There's something about being thrown into the mix of a potential disaster
that just gets some people, well, fired up.
Ted Mason is like that. He's a smokejumper and there's nothing he enjoys
more than zooming from one part of the country to another, parachuting into
beautiful remote areas and rescuing forests from the fiery all-consuming appetite
of Mother Nature.
"You never really know what's going to happen," says Mason, who spends
his summers working from his base at the Boise Interagency Fire Center.
Mason describes himself as a "slave" to the service during those months.
He could be called out at any time and end up anywhere in America. That means
lots of work, lots of overtime and lots of travel.
Years back, the Bureau of Land Management called him in to fight a fire
in Eek, one of the most remote parts of Alaska. "There we were jumping 24
hours a day because the sun never goes down," he says.
The jumpers landed in a clear stretch of tundra where, not far away, fire
was "just ripping through" 50 acres of growth.
"When we jumped in, we couldn't see the mountains anymore; all we could
see was solid green tundra for miles around us. There was this complete feeling
of being lost." They were even out of range for radio contact: a plane flew
overhead every day to ask the crew if it needed supplies.
The jumpers fanned out from the drop point and started digging soil and
removing debris to stop the fire from burning. Two days later, they met up
with each other after circling the fire. Ten days later, they had extinguished
it.
"That was in...my first year," Mason recalls. "And I thought to myself,
'Man, this is the weirdest job I'll ever have.'"
Despite that, the work got into Mason's blood. Since then, he's balanced
his firefighting work with education in the far less dangerous areas of business,
economics and liberal arts. He now holds three bachelor's degrees plus one
master's, but he still can't keep away from fires.
"I always thought that this was a job I'd give up eventually, but that
hasn't happened."
Mason says you can't beat the travel. He's been to some of the most beautiful
parts of the country and created incredible bonds with the people he works
with. There is a downside, though -- you have to accept long-distance relationships
from June to September.
"Nothing can get planned during that time," he says. "You're pretty much
a slave during the summer. You have to let yourself go with the flow."
Most of the fires he works on are small one-acre blazes. A typical smoke-jumping
crew consists of eight people, but if three are dropped off to fight one small
fire, by the end of the day you may find yourself with one other crewmember
tackling a bigger fire -- and waiting for the helicopter to drop more members
down later. "That's the cool part and the bad part about the job," he says.
If the fire gets away from the smokejumpers, people like Kole Berriochoa
are called in.
Up until recently, when he hung up his hat for a job in dispatch, Berriochoa
headed up one of the 65 hot-shot crews in North America. They're the ones
that battle the big blazes that have been stealing headlines for years all
across the continent.
Sometimes Berriochoa would work a shift lasting as long as 18 or even 56
hours. Crewmembers would snatch brief periods for rest and food, but mostly
it's go, go, go.
"There's a large amount of satisfaction when you're done with the day,
and completely worn out," Berriochoa says. "Trying to battle Mother Nature
is a thrill in itself. It's like you're always playing a chess game, trying
to figure out the next move and counter it."
But with the thrill of the work comes the sobering reality that this is
dangerous business. Once, Berriochoa was working on a hot-shot crew in the
Salmon River area of western Idaho. It was a brutal fire, the kind that offers
all the challenges that make the job both exciting and hazardous.
Berriochoa and the crew were building a fire line made up of a two-foot-wide
dirt line. Past that they set up a stretch of clear lane 100 yards wide where
they knocked down trees on each side of a ridge.
"When the fire gets down to the soil, that stops it," he says from his
safe, fire-free office in Boise, Idaho. "We spent about one week clearing
and then the fire jumped the creek at the bottom and came back up and hit
us."
Suddenly everyone was scrambling for the safety zone. But Berriochoa knew
there were two crews left behind in one of the danger spots. Flares were set
off to give them a blaze of light to follow to safety.
"I could hear the fire roaring up behind us. I always heard people say
that it sounded like a locomotive or a jet engine, and that's exactly what
it sounded like."
The fire kept chasing Berriochoa and the crew around the side. The heat
was so intense that trees exploded in flames before the fire even touched
them. The crew quickly realized the fire was winning, burning up hundreds
of acres at a time. The only alternative was to climb inside their portable
aluminum foil tents, known as "shake and bake bags," and pray for safety.
But one man below didn't make it. Berriochoa still recalls watching him
try to shake the tent open. "The fire tent was so hot, he couldn't hold it."
The man died. Another man suffered burns to his hands and feet.
"That woke me up to a lot of things," he says. Still, Barriochoa admits
that while death is the ultimate hazard, it is by no means common.
Then there are the stories about getting away -- despite all the odds.
Mike Shapland, an initial attack fire boss, had the fright of his life a few
years ago.
Sparks from a sawmill touched off a fire near a huge subdivision. The crew
was stopping over on their way to another fire when they noticed the smoke.
Within minutes, the fire touched off 12,000 cords of wood and turned into
a blazing inferno, whipped up by 80-mph winds.
They started evacuating the subdivision, and as they drove out, they realized
that smoke was cutting off their visibility. Shapland headed up the 15-car
caravan, ordering the others to follow behind, even though he knew the fire
was blazing in an arc above them. They got through safely.
You can't work in that kind of atmosphere without developing a strong sense
of camaraderie. And even though being a firefighter still carries a macho
image, there are women in the field who are bound to break that image.
Debra Owen started out as a crewmember when she was just 19. Now, she's
a fire boss and spends the off-season working with modern mapping technology
-- geographic information systems. Owen works with men all the time. It's
rare for her to run into another woman.
"I'm in a total minority," she laughs. "But I get along very well with
the men. It's just like working with everyone else: they treat you as an equal.
But you sure can't be on a power trip. You just have to be a hard worker and
know what to do."
Owen is all for more women getting into the service. "We feel that if we
can find women that are suitable for the job, all the better.
"It takes a real tomboy attitude. You have to be used to being around men
a lot, and they're not going to treat you any different than anyone else."
As for the job itself, Owen says you can't beat it. "It's a big adrenaline
rush. You have a day working at the office, you look outside and it's nice
and hot and sunny. And then the pager goes off. Suddenly your entire focus
completely changes. And you're put into a totally different situation."
No kidding!