Training
Having concluded my first season hotshotting with Logan, I started looking for a job closer to Missoula. Jess finished school and took a teaching job nearby, and while I wasn’t opposed to making the seven hour drive from Logan during my off days to visit her, it would obviously be a whole lot better if that wasn’t necessary. So, I interviewed with Lolo, whose clubhouse is 5 blocks from our house, and with the recommendation of Roy, my former supe, I was hired. I couldn’t be more thankful to Roy, who not only took me on with little experience, but also provided excellent learning opportunities on an excellent crew. They all wished me well, and I hope the same for them.
I began physical training right away. Everyday I went to the YMCA and followed a routine I had prepared myself. It included strength days, functional fitness, and active recovery days. I also ran a lot, or at least I tried to, attempting about 15 to 20 miles a week. Once critical training rolled around in May, this put me in a good spot. We routinely put on 5 to 10 miles with our packs in steep elevation, and on the more strenuous days, we ran 15 miles with over 2,000 feet gain or rucked the equivalent with fireline weight. As I see it, the physical components of critical training and all the working out before it are not necessarily to prepare for the majority of the time spent on the job but for what could be expected of on a very challenging day.
In addition to physical preparing for the fire season, we took refresher courses on everything from medical scenarios to conducting burnout operations. And of course, we studied tragedy fires of the past, because the absolute last thing anyone would want is to repeat the same mistakes. After two weeks, we finished critical training and began project work on the Lolo National Forest. This mostly included thinning timber stands and cutting fireline for prescribed fires, which we’d typically do in early fall or spring. We did this for several weeks, the whole time available as a national resource to respond anywhere within two hours notice. Then, one afternoon, in the middle of a crossfit workout, that call came. The next morning we were to pre-position in New Mexico.
In addition to physical preparing for the fire season, we took refresher courses on everything from medical scenarios to conducting burnout operations. And of course, we studied tragedy fires of the past, because the absolute last thing anyone would want is to repeat the same mistakes. After two weeks, we finished critical training and began project work on the Lolo National Forest. This mostly included thinning timber stands and cutting fireline for prescribed fires, which we’d typically do in early fall or spring. We did this for several weeks, the whole time available as a national resource to respond anywhere within two hours notice. Then, one afternoon, in the middle of a crossfit workout, that call came. The next morning we were to pre-position in New Mexico.
First Roll
6-2 The drive to Magdelena, New Mexico
The drive took us two days. For us seasonals, that means two days in “the box.” The box refers to the back of one of the two buggies our crew drives, in addition to a saw truck and chase truck. The box becomes almost like a second home--a safe space--for the amount of time we spend in there, reading, listening to music, or napping. We keep our personal items on shelves next to us and our fire gear stored above us. Everyone typically has a healthy supply of food. There's a cooler with drinks in the back, and looking out the windows as we cruise around the west, there are some of the most amazing views.
The drive took us two days. For us seasonals, that means two days in “the box.” The box refers to the back of one of the two buggies our crew drives, in addition to a saw truck and chase truck. The box becomes almost like a second home--a safe space--for the amount of time we spend in there, reading, listening to music, or napping. We keep our personal items on shelves next to us and our fire gear stored above us. Everyone typically has a healthy supply of food. There's a cooler with drinks in the back, and looking out the windows as we cruise around the west, there are some of the most amazing views.
6-8 Wilson’s Crossing Fire, South of Pueblo Colorado
We had just arrived in Magdelana, and only stayed there a couple days getting acquainted with the area, before we were called to Colorado. Unexpected but okay--we had our first fire of the season. It was located on the plains east of the Sangre De Christo Mountains but they loomed large and pummeled us with wind. Supposedly while on the fire we experienced Colorado’s first “derecho.” A wind event is considered a derecho if, according to the National Weather Service, “it extends more than 240 miles and has gusts of at least 58 mph or greater along most of the length of its path.” A guy on our crew recorded a 50 mph gust, but there had to have been ones considerably higher.
