By Brian White
When I think back 20-plus years to my first introduction to being a wildland firefighter, I smile, take a deep breath, and exhale. I have the most amazing memories and, honestly, I miss it. It was the hardest work of my life. I was part of a group of hardened, well-seasoned, and experienced Hotshots—the most elite wildland firefighters on the mountain who were called on every summer to fight the largest, most consequential wildland fires in the West. Living out of a crew bus for weeks on end, we slept on the ground, missing family, birthdays, weddings, and funerals; there was a commitment to the crew and the expectations from the superintendent: “Your butt belongs to fire for the next six months.”
I had a chainsaw on my shoulder, six quarts of water in my pack, fuel and bar oil, an extra pair of socks, some clean underwear, two meals ready to eat (MREs), toilet paper, leaf tobacco, toothbrush, lighter, hand-carved spork, space blanket, fire shelter, and another handful of odds and ends that weighed about 50 pounds in my wildland pack. There was enough gear between the crew buses and the 21 crew members for us to be self-sufficient for multiple days without reinforcements or additional supplies. We marched up the mountains every day, assigned to the most remote divisions, and carved a line in the landscape to stop fires that blackened panoramic views the same way the firefighters before us did it—filthy, sweaty, and tired.
1. We marched up the mountains every day, assigned to the most remote divisions, and carved a line in the landscape to stop fires that blackened panoramic views the same way the firefighters before us did it—filthy, sweaty, and tired. (Photo courtesy of author.)
As a sawyer, I worked side by side with a saw partner, who is still one of my best friends today. My trigger finger throttled a chainsaw with a 28-inch bar through the brush, timber, and woodlands of California, Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Oregon, Montana, Washington, and wherever else wildfires called to us for duty. Tank for tank, we passed the saw back and forth as we burned through tanks of 40:1 two-stroke fuel. One person cut, and the other person pulled and swamped the brush and limbs of vegetation out of the way and piled it deep into the unburned area called “the green” so the next group of individuals with hand tools could scrape the earth down to bare mineral soil.
The season started in early May, and 21 one of us arrived at the Douglas Ranger Station ready to work. Physical fitness was mandatory, and standards were high. If you couldn’t keep up, you quit, but to be selected wasn’t easy so only the dedicated and disciplined made the cut.
The first day of the season often separated those who were ready from those who were not. A 15-mile run was not uncommon on day one, and we chased each other in a long line as we ran through the foothills of the Central Sierra in California. Training was hot, long, and miserable, and as we marched, we recited the 10 Standard Fire Orders, recognized the 18 Watch Out situations, implemented L.C.E.S. (Lookouts, Communication, Escape Routes, Safety Zones), and prepared for war.
Training was purposeful. We needed to meet the standards and requirements for our Hotshot classification and the upcoming evaluation by Hotshot peers and district supervisors. The Crane Valley Hotshot Crew taught me what it meant to have grit, courage, strength, honor, and duty; respect integrity; and, most of all, be comfortable while being uncomfortable.
I was 23 years old, a college student, and in the best shape of my life. The summers were an adventure and, like a pirate, we went off to sea, only to return to port 21 days later to pillage before going back out to sea. The money in my pocket couldn’t be spent; there was no time to spend it. Our heads were tucked into the corner of our seats, a rolled-up hoodie sweatshirt as a pillow, eyes closed behind dark sunglasses. We trekked across states in crew buggies, the last effort to get a bit of rest before the air brake was pulled and we unloaded at the next big fire.
Ailments followed us from fire to fire: aches and pains, White Bite, and poison oak, which for me resulted in violent itchy allergic reactions and rashes that covered me from head to toe, often requiring a steroid shot at a medical tent or urgent care. Camp crud was the cold that everyone got when we went back to base camp to resupply and feed, and a hot shower was 14 to 21 days away.
The fire line we carved on the hill defined us, the work ethic and competition between crews fueled us, and if you looked to a barren knob within the black or burned area of the fire you could make out the silhouettes of multiple Hotshot superintendents sharing a lookout as they maintained communication with the fire captains leading the crews through the steep terrain and topography.
Weather would often chase us off the hill, weather forecasts predicting strong winds and chances of lighting as cold fronts and thunderstorms rotated through the regions. Hikes off the hill were accompanied by torrential downpours and hail as the thunder clouds released their fury and cumulus anvil smoke columns collapsed once they cooled at 35,000 feet and plummeted air back down toward the earth, sending wildfires into fits of rage with the red flag conditions.
I heard pine forests roar as loud as a freight train as I watched 150-foot trees burst into orange and 200-foot flames dance and whip across the landscape, consuming full-grown trees down to white ash. I watched southern CA mountainsides covered in mature brush instantaneously go into area ignition as a spot fire started in the bottom of a mountain bowl, adding 10,000 more acres to the fire.
A single spot fire could erupt like a volcano when conditions consisted of triple-digit temperatures and single-digit humidities, and the wind was upslope and in perfect alignment with the topography. Drought conditions in California take the southern California chamise into critically low live fuel moistures, and a spot fire too far interior for crews to catch often results in operations stopping, tactically paused, while we retreat to our safety zones and enjoy the magnificent demonstration of mother nature’s power.
A well-calculated level of risk was always weighed and had to be measured to identify what would be gained by taking unnecessary chances and putting crews in danger. We studied the weather, fuels, topography, available resources, trends, and local factors to ensure we walked off the hill safely after every shift. The trust you had from the seasoned supervisor was tested and proven when he mentored you on the fire line. Lookouts, communication, safety zones, and escape routes were always accounted for, and we monitored the weather constantly and set trigger and decision points along the way to ensure we stopped and evaluated our process as conditions warranted.
The first best decision I ever made was working for the U.S. Forest Service. The time I spent was critical in becoming the firefighter I am today. A battalion chief for CAL FIRE now, I am on my 22nd fire season, and I implement those years of experience working around hardened fire veteran Hotshots every time I’m on the mountain. I clearly remember the mentors, the wide variety of characters, and the adventures and still have lifelong relationships with those folks who bled together. We faced dangers, and all of us have known those who have passed along the way, making the ultimate sacrifice.
As a wildland firefighter, you won’t get rich. Your body will eventually fail, your family will grow up without you, and the world will continue when you’re gone. The friendships you make create family; the sacrifices you are willing to make save communities and protect people’s homes. It is a selfless job. Protecting our landscapes and guarding our citizens can bring great excitement and adventure, but there are days when it will also include sadness; loneliness; and, worst of all, loss.
Remember, our wildland firefighter communities face hardships on and off the fire line. They fight for competitive wages, retirement, health care, and the ability to provide for their families. Spouses, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and children sacrifice and share their loved ones with wildland firefighting agencies, and as firefighters are called back to action every summer, committed for weeks if not months at a time, they selflessly defend your community, family, and home, and they strive to protect citizens’ memories from wildland fire.
Brian White is a 22-year veteran of the fire service and a battalion chief with CAL FIRE, serving in the San Joaquin Valley. Previously, he served with the Crane Valley Hot Shot Crew in the Sierra National Forest. He is a certified instructor with the State of California and has worked at the CAL FIRE Training Center in its Company Officer and Firefighter II programs while also instructing at Merced County’s Castle Training Center.
