply did not quit. Thank you for a great season.

A Canadian You Didn’t Know You Knew

I found this posted on a web site about Bruce Cockburn …. “I once saw Eddie van Halen answer the question of ” whats it like to be one of the best guitar players in the world ” he answered ”ask Bruce Cockburn”.

I can’t say if it’s true or not. This is one of those urban legend kind of things where well known guitarists are reputed to have said so and so. But true or not, it’s appropriate. It’s hard to appreciate just how good this guy is until you really listen to what’s going on with his playing. There is a lot happening that sometimes leaves you with the impression there are more instruments playing than actually exist. I saw him only once, many years ago in Seattle at the Paramount Theatre. I had been a fan for a long time, both because he fits in that wonderful singer-songwriter category and yet manages to spread his music well beyond the norm. I originally was attracted to his music not only for the rich audio quality but because of his kick-to-the-gut lyrics. The guy says some powerful things that really connect with me emotionally. But beyond that, seeing him that time on stage and watching him play a few guitar solos – I was stunned by just how good he is.

Here is an example of his politic perspective -http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z02J_kPincA

If you prefer something that touches deep emotion, give this one a listen. – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02TUsZzF6es

And if you’re feeling like this guy is familiar, but just can’t place him, you do already know Bruce Cockburn – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JY__agG_eXc&feature=related

A bit more rock to your liking? Try this – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8CibAuvZM4

Wolves In Washington

I suppose you could take this title a couple of ways. Imagining I’m going to be talking about D.C. is easily understandable given the rather bad reputation many people hold for wolves (canis lupus) and the folks we imagine are in Washington doing our bidding. They may be in Washington, but as for doing our bidding, well you know.

Predation on unsuspecting electorate aside, that’s not what I want to write about today. I do want to discuss wolves, but rather than the elected kind, let’s consider the real ones. The wild ones.

I’ve said several times, if you want to get in a bar fight in Idaho or Montana, all you have to do is mention wolves. It doesn’t even matter which side you take – for or against the reintroduction – you’ll get punched in the face regardless. It’s that divisive an issue. There seems to be no middle ground on this one. As George W. Bush once said in regard to allies in the war on terror – “you’re either with us or against us in the fight against terror”. It seems many people feel we could substitute “wolf” for “terror”.

Just to be clear and establish my position on this topic, so the appropriate groups can send me hate mail, I fully support the reintroduction programs undertaken thus far. That includes the well-known activity in Yellowstone and Idaho as well as the Mexican grey wolf programs in Arizona and New Mexico. In spite of the failure of the attempts to reintroduce red wolves in the Smokey Mountains, I support the idea there as well.

The Northern Rockies programs have been reasonably successful. The Mexican wolves are struggling but hanging on. What is most exciting for me is the increasing number of reports of packs and individuals showing up in areas outside the designated reintroduction areas. Most notably for the purpose of this posting, in Washington State.

As of this March, there are five confirmed packs with another five suspected living with the borders of the state. This is apparently natural activity since no reintroduction programs have been undertaken locally. For the nay-sayers, I’m sorry, but reintroducing wolves is not going to eliminate the elk and deer you want to hunt. Somehow, for thousands of years before all of us filled up the country, all three managed to get along just fine. I equate this with the recent changes in fire management – ideas that seem to be generally accepted now. Fire is not a bad thing. The hundred years we spent stomping out every fire caused horrible outcomes for our wildlands. We now pay the price. The same period of time was spent eradicating either most or all of the top predators in the same country we were “saving” from burning. That meant wolves, grizzly, coyotes, cougars all suffered high rates of mortality. It’s impossible not to be aware of how bad that was for the populations of prey species – notably deer and elk. Along with the forests, the wildlife are gradually exhibiting the benefits of our “less is better” management philosophy.

For the ranchers who continue to claim bears and wolves are driving them out of business, I understand that from time to time you will lose a cow to one or the other. It should really be no surprise; both bears and wolves are going to go after the easiest and tastiest meal. And cows are pretty much not engineered to survive in a natural system. The argument simply doesn’t hold water when you try to plant cows either on or adjacent to wildland. For decades now the ranchers and farmers have been getting a free ride with underpriced grazing allotments on National Forest and other federal lands that suffer significant damage for the bovine herds.  The other argument about ranching being a “heritage” that somehow gets excused from responsibility doesn’t float either. Cows are the worst possible thing for wild land. They overgraze, cause erosion, drop their wastes in waterways (not something buffalo do, by the way) and general wreak havoc on the ground everywhere they go. I like burgers and steaks as much as the next guy. We need to find other locations for fattening our beef or start eating garden burgers.

The Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife has a website devoted to the Washington wolf populations.

Visit their site here -

http://wdfw.wa.gov/conservation/gray_wolf/

Ok, let the arguments begin….

Another Remarkable Human Endeavor

Pikes Peak Record Breaking Run with Monster Tajima – The GoPro Network.

At times I forget just how remarkable humans can be, distracted as we are by the overload of bad news. And grim news. It’s constantly thrown in our faces just how horrible people can be, especially to one another.

That’s probably why I relish finding these little gems that speak so well to the human spirit and all that we can accomplish. This one is a man and a machine, and what may be the most intense ten minutes of video you’ve seen in a while. The bigger the screen, the better.

Joseph Kony – 2012

Powerful. Please watch this video.

 

http://www.katu.com/news/national/African-warlord-goes-viral-in-Kony-2012-video-141942253.html