The fire’s fuel type consisted of pinion pine and juniper mixed with ponderosa--this in a semi-arid environment. Before we departed for the fire, I tried to imagine what ponderosa’s there would look like. In Montana, they often stand tallest among other conifers growing over 100 feet tall and up to 250. They have thick, red bark, drop their lower limbs (or ladder fuel for fire) and have large clumps of long needles. Pinion and juniper by contrast are rather shrubby and require much less rain. When we arrived on scene, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see, then, that the ponderosas grew much shorter, so they all but blended in with the arid landscape. Many cactuses and succulents grew there too.
We had just arrived in Magdelana, and only stayed there a couple days getting acquainted with the area, before we were called to Colorado. Unexpected but okay--we had our first fire of the season. It was located on the plains east of the Sangre De Christo Mountains but they loomed large and pummeled us with wind. Supposedly while on the fire we experienced Colorado’s first “derecho.” A wind event is considered a derecho if, according to the National Weather Service, “it extends more than 240 miles and has gusts of at least 58 mph or greater along most of the length of its path.” A guy on our crew recorded a 50 mph gust, but there had to have been ones considerably higher.
The fire’s fuel type consisted of pinion pine and juniper mixed with ponderosa--this in a semi-arid environment. Before we departed for the fire, I tried to imagine what ponderosa’s there would look like. In Montana, they often stand tallest among other conifers growing over 100 feet tall and up to 250. They have thick, red bark, drop their lower limbs (or ladder fuel for fire) and have large clumps of long needles. Pinion and juniper by contrast are rather shrubby and require much less rain. When we arrived on scene, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see, then, that the ponderosas grew much shorter, so they all but blended in with the arid landscape. Many cactuses and succulents grew there too.
Another thing I tried to imagine en route to the fire was how we’d suppress it. Arid location, scrubby fuel type, and high winds sounded like it’d be prime location for some exciting fire behavior. I looked up the coordinates in a map, tried to predict where the fire pushed based on wind direction, and predicted what tactics we’d use. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Upon crossing the border from New Mexico to Colorado a crew member remarked that the vegetation looked pretty green, and indeed, it was, and it started to rain, and when we arrived, the fire was mostly dead. We would be in a for a couple days of “mopping up,” or in other words, seeking out heat along the fires edge and either digging up the source of it--often a burning stump--and spreading the embers out on the surface to quickly burn out, or digging it up and spraying water on it with portable water bags and hand pumps. If an engine can access the fire or we can set up Mk3 pumps to lay hose and spray, we’ll do that, but on this fire those options weren’t available. We mopped up and got pummeled by the wind.
Yet, if you can’t find the silver lining in wildland fire assignments, you probably won’t be doing the job long, and the silver lining is often the larger landscape you are working in. This was remarkable country--diverse flora, red and gold sandstone, the mountains in the distance, and a canyon on the fire’s edge that dropped hundreds of feet below us. Along the rim, one of the guys found a rock covered in seashells and it occurred to me that millions of years ago that the canyon might not have been a canyon at all, it might have been a channel--perhaps the hunting grounds for some terrifying sea creature. Later research confirmed this suspicion. During the Cretacious period (66 to 145 million years ago) the Platecarpus was one such creature that would have lurked. Upon mentioning the channel hypothesis to my coworkers, a brief search for large teeth ensued, but none were turned up.
Upon crossing the border from New Mexico to Colorado a crew member remarked that the vegetation looked pretty green, and indeed, it was, and it started to rain, and when we arrived, the fire was mostly dead. We would be in a for a couple days of “mopping up,” or in other words, seeking out heat along the fires edge and either digging up the source of it--often a burning stump--and spreading the embers out on the surface to quickly burn out, or digging it up and spraying water on it with portable water bags and hand pumps. If an engine can access the fire or we can set up Mk3 pumps to lay hose and spray, we’ll do that, but on this fire those options weren’t available. We mopped up and got pummeled by the wind.
