Chasing Smoke
When fire season starts, somebody has to feed and supply the firefighters. Welcome to life on the "camp crew."
By Kyle Meredith / Photos by Lora Collins
Arriving at a broad, open, mowed hay field ringed by burnt or smoking mountains, we could see the job ahead of us. . . .
No, this isn't about the firefighters—this is about those in the background of the big picture, the camp crew. We're the workers who try to keep the firefighters comfortable and supplied with the things they need to do their job.
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Smoke rises in the distance beyond the fire camp. (Photo by Lora Collins) |
I got the call about three in the afternoon to show up at the Silver City Forest Service office at six. My gear was mostly packed and sitting ready to go—we had been warned to be prepared. I paid the bills, made some calls, sent a few emails, and gathered the miscellaneous items I remembered I lacked the last time I was called out.
Most of my crew was already in the parking lot with the bus. I knew only two of them from my first time with a camp crew. We waited another 30 or 40 minutes for the other crew sharing our bus to Albuquerque, where we were to spend the night before flying to Elko, Nevada. That much we knew; everything else was rumor or speculation. Let me say here that a substantial part of our conversation from then on consisted of rumor and speculation. We were told to expect to be gone at least two weeks, probably three. Some 700,000 acres had already burned with no end in sight.
Hurry up and wait—we've all done it, but perhaps no one experiences it more than a camp crew. It was about 7 p.m. that the two crews—20 of us all together—boarded the cramped school bus that had been designed for grade-school kids. We headed for the Albuquerque Forest Service "Mob" (pronounced "mobe," short for "mobilization") Center.
The trip was long and uncomfortable, but it was the beginning of getting to know each other. We arrived in Albuquerque sometime after 1 a.m., many of us hungry, so we stopped at a popular restaurant where we were treated to a late supper. We were still a ways from the Mob Center in the middle of the night with unclear directions for getting there, but after a few wrong turns, a phone call and a drive down a rather desolate road, we arrived ready for sleep, not sure what our accommodations would be.
The room was large, with some chairs around the periphery and a pile of cots and sleeping bags with which we made our beds. I wasn't aware of the snoring, but no one could have missed the cell-phone alarm that went off repeatedly long before we were ready to get up.
It must have been sevenish when, like zombies, we crawled out of our bags, folded our cots, and stood around wondering what next. Our chartered plane wasn't scheduled to leave until 1400 hours (we began to hear hours expressed in military time), so most of us got back on the bus to go out for breakfast across town. Negotiating the time we were to return to the Mob Center, we went to a camping supply store and Wal-Mart to pick up some things to make life in the camp easier. Back at the Mob Center around noon with nothing to do but wait, many of us napped on the floor or on our baggage. Two fire crews who would accompany us on the plane were also there.
Then came an announcement—our plane would be departing 45 minutes earlier than scheduled—and we got back on the bus to hurry to the airport.
We were all excited and wide-awake, primed for the adventure, when, about a mile from the airport, our bus ran out of gas. "Concerned" is the polite word to use to describe our emotions; we knew that if we missed the plane we would all be sent home, our ordeal until now having been an aggravating and uncomfortable waste of time. We unloaded our gear and waited for a rescue bus, which arrived shortly. It was then we became a real team, lining up to frantically, yet efficiently, load our gear.
At the airport, each with our heavy baggage, we ran to the plane, engines roaring, already filled with the fire crews. The flight attendants played their role, and shortly we were in the air. Unless there was some anxiety I was unaware of, we all felt relieved to be off the bus, and the ride was a mostly pleasant and uneventful hour-and-a-half to Elko.
It wasn't long after landing that we were shuttled to our next waiting area while our crew leaders and bus driver received information about where we would be headed. We looked at the big map on the wall for the name of the fire we were told we were going to. We looked at all the other fires burning in the area. An awful lot of land had been burned. Our destination proved to be a rumor; we were going to a different area, farther away.
Gaining an hour across the time zone, it was still mid-afternoon and there was plenty of daylight to drive the 50 miles or so to the site. Our new bus was at least built for adults this time, but we were ready to stop traveling, and the ride into the mountains was slow. We could scarcely see any trees at all—mostly sagebrush and grass and large burned areas randomly appearing from time to time.
Arriving at a broad, open, mowed hay field ringed by burnt or smoking mountains, which looked like a parking area for a turkey shoot or an impromptu rodeo or some other bucolic get-together, we could see the job ahead of us. The camp administrators ("Overhead") were already there in the mobile offices, and an approximate space for supplies had been laid out. Water trucks and outhouses appeared to be haphazardly arranged in the emerging camp, and the caterers were set up and almost ready to serve. We had ample time to put up our tents and prepare for the work we came to do, whatever that might be.
One of the women from our group fell right into place, taking the clicker that kept count of the people who lined up for meals. She had done this before. The rest of us ate and wondered where we would be assigned.
The first task was to unload the trailer that contained the supplies housed in R & D—Receiving and Distribution. That's where I wanted to be. I had worked there during my first camp-crew experience. It's kind of like working in a store except that there is no money exchanged—you just give people what they ask for (or, more disappointingly, tell them you don't have it yet, but you're expecting it tomorrow). I made my job preference known, and lucky for me, our crew was assigned to R & D.
