Wildland Fire, Packrats, and the Dipshits Among Us: Part Two

This is the second part in a series about fighting wildland fire. Find the first part here.

“Central Idaho Dispatch, Helicopter 409.” Our spotter, Donaldson, cracks over the radio.

“Central Idaho Dispatch, go ahead 409,” replies the dispatcher.

“409 is off Salmon Airbase at a heading of 2-4-9 with pilot and three souls on board, an hour and 50 minutes worth of fuel and an ETA of approximately 15 minutes to incident. Do you have us on flight follow?” Donaldson methodically reports.

“We have you on flight follow, have a good flight,” responds dispatch.

Now the radio traffic settles back to just the four of us in the helicopter. No dispatch, no longer any prying ears or need for overly professional dialogues. Donaldson has been a Captain on rappel crews for nearly a decade now, a spotter most of that time as well. He flies front seat exclusively these days, sacrificing days on the line for time with his family, as so many do at this point in their careers. It’s commendable, and I respect him for it immensely. This guy has paid his dues and now he gets us there, lays some wisdom on us about strategies for our fire, and then kicks us to the skids to go learn some shit for ourselves. At a casual 270 pounds and six-foot, four-inches, he also happens to be one of the largest humans I’ve ever met in the rappel world, but oddly, also one of the quietest and unassuming.

For the next 15 minutes, we’re all marching out our own personal pre-fire rituals. I can see Murray writing something furiously and methodically to my right as I’m busy re-folding my flight map in a way that the area of the incident is precisely centered and fixed in a way that I have a one-glance view of the fire’s location and the surrounding area. My flight and initial attack maps are where my compulsive attention to details and organization come full swing.

At the beginning of every season, if I wasn’t able to track down my maps from the previous year, I spend nearly an entire evening methodically color coding my maps. It’s for this very reason I have a hard time tracking them down at the beginning of each season. Some of the more opportunistic among us have figured out my map obsession and decide they might as well just “acquire” my past seasons maps for themselves. The first year it bothered me, but now I enjoy this early season ritual. It’s become a test of memory and experience. Townships, ranges, and district boundaries all have a very specific color-coding system. All of my previous fires, pack out routes, and heli-spots are methodically added and coded in my own system. Possible landing sites, safety zones, and structures I’ve seen during previous flights are methodically added and duplicated in a rain proof notepad which aids in replicating this process from year to year. My maps are my history here, and the history I’ve acquired from those who know a hell of a lot more than me. They’re always my first priority on a flight.

Finally, I feel us begin to lose a bit of altitude and can see just enough out the front window to see that the pilot and Donaldson have a first look at our fire. Donaldson begins talking out the basics as we start making left hand circles over the fire: southwest aspect, top quarter of the slope, nearby rock scree safety zone, a few “jackpots” of fuel. I chime in that the real escape potential is if we get fire rolling out below us and it gets established on the opposite north-facing slope, and I hear the word “cup trench” escape as I’m talking it through with him.

“Yeah, that’s a must, good luck with that.” Donaldson half laughs in reply.

A cup trench on a steep slope has got to be one of the most exhausting fire-line tactics you can deploy in country like this. It basically involves cutting into the slope enough to build a berm on the downhill side that is deep and steep enough to catch any rolling debris. Think of how they cut highways into hillsides and you basically get the point. Except, it’s just hand tools and back breaking effort out here, and on a two-man fire, there’s not a lot of ways to split that burden.

“You get a good enough look at it, Cooper? You ready to go find a site to configure?” Donaldson asks.

“Yeah, I’m good, how ’bout you, Murray?” I say while looking over to see if Murray’s got anything to add.

“I’m good.” Murray verifies.

“Okay, there’s an old guard station just down and east of here. We’ll configure there and then you guys can get a look at whether that’s an option for your packout,” Donaldson states.

For the flight to the guard station, myself and Murray are furiously scanning the terrain from the fire to the guard station. Planning your packout, and getting a look at the terrain from the air is crucial in trying to minimize any extra hiking or excessive expenditures you’ll be doing when that hundred-plus pounds hits your back once the fire is over. Finding an available water source along the way, if possible, is also a priority for me now. I learned that lesson the hard way last summer.