Yet, if you can’t find the silver lining in wildland fire assignments, you probably won’t be doing the job long, and the silver lining is often the larger landscape you are working in. This was remarkable country--diverse flora, red and gold sandstone, the mountains in the distance, and a canyon on the fire’s edge that dropped hundreds of feet below us. Along the rim, one of the guys found a rock covered in seashells and it occurred to me that millions of years ago that the canyon might not have been a canyon at all, it might have been a channel--perhaps the hunting grounds for some terrifying sea creature. Later research confirmed this suspicion. During the Cretacious period (66 to 145 million years ago) the Platecarpus was one such creature that would have lurked. Upon mentioning the channel hypothesis to my coworkers, a brief search for large teeth ensued, but none were turned up.
By Dmitry Bogdanov - dmitrchel@mail.ru
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Platecarpus
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Platecarpus
For the two days we were on the fire, I slept in my bivy, that is a sleeping bag and air pad rolled out inside my military surplus, water-proof bivy covering--no tent or anything obscuring the view of the stars. It is my preferable way to sleep, although I popped my air pad the first night on a cactus and would spend the entire rest of the roll with little more than the bag between me and the ground, which I soon became accustomed enough to. The sun set behind the mountains and all night the wind blew stiffly.
6-10 The Canyada Fire, Carson National Forest, New Mexico
Once our services were no longer required on the Wilson’s Crossing Fire, we were cut loose and headed back to New Mexico. This time we shot for Santa Fe and arrived around 6pm. We picked up food at a grocery store, then arrived at a hotel anxious to get a hot shower. Our supe assigned our rooms, handed out keys, and we started for the door. As as soon as we reached it, however, he called us back. He had just received a phone call from Taos. We were to immediately respond to another fire on the Carson National Forest.
The drive to the El Rito Ranger Station, the closest station to the fire, took us a couple of hours, and after getting orientated and traveling further up a Forest Service road, we didn’t arrive on scene until around 10pm. We had by this time put on our yellow, nomex fire shirts and mentally prepared ourselves for a night shift on a fire we knew little about. Foolishly, I popped in a piece of caffeine gum, because, as suspected, once we reached our staging area, our supe relayed we’d bed down for the night and get after it in the morning. 5:30 wake up--the usual time.
The piece of ground we then occupied bore little resemblance to the last. There were ponderosas, but not of the shorter variety. These pondos reached heights I’d always grown accustomed to seeing and around them grew equally large Douglas Firs, and above them all, towered some of the most beautiful aspen I’d ever seen. Gone too were the cactus and bare sandstone, replaced by an even grass layer and scrub oak, no doubt quenched by the high elevation moisture. The tops of mountains surrounded us. A crew member reported we stood at 9,000 feet.
One thing did remain constant, however, and that was the wind. It blew ferociously around us and the temp must have dropped 60 degrees. 90, I think it was on the Wilson’s Crossing Fire, and where we were then at measured a verifiable 30. We fumbled to put on extra layers while watching the great trees sway menacingly above us. And to think, only a few hours before, we walked toward a hotel room. “Go ahead and bed down,” our supe told us, “make sure to check for widow makers,” (large dead limbs that risk tumbling atop you.)
I did as our supe advised and unfurled my bivy under a sturdy looking stand for another night under the stars. I couldn’t complain though. Even with the wind and cold, the deflated sleeping pad, and the swaying trees above me, sleeping outside away from the bustle of the city is something I sincerely enjoy, and I fell asleep quickly too, in spite of the caffeine. A dark, deep sleep.
Then there came a crash! At about 1 am, I sat up abruptly and let out an involuntary “Oh shit!” A large snag had toppled over not 30 feet from me. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed and to verify I hadn’t been dreaming, but it was too dark to tell. I contemplated moving spots, and after deciding there were none better--I mean, after all, a snag couldn’t fall in the same spot twice could it?--I cautiously laid back down, watching the tree’s continue to sway high above me until I finally drifted off.
The next morning, the falling snag event was confirmed and filled everyone with the same alarm. We discussed the event as we ate breakfast, then jumped into our buggies to drive further up the road and begin our work. The wind had died down but was still stiff, and I wondered how it, plus the sloping terrain might effect the fire’s spread. Our crew split into two modules, ten guys in each, and I, with my pulaski in hand, hung with the second, to which I’d been assigned for the season. We hiked up a ridge and caught sight of disparate columns of smoke and approached the fire’s edge. It’s total size then, 25 acres. The spread wasn’t anything remarkable but if we didn’t have it contained by that afternoon when things heated up, who could tell. Maybe we’d be in for a fight.