Some others were also experienced in this department, and we fell into our roles with ease. A few of the women took on the duties of desk clerks. A couple of us organized the piles of stuff that seemed to continually emerge from the trailers. Others were in charge of handing out the beverages and sack lunches needed by the fire crews and other personnel. We all pitched in to unload the trailers, forming effective brigades passing items hand-to-hand, reminiscent of the frantic loading of our rescue bus in Albuquerque.
I slept well that night until we were awakened by our crew boss a full 40 minutes earlier than we needed to be up. That caused a little grumbling—conversation for a good part of the day—but we were prepared to get up early and go to bed late. Technically we were on duty from 5:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m., but there was usually some leeway at each end and slack time in the afternoon when we could shower or even catch some Zs.
Our little camp was totally out in the open—no trees anywhere near. We were the first to set up our tents, scattered yet close to each other, choosing the most level and highest ground as far away from the diesel generators as we could be within the confines of the camp. As other crews came in, they lined up in more orderly configurations. It was kind of like watching a city being born—the choicest sites taken first, then little gridded subdivisions popping up around the core.
The toilets (outhouses, port-a-potties—whatever you want to call them) were far and few at first, but more came later. Close to those were portable water stations for washing hands—a truck with a water tank and 8 or 10 lavatories. The shower trailer was at the far end of the camp. It was designed with shower stalls lined up with a narrow hallway for drying and dressing. Women entered on one end, men on the other. If you didn't bring your own towel, a large paper bath towel was provided.
A caterer served breakfast and supper and prepared the sack lunches for everyone in the camp: administrators, contractors, fire crews, camp crews. The menus sounded better than the meals actually were, but under the circumstances, I think they did a pretty fair job. Think of a menu at a "family dining" restaurant—meat (or a vegetarian alternative), potatoes, vegetables, bread, salad bar, dessert and a good selection of beverages. I have certainly paid for worse meals, and the idea is to provide plenty of calories for those fighting the fires. The sack lunches, though, were always a surprise—sometimes laughable, sometimes questionable. But there was always plenty of fruit, including some of the best and biggest peaches I've ever eaten.
One thing we were reminded to do was to drink plenty of fluids, and to that end, we were given unlimited bottles of water and sports drinks. At my first camp the plastics were recycled, so I got over the idea of waste, but at this camp, every empty bottle was discarded—a concept I have a hard time living with.
Another unpleasant aspect was the constant noise and exhaust from the diesel generators, some of which had to run continuously. The noise and fumes are seemingly unending from the time you get on the bus, through the airport, and all during the camp. Not to mention the occasional smoke drifting from the fires—remember, that's what we're there for. It's not a job for someone with respiratory problems. And earplugs sit on the R & D desk for general consumption.
Our biggest frustration (which ultimately became a running joke) was the weather. I've lived many places where the weather can suddenly change, but I've never seen such unpredictable weather patterns as there were at this site. The day would start out cloudless, then up would come the afternoon storms—nothing unusual there. The storms, however, were wild, dramatic tempests of threatening clouds, near-rain, high winds and twisters that were neither tornadoes nor dust devils.
We'd see black air above the horizon and quickly start covering the piles of supplies sitting out in the open. By the time we were done, there might be a few spits of rain, and the dark sky would be sitting inexplicably on the other side of the valley. Some days we did this two or three times with no rain whatsoever. One afternoon we had a precipitation event (I hesitate to call it "rain") when a mixture of ash and water pelted our tents, leaving a gray-splashed coating. Subsequent winds blew most of it off after it dried. After one wind, tents were lying like roadkill, feet to the air. Often we would see plumes of smoke come and go, and one evening we watched the flames on the ridge across the valley.
But in spite of any unpleasantness, most of us actually enjoyed being there, and that is to the credit of every individual I met, whether crew, firefighter or administrator. It is unbelievable and inspiring to see how all these diverse people thrown together can cooperate to achieve an important goal under stressful conditions. Our two crews consisted of men and women, Hispanics, Anglos and Native Americans, rednecks and gays, mothers, musicians, mechanics, artists, farmers and more, ranging in age from 19 to 60ish. Other crews had individuals from Kentucky and Haiti (who were fascinated to meet a real cowboy and a real Indian!).
People come from all over the United States to work these fires. Our immediate supervisor of R & D was from the Fire Department of New York City, as were four other men. Poignantly, we had orders to demobilize the camp on Sept. 11. There was so much work to be done in preparation of leaving, yet we took the time to honor these men, their comrades and all who suffered through the tragedy five years before. None of the words spoken were as moving as the moment of silence—unbroken silence throughout the camp in the middle of a meadow rimmed by charred sagebrush mountains emitting small plumes of smoke from a dying fire.
But there was work to do, so the ceremony ended with a minimum of pomp, and everyone put their minds and backs into "demob." Those of us in R & D scrambled to check in the supplies that had only days before been checked out, keeping the desk clerks jumping while many of us counted and prepared to reload inventory on trailers taking goods back to the caches. Yurts, fences and tarps put up not three days previously were taken down and packed away. We bugged the various administrators to get their office kits together so we could load them on the trailer, and yet, when the time came, they were helping load along with the camp crews and fire fighters—all working together in amazing unity and cooperation.