“When we land, you two get the doors off and out straight to that fence at the nose, and I’ll start rigging the ropes and setting up the bracket. Then get the fire box and saw box out, and I’ll rig that as well while you’re getting in your harnesses,” Donaldson commands.

We land, and we’re back to our synchrony. Doors off and stashed, boxes out and ready to be rigged for let down, and we’re getting our harnesses, and rappel equipment ready. Murray and I perform our customary “buddy checks” before we present back to the skids of the helicopter to rig into our ropes and decent devices. Donaldson performs one more full head to toe spotter check of each of us and our equipment before letting us back into the helicopter.

It’s tight back here with Donaldson as the spotter. The man commands some real estate in a helicopter this size. I find myself scooting toward the open air where the door used to be and resting a leg out a bit to give us some space. I see Murray do the same. These flights, doors-off, and experiencing the full intensity of the rotors are the flights that keep you coming back for this punishment every year. From here on out there are no radio communications between us in the back and everything is done with hand signals. We settle in for the short trip back to the fire.

I notice as we settle into a hover over the rappel site that the fire has indeed started backing itself down the slope into a couple jackpots of timber and fuel. We are going to have to hit the ground running a bit to keep this thing from crossing the drainage. Donaldson is crawling over us to each side of the helicopter and back as he guides the pilot into the rappel spot he’s chosen. We see him begin to move the fire and saw boxes to the skid to do the let-down of the gear we will need once we get to the ground. He and the pilot navigate this process and it’s over in less than a minute total.
Murray and myself wait patiently for our rappel signals. Donaldson settles back to his seat, makes eye contact and gives us the first, the signal to get out of our safety belts and make our way toward the skids. The signal to throw our ropes is next, and we pick out spots and do as told. Donaldson takes a check of each rope to ensure they landed in an unobstructed way and there are no knots or issues with the rope.

Next, it’s the signal to get to the skids. It’s a one-two-three step synchrony, and Murray and me are both standing straight out on the bottom skid eyes locked on Donaldson for the next signal. This can either be the signal to rappel or the signal to make an emergency re-entry into the helicopter. We wait as he crawls to each side of the helicopter to check our ropes one more time. I see him center up, make one more comment to the pilot, and we get the signal to rappel. This rappel is pretty straightforward: plenty of height to be safe, but not a lot of timber or canopy to navigate on the way down. There’s just a steep rock scree slope so there’s a bit of timing and finesse needed to land without losing an ankle and getting off the rope without sliding into or sending rockfall onto your partner on the downhill side as you make your way out of the rappel site.

We make our way out of the site and directly over to the fire and saw box as Donaldson proceeds to undo rigging and throw the ropes from the helicopter so it can fly off the rappel site and get out of the dead man zone as soon as possible.

We stash our harnesses and flight helmets and immediately switch to our hardhats. I get my radio out first and make contact with Donaldson and the helicopter.

“Helicopter 409, Copper, air-to-ground,” I key up as soon as I turn it on and find my air-to-ground channel.

“Go ahead, Cooper,” Donaldson replies.

“We’re good and comms are a go,” I say.

“You guys need anything else from us before we head back?” Donaldson asks.

“Do we have enough fuel for some bucket work?” I ask, almost as a prayer. During a brief pause I can imagine Donaldson and the pilot are contemplating time and closest water sites, etc.

“We can give you two. MacDonald will be back in a few,” Donaldson finally breaks through.

“Sweet, Thanks.”

Murray and myself begin packing up our ropes as I hear the high pitched crack that signifies the start of a tree begin to “torch” as we like to call it. This is when fire from the ground makes its way into the lower branches of a tree in a way that immediately sends the entire canopy of the tree into flames in a matter of seconds. This particular tree is at the top of one of the larger groupings of trees we saw from the air.