Below the ridge on which we stood there were spots that threatened to burn along the slope and possible up and over, beyond the main body of the fire. That and because there was also a lot of fuel between the spots and the fire’s main body, which would take more time, money, and resources to control if burned, necessitated that our module get on them quickly.
We worked the spots furthest from the main body first. The saws cut away scrub oak from the edge and myself and a couple other dug line behind them, mindful of a road just below us that we could hop down to and walk to safety if the need arose. But, there was never a moment that felt like we might need to. Mid-morning, about the same time the fire did start to intensify, an engine pulled up the road, and myself and my squad boss began running hose. We ran about a thousand feet of hose, spraying and progressing until we reached the main body, which was all but black. The fire wasn’t going anywhere.
We began mop-up operations, including cold-trailing, that evening and continued through the next day--a full shift on our knees, sifting through the ash bare-handed to make sure it was cold. On the third day, we monitored, watching for any signs of smoke. Monitoring days are the slowest. Typically, we might sit, isolated on a chunk of ground for 14 hours, getting up periodically to patrol and gain a different vantage. Some people, including myself, bring a book and journal. But also, there’s a lot of listening to birds and trying to stave off thoughts that lead to nowhere. What could I do about protests over police brutality, the coronavirus, or a faltering economy? Nothing. I didn’t even have self phone service and felt saner for it.
We monitored for a couple more days, then drove to Taos where we stayed, and for lack of any other fires in the area, physically trained, and cut a line for the local district to burn a prescribed fire off of that fall. Each night we stayed in a hotel--a very nice one with big comfortable beds, a nice television, and an A.C.. Southwestern art decorated the adobe walls. I wished Jess could have been there. She would have enjoyed the place and I know she loves Taos. It’s one of the places we visited on our honeymoon. It was difficult for me to sleep however. How easy it is to grow accustomed to sleeping on the ground outdoors, like our bodies and minds never lost the inborn condition. And, on the contrary, how unnatural the mattress I slept on felt, like my body was searching for the earth to return to, and the ceiling felt claustrophobic compared to the stars, and the A.C., its mechanical drone, was a poor substitute for the wind.
6-14 The Bringham Fire, Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest, Arizona
The fire that took us away from Taos rapidly burned up several thousand acres in the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest of Arizona on the day we departed. Of particular concern for the state, was that it threatened to shut down a highway. The situation report stated that we might expect torching, flanking, frequent spotting, erratic outflow winds, and rapid uphill runs, or in other words, extreme fire behavior. Hell yea!
This time, instead of trying to predict what the fire might look like or how we might try to suppress it, I followed my squad boss’s advice, “It’s not worth thinking too much about until you get on scene, otherwise you might get the wrong ideas,” This he relayed to me after I told him how wrong I’d been about the last outcomes, and it turned out to be prescient advice for this assignment too.
When we showed up to the fire eight hours later, we found it burning lazily a considerable distance from the road where the incident commander had no problem with it remaining. However, there was a chance it would back up a canyon, so he wanted us to prep some fireline off the road for a possible burnout, then sit and wait for the necessity. This we did, and we sat and waited and waited and waited. Several days of waiting. At one point it blew up in the distance, rapidly making a run up the face of a mountain. Within four hours, it must have grown 10,000 acres in size putting up an impressive column.
6-10 The Canyada Fire, Carson National Forest, New Mexico
Once our services were no longer required on the Wilson’s Crossing Fire, we were cut loose and headed back to New Mexico. This time we shot for Santa Fe and arrived around 6pm. We picked up food at a grocery store, then arrived at a hotel anxious to get a hot shower. Our supe assigned our rooms, handed out keys, and we started for the door. As as soon as we reached it, however, he called us back. He had just received a phone call from Taos. We were to immediately respond to another fire on the Carson National Forest.