“We need to get on that. Get the saw out and ready to go,” I say to Murray as I continue packing a rope away. Murray is a far superior sawyer to myself. I can hold my own in project work and small diameter timber, bucking and limbing when there’s plenty of time and resources, but I know my limitations, and I am no salty fire-line sawyer. As the IC, I’ll man the radio and the dirt work, and Murray will be a one-man saw show tonight.

I see Murray almost has the saw ready to go, and I need to make a quick size-up of the fire and our approach before I send him in there. I make the decision that the rope-packing has to wait for now. This is not acceptable. Technically, your ropes and rappel gear should be packed and stowed before you ever engage your fire. This fire, however, doesn’t really care about our rules of engagement and is playing on its own timeline. I make the call. I’ll take the consequences later if I’m wrong. I’d rather lose a rope or two right now.

“I’m going to go put eyes on this quick while you finish up and see where we are. Get me on the radio when you’re headed over, and I’ll meet up with you,” I say to Murray as he’s putting bar oil in the chain saw. He nods, and I start to pick myself down the scree slope to the bottom of the fire, trying to see where we might be able to anchor it in and start some direct line construction. Also, try to get eyes on where this bitch of a cup trench needs to go in at.
As I get to the fire, I also decide I better give dispatch a quick size up while I’m working out our approach.

“Central Idaho Dispatch, Cooper on Windy Devil.”

“This is Central Idaho, go ahead.”

“Cooper here on incident #5467 ready to give a size-up. Do you have a name for this fire?”

“Yes, Cooper. This incident will be the Slaughterhouse fire. Go ahead with size-up when you’re ready.”

I proceed to relay all the pertinent details that dispatch and our line officers need back at the supervisor’s office in regards to the fire. It’s brief and one of the most concise size-ups I’ve ever called in. Time isn’t going to allow for a lot of chit chat with dispatch right now. I check the boxes and perform my due diligence and get off the radio. I haven’t heard from Murray yet, so I pick our anchor point and I start digging. I hear another tree torch out above me. This one is a bit more interior in the fire, but it also has three other trees it’s going to torch out as well. I see Murray picking down the scree toward me. I key up my radio.

“Murray. Cooper.”

“Go ahead, Coop.”

“Hey, come just below where those trees torched out, and I’ll meet you on this left flank.” I say.

I start heading up the left flank and carry a shitty excuse for a scratch line with me that I tied into the rock scree as I go back up to meet Murray. It wouldn’t hold real long, but it will hold long enough. I meet up with Murray and we very briefly talk tactics, he picks where he wants to start this saw line, and I talk out the specifics of the cup trench and line work I need to do. I also run by him my thoughts on where we put the two bucket drops or water we may be getting. We agree quickly, and we both head off to work.

He’s been doing this a long time, and I learned long ago that, as a woman on a fire, asserting your dominance or position by barking orders or mandating compliance is not the way to build a relationship. Even if I’m technically the incident commander, he’s got me in experience, and I value his opinions and insights. I don’t need to micromanage the guy. I just need to know where he’s at and vice versa, so we don’t get ourselves hurt. Not long after, I hear the helicopter crest the ridge as my radio cracks.

“Cooper. Helicopter 409, air to ground. Where do you want your water?” I hear Macdonald, a bit broken but distinguishable.

“Hey, 409. I’ve got Murray working the flank near a group of trees that just torched. You’ll see him about halfway up the fire on the left flank. If you could drop the first in that jackpot of trees and cool things down a bit for us, I’d appreciate it. He’ll get out of your way,” I say.

Before I even said it, I could see Murray had heard the helicopter and was bumping himself out of the timber and back toward the scree for the bucket drops. Standing under a bucket drop in burned-out timber is a sure-fire way to never wipe your own ass again from a traumatic brain injury, and we all know it.

MacDonald absolutely dead-eyes the bucket drop, it’s right on, and immediately I see Murray give a fist pump back down the hill to me.

“Nailed it, 409. We’ll take another just like that if you’ve got it,” I say over the radio.

“Will do. I’ll see ya back in a few,” he replies.