The drive to the El Rito Ranger Station, the closest station to the fire, took us a couple of hours, and after getting orientated and traveling further up a Forest Service road, we didn’t arrive on scene until around 10pm. We had by this time put on our yellow, nomex fire shirts and mentally prepared ourselves for a night shift on a fire we knew little about. Foolishly, I popped in a piece of caffeine gum, because, as suspected, once we reached our staging area, our supe relayed we’d bed down for the night and get after it in the morning. 5:30 wake up--the usual time.
The piece of ground we then occupied bore little resemblance to the last. There were ponderosas, but not of the shorter variety. These pondos reached heights I’d always grown accustomed to seeing and around them grew equally large Douglas Firs, and above them all, towered some of the most beautiful aspen I’d ever seen. Gone too were the cactus and bare sandstone, replaced by an even grass layer and scrub oak, no doubt quenched by the high elevation moisture. The tops of mountains surrounded us. A crew member reported we stood at 9,000 feet.
One thing did remain constant, however, and that was the wind. It blew ferociously around us and the temp must have dropped 60 degrees. 90, I think it was on the Wilson’s Crossing Fire, and where we were then at measured a verifiable 30. We fumbled to put on extra layers while watching the great trees sway menacingly above us. And to think, only a few hours before, we walked toward a hotel room. “Go ahead and bed down,” our supe told us, “make sure to check for widow makers,” (large dead limbs that risk tumbling atop you.)
I did as our supe advised and unfurled my bivy under a sturdy looking stand for another night under the stars. I couldn’t complain though. Even with the wind and cold, the deflated sleeping pad, and the swaying trees above me, sleeping outside away from the bustle of the city is something I sincerely enjoy, and I fell asleep quickly too, in spite of the caffeine. A dark, deep sleep.
Then there came a crash! At about 1 am, I sat up abruptly and let out an involuntary “Oh shit!” A large snag had toppled over not 30 feet from me. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed and to verify I hadn’t been dreaming, but it was too dark to tell. I contemplated moving spots, and after deciding there were none better--I mean, after all, a snag couldn’t fall in the same spot twice could it?--I cautiously laid back down, watching the tree’s continue to sway high above me until I finally drifted off.
The next morning, the falling snag event was confirmed and filled everyone with the same alarm. We discussed the event as we ate breakfast, then jumped into our buggies to drive further up the road and begin our work. The wind had died down but was still stiff, and I wondered how it, plus the sloping terrain might effect the fire’s spread. Our crew split into two modules, ten guys in each, and I, with my pulaski in hand, hung with the second, to which I’d been assigned for the season. We hiked up a ridge and caught sight of disparate columns of smoke and approached the fire’s edge. It’s total size then, 25 acres. The spread wasn’t anything remarkable but if we didn’t have it contained by that afternoon when things heated up, who could tell. Maybe we’d be in for a fight.
Below the ridge on which we stood there were spots that threatened to burn along the slope and possible up and over, beyond the main body of the fire. That and because there was also a lot of fuel between the spots and the fire’s main body, which would take more time, money, and resources to control if burned, necessitated that our module get on them quickly.
We worked the spots furthest from the main body first. The saws cut away scrub oak from the edge and myself and a couple other dug line behind them, mindful of a road just below us that we could hop down to and walk to safety if the need arose. But, there was never a moment that felt like we might need to. Mid-morning, about the same time the fire did start to intensify, an engine pulled up the road, and myself and my squad boss began running hose. We ran about a thousand feet of hose, spraying and progressing until we reached the main body, which was all but black. The fire wasn’t going anywhere.
We began mop-up operations, including cold-trailing, that evening and continued through the next day--a full shift on our knees, sifting through the ash bare-handed to make sure it was cold. On the third day, we monitored, watching for any signs of smoke. Monitoring days are the slowest. Typically, we might sit, isolated on a chunk of ground for 14 hours, getting up periodically to patrol and gain a different vantage. Some people, including myself, bring a book and journal. But also, there’s a lot of listening to birds and trying to stave off thoughts that lead to nowhere. What could I do about protests over police brutality, the coronavirus, or a faltering economy? Nothing. I didn’t even have self phone service and felt saner for it.