I also learned long ago that when you’re working with pilots as dialed as most of these guys, you don’t micromanage them either. They’ve fought a lot of aerial fire, and they can see fire potential and strategy as good or sometimes even better than you on the ground if they’re good. MacDonald is that good.

We get our second drop, and it’s a money shot like the first. Those two drops saved us hours of manual labor. As the helicopter flies back to Salmon, I request two additional rappelers from dispatch. I know it’s getting late, and we may not get them tonight, but two extra sets of hands would be helpful.

“We’ll see what we can do for you tomorrow morning. We’re too close to pumpkin time to get them there tonight,” I hear as the answer I expected from the dispatcher and line officer.

“Okay, I’ll be in touch first thing in the morning,” I reply.

We spend the next six hours or so digging and sawing with very little need for contact or interruption. We know what needs done, and we knew it was going to be a long ass night to get to the point we could safely leave it and maybe get some sleep. Finally, I hear Murray’s saw wind down as another tank of fuel empties. I look at the fire in the beam of my headlamp and then switch it off to see where the heat’s holding and any spots near our line that may be compromised or insecure. It looks pretty good actually. The fucking cup trench is done. Murray’s got all of the larger timber and ladder fuels taken care of, and most of our heat is holding on the interior away from our lines. I start hiking toward where I see Murray’s headlamp bobbing above me. As I come up on him he’s emptying the last of a liter of water from his fire pack.

“I think as long as we make our way to the other side of this rock scree to make camp, we can safely leave this for the night and get back at it in the morning. What do you think?” I ask, as Murray wipes his mouth and the sweat from his forehead.

“Yeah, she’s good for the night. We still have to get those fucking ropes up too, don’t we?” he says looking off into the dark toward the rappel site.

“Yeah, that and get the stuff from our boxes, at least another hour probably before we’re down,” I say looking at my watch. It’s 0130 now. We head towards our boxes and grab what we need for the night, which isn’t much: an MRE, a blue tarp, a sleeping bag, and water for each of us. I shove mine in my line gear, and we take on the project of packing up the ropes. They’re fine, they were in the sun a bit longer than we like, but they’ll be fine. I like to keep the rappel gear close to camp at night and not near the fire, so we load up the ropes and harnesses, and decent devices and carry those with us as well.

Murray notices a flat knob right above a rock outcropping. That’s an answer to a prayer, I was banking on having to dig another trench in this god forsaken hillside to make a place for us to sleep tonight. We head up, the last climb for the day, and we are both gassed in a way that this is not heroic in appearances. It’s sloppy and it’s desperate, but we make it to our knob.

I start the MRE heaters for both of us with our dinners. Chicken Cavatelli for me and the ol’ Beef Stew for Murray. He’s stringing our blue tarps on paracord to two saplings nearby. It’s not the Fort Knox of shelters by any means, but we each have a little rain protection if needed. We eat in silence, methodically and quickly, eating and drinking as much as we can. Then we unpack our sleeping bags, and we’re off to bed. Our “hooches” as we like to call them, our tarp shelters, are right next to each other with about three feet in between. My boots and a few rocks are holding down the corners at the head of my hooch, and Murray’s is probably set up about the same. I have my radio stashed inside one of my boots, and right before I fall asleep I call into dispatch one last time to let them know we are off the fire for the night. That’s all the “goodnight” myself and Murray give each other. You don’t chit chat or talk when you’re this tired. You just go the fuck to sleep.

You try to go the fuck to sleep. I was just about to nod off when I started to hear plastic tapping on the rock knob to the left of us. It was quiet and gentle at first, then getting louder, and I could hear rustling around in between the tapping. I roll over, listen for the direction of chatter, and throw a rock at the area. The noise stops. I lay my head back down and begin to nod off again. The noise is back.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is that?” I say to myself under my breath.

I find another rock. This time, I sit up in my sleeping bag, scootch myself out of my hooch enough to have more leverage, and throw the rock with a bit more “don’t fuck with me” gusto. Again, the noise stops, and I sit upright for a minute waiting, and still nothing, so I proceed to scootch back down into my bag and under my hooch.

“What is it?” I hear Murray ask.

“I don’t know, something’s messing with out shit over on the rock. I think it’s knocking against a hard hat or something.”

“Did you see what it was?” Murray asks.

“No, contacts are out for the night, so no point in turning on my light.”

It’s fairly common knowledge to anyone who’s been on an IA with me in the past that I have horrendous and debilitating eyesight without contacts or glasses. I always pack extra sets of both, but once the lights are out for the night, I’m all of useless and I make sure they know that in case of an issue.

“Oh right, well, go back to bed Stevie Wonder,” Murray chides.

I lay down and this time I do fall mostly asleep. The noise has subsided or at least must have been faint enough for me to ignore. The next thing I hear is Murray.

“Motherfucker, get out of here!” he yells as I hear him moving around under his hooch.

“What’s it doing now?” I ask, only peaking my mouth and one ear out of my mummy bag.

“Fucking thing was messing with my boots and socks at the bottom corner by my feet,” he says as I hear him rearranging items under his hooch.

I listen and hear nothing. Finally Murray settles and lays back down. I’m still mostly asleep and quite honestly just past the point of giving a fuck. Whatever it is, it isn’t too big if it’s crawling around stealthy like this. I think to myself it’s probably a chipmunk or a pika, nothing major. I don’t know how long I was asleep, but what I woke to was what nightmares are made of. I heard Murray faintly exclaim something and the next thing I know, in the dark, something has come flying into my hooch at a high rate of speed, struck the top right corner where my boots and radio were holding the corner down, and a high-pitched squeal at impact escapes from whatever creature is now in my hooch. I sit bolt upright and the creature, in it’s scurry to find safety has a grasp on my sleeping bag on the right side as I can feel its weight hanging from my bag as I move upright.

This is when my panic hits a breaking point. My arms are deep inside my bag, and I’m thrashing to get them outside while gyrating in a way that I can hopefully cut this creature lose from me. It’s not working. It’s clutching harder. It’s squealing. I’m fucking screaming like a blind, helpless lunatic thrashing around wildly trying to cut lose from it. Finally, it’s off me and I hear it running back down my hooch towards my feet again. By this point, Murray is up, headlamp, boxer briefs, and nothing more, jumping around camp wildly trying to chase the creature down. I am grasping wildly for my headlamp and a pair of glasses I usually keep stowed in my other boot at night in case I need to get up to use the facilities, except all of my shit has been strewn all over, and I’m just blindly feeling my way around looking for anything I can find. I touch on my headlamp first. I turn it on, and begin searching for my glasses. I find them dirty, covered in pine needle litter, but I throw them on my face. Any sight right now is better than none. I get them on my face just in time to see Murray make a very ill-fated attempt to punt the creature as it comes out the bottom of his hooch. This is where I mention that Murray was an all-state soccer player in his younger years. Quite the boot, which I am soon going to witness firsthand. He connects with the creature, it’s reeling again, and again, reeling right back up towards the head of my hooch.

“Fucking Christ!” I yell as I stand bolt upright under my tarp, which only happens to be approximately three feet tall. But I am not meeting this creature on ground level again.

It’s tumbling and finally finds its footing and its bearings in the stream of our headlamps and tears off toward the rock knob where our gear is stashed. In the light, I finally see what we’re dealing with. This is no pika, not a menacing ground squirrel. This is a fucking packrat nearly the size of a well-fed cat, with beady eyes, whiskers, overgrown claws, and that naked and creepy-ass tail. I literally shudder the minute I realize what it is.

“That thing almost touched my face!” I exclaim in disgust as I continue to shudder out my eebie-jeebies.

“It was running over and tried laying on my feet,” Murray responds.

Over the next few minutes Murray and I collect ourselves and our items and make our way back to our bags and our hooches. I’m laying here, flat on my back, looking straight up, ears at full attention, clutching my glasses in one hand and my headlamp in the other. I know Murray’s over there doing something similar. I hear nothing until I hear Murray breathing just hard enough to hear, but not quite hard enough to be a snore. I relax a bit. The last thing I can remember thinking to myself is, “We’re going packrat hunting in the morning.”