We monitored for a couple more days, then drove to Taos where we stayed, and for lack of any other fires in the area, physically trained, and cut a line for the local district to burn a prescribed fire off of that fall. Each night we stayed in a hotel--a very nice one with big comfortable beds, a nice television, and an A.C.. Southwestern art decorated the adobe walls. I wished Jess could have been there. She would have enjoyed the place and I know she loves Taos. It’s one of the places we visited on our honeymoon. It was difficult for me to sleep however. How easy it is to grow accustomed to sleeping on the ground outdoors, like our bodies and minds never lost the inborn condition. And, on the contrary, how unnatural the mattress I slept on felt, like my body was searching for the earth to return to, and the ceiling felt claustrophobic compared to the stars, and the A.C., its mechanical drone, was a poor substitute for the wind.
6-14 The Bringham Fire, Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest, Arizona
The fire that took us away from Taos rapidly burned up several thousand acres in the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest of Arizona on the day we departed. Of particular concern for the state, was that it threatened to shut down a highway. The situation report stated that we might expect torching, flanking, frequent spotting, erratic outflow winds, and rapid uphill runs, or in other words, extreme fire behavior. Hell yea!
This time, instead of trying to predict what the fire might look like or how we might try to suppress it, I followed my squad boss’s advice, “It’s not worth thinking too much about until you get on scene, otherwise you might get the wrong ideas,” This he relayed to me after I told him how wrong I’d been about the last outcomes, and it turned out to be prescient advice for this assignment too.
When we showed up to the fire eight hours later, we found it burning lazily a considerable distance from the road where the incident commander had no problem with it remaining. However, there was a chance it would back up a canyon, so he wanted us to prep some fireline off the road for a possible burnout, then sit and wait for the necessity. This we did, and we sat and waited and waited and waited. Several days of waiting. At one point it blew up in the distance, rapidly making a run up the face of a mountain. Within four hours, it must have grown 10,000 acres in size putting up an impressive column.
Again we slept outside in our bivies--or most of us did anyway. The number of people who put up tents started to gradually increase the longer we stayed. This could be attributed to one reason. Skunks. These furry little pests made their presence known the first night, scurrying around camp, and every morning since someone had a new tale to relate of their close encounter. “I woke up to them scratching at my toes,” said one, “One of them drug their tail across my face,” said another. It was good to laugh about, but by the end only a few of us in bivies remained--including me. Yes, I had my encounters. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to see one a couple feet from me. But mostly I came to regard the episode as sleeping in a house with cats. They were there, they scurried around, and they never sprayed. So it was okay with me.
Eventually, on day four or five of the fire, it was determined we’d go into the bottom of the canyon, directly attack the fire, and alleviate the concern it’d burn back up. This was a moderately risky maneuver, one that necessitated our supe and assistant supe first scouting in advance of us to determine good safety zones and a point of extraction in the event of an injury. As they scouted, we prepared our gear, 3 days and two nights worth to be slung in underneath a helicopter. Then, when our overhead radioed back that the mission would be a go, we started hiking. It was four miles in, not a considerable distance, but it was considerably hot and the low relative humidity meant that the sweat dissipated once it hit our skin.
The work itself was even hotter. I drank over 8 quarts of water and didn’t pee until the end of the day. Smoke columns rose around us, bringing to mind the blowout several days earlier. We were truly in the heart of the beast, but we had multiple lookouts, and air support--helicopters dropping buckets of water--so we could work assured of our safety. We only ended up staying one night, then working and hiking out the next day.
Eventually, on day four or five of the fire, it was determined we’d go into the bottom of the canyon, directly attack the fire, and alleviate the concern it’d burn back up. This was a moderately risky maneuver, one that necessitated our supe and assistant supe first scouting in advance of us to determine good safety zones and a point of extraction in the event of an injury. As they scouted, we prepared our gear, 3 days and two nights worth to be slung in underneath a helicopter. Then, when our overhead radioed back that the mission would be a go, we started hiking. It was four miles in, not a considerable distance, but it was considerably hot and the low relative humidity meant that the sweat dissipated once it hit our skin.
The work itself was even hotter. I drank over 8 quarts of water and didn’t pee until the end of the day. Smoke columns rose around us, bringing to mind the blowout several days earlier. We were truly in the heart of the beast, but we had multiple lookouts, and air support--helicopters dropping buckets of water--so we could work assured of our safety. We only ended up staying one night, then working and hiking out the next day.
Fire Lookout
Returning Home 6-25
Two days R&R. Two uninterrupted days at home with Jess and my daughter. These are days that I spend many while on assignment anticipating, but always they seem to go so fast. What did I even do? Hard to remember. I woke up on my daughter, Maryanne’s, time and watched Sesame Street with her. We also went to the park. In the 25 days of my absence, she had noticeably grown. She was taller and leaner and much quicker on her feet, darting from the swing set to the slides, and she climbed and jumped in ways I’d not seen. Last year during the season, I remember coming home to her crawling. She said her first “dad” over the phone.
It’s difficult being away, and I admit, it can also be difficult at home--sometimes even more so. The winter was a whirlwind of attending grad school, and watching M while Jess finished student teaching. Then she got a job teaching in town (thank God), and I wrote essays, and I tried to stay in top physical condition, and I watched our daughter, and I drank--moderately most of the time, sometimes heavily, but most afternoons and evenings I usually drank something, as I did the year after M was born, and as I’ve done since I moved out of my parent’s home. Drink during the stressful times, drink during the good.
But anyway, after I took my daughter to the park, I organized my garage. I wanted to put the things in order that I’d neglected. Then the familiar urge welled up from within me. The warmth, the forgetting, the image of me, my feet kicked up listening to Willie Nelson with my ladies beside me while I sipped a glass of whiskey. So I went to the liquor store and bought a fine Montana made brand and I played the evening out as I had pictured it. I felt good, like I deserved it. At that time I did not feel guilty.
Guilt only really began to set in the next evening after I poured the last shot from the bottle and went to bed not unprepared for work the next day but certainly not in peak condition for it. Of course, when I walked into the clubhouse too, our supe posted a crossfit workout for time on the board. “That’s okay,” I thought, and indeed it was--I performed well. The military had prepared me to do so. Time and again I’d been in the same circumstance like most everyone else in my platoon. One of my best five mile times, I’m convinced, I ran while fighting off waves of nauseous from a party the night before. Perhaps, I can chalk these performances up to the extra calories and carbs my body is drawing from. Perhaps it’s all in my head. Either way it’s not good. I know I should exercise more self-control.
The rest of the week we waited for a fire call and commenced project work. The 4th of July weekend rolled around and still no call--remarkably, but I did drink more with friends. The next week rolled around and we continued project work. Everyday, we showed up and we PTed or didn’t but always we returned to our project site in the Lolo National Forest. We were digging line for a prescribed burn. Hours of digging.. days of digging.. and most of it spent locked inside my own, cursed head riding waves of self-worth, questioning it and my job, but finally deciding, when it’s all said and done, that maybe, I really did feel good about myself and what I was doing. I admired the mountains and the immense, uninhabited spanse of woodland around me. I appreciated the movement of my body and the sweat and the feeling that maybe I was doing something that had tangible benefits for the health of the larger ecosystem, in spite of the small role I played and the tedium of the task.
All this considered then, should I not be completely content? Had I not arrived at a station in life in which I could be proud, providing for the environment and my family? Could I not look forward to the evenings when I’m not on a fire and return home to my beautiful wife and daughter and our home? Is alcohol really a necessary reward at the end of the day? I lived the dream, as American as it gets, and that evening I settled into one of the most American-esque evenings of my adult life--the kind we’re taught to imagine for ourselves in school even as the flawed foundation that supports it is exposed. The machinations of war, the growing inequalities, the forgotten and voiceless, I would not consider it.
I returned home--our beautiful little, rented space. Jess greeted me with a kiss and smile wearing a beautiful little summer dress. Since she teaches and has the summers off, she cleaned the house. Maryanne soon woke from a late nap. I walked into her room and she jumped in the crib, babbling sweetly. Light streaked through the blinds, subdued a soft purple by the curtains. Outside her window, wind chimes rang. While Jess gardened, I cooked M dinner and danced to folk tunes. I presented her with a chicken, potato, and greens, all cut to size. We then went to the park, only this time instead of riding in a stroller, she held my hand and we walked together. She carried on a lively conversation with me in baby tongue while I pushed her on the swing. We returned home, and Jess and I took turns reading to her, then Jess changed her and put her to bed. We listened to classical music and read literature, and I never had a drink.
It’s difficult being away, and I admit, it can also be difficult at home--sometimes even more so. The winter was a whirlwind of attending grad school, and watching M while Jess finished student teaching. Then she got a job teaching in town (thank God), and I wrote essays, and I tried to stay in top physical condition, and I watched our daughter, and I drank--moderately most of the time, sometimes heavily, but most afternoons and evenings I usually drank something, as I did the year after M was born, and as I’ve done since I moved out of my parent’s home. Drink during the stressful times, drink during the good.
But anyway, after I took my daughter to the park, I organized my garage. I wanted to put the things in order that I’d neglected. Then the familiar urge welled up from within me. The warmth, the forgetting, the image of me, my feet kicked up listening to Willie Nelson with my ladies beside me while I sipped a glass of whiskey. So I went to the liquor store and bought a fine Montana made brand and I played the evening out as I had pictured it. I felt good, like I deserved it. At that time I did not feel guilty.
Guilt only really began to set in the next evening after I poured the last shot from the bottle and went to bed not unprepared for work the next day but certainly not in peak condition for it. Of course, when I walked into the clubhouse too, our supe posted a crossfit workout for time on the board. “That’s okay,” I thought, and indeed it was--I performed well. The military had prepared me to do so. Time and again I’d been in the same circumstance like most everyone else in my platoon. One of my best five mile times, I’m convinced, I ran while fighting off waves of nauseous from a party the night before. Perhaps, I can chalk these performances up to the extra calories and carbs my body is drawing from. Perhaps it’s all in my head. Either way it’s not good. I know I should exercise more self-control.
The rest of the week we waited for a fire call and commenced project work. The 4th of July weekend rolled around and still no call--remarkably, but I did drink more with friends. The next week rolled around and we continued project work. Everyday, we showed up and we PTed or didn’t but always we returned to our project site in the Lolo National Forest. We were digging line for a prescribed burn. Hours of digging.. days of digging.. and most of it spent locked inside my own, cursed head riding waves of self-worth, questioning it and my job, but finally deciding, when it’s all said and done, that maybe, I really did feel good about myself and what I was doing. I admired the mountains and the immense, uninhabited spanse of woodland around me. I appreciated the movement of my body and the sweat and the feeling that maybe I was doing something that had tangible benefits for the health of the larger ecosystem, in spite of the small role I played and the tedium of the task.
All this considered then, should I not be completely content? Had I not arrived at a station in life in which I could be proud, providing for the environment and my family? Could I not look forward to the evenings when I’m not on a fire and return home to my beautiful wife and daughter and our home? Is alcohol really a necessary reward at the end of the day? I lived the dream, as American as it gets, and that evening I settled into one of the most American-esque evenings of my adult life--the kind we’re taught to imagine for ourselves in school even as the flawed foundation that supports it is exposed. The machinations of war, the growing inequalities, the forgotten and voiceless, I would not consider it.
I returned home--our beautiful little, rented space. Jess greeted me with a kiss and smile wearing a beautiful little summer dress. Since she teaches and has the summers off, she cleaned the house. Maryanne soon woke from a late nap. I walked into her room and she jumped in the crib, babbling sweetly. Light streaked through the blinds, subdued a soft purple by the curtains. Outside her window, wind chimes rang. While Jess gardened, I cooked M dinner and danced to folk tunes. I presented her with a chicken, potato, and greens, all cut to size. We then went to the park, only this time instead of riding in a stroller, she held my hand and we walked together. She carried on a lively conversation with me in baby tongue while I pushed her on the swing. We returned home, and Jess and I took turns reading to her, then Jess changed her and put her to bed. We listened to classical music and read literature, and I never had a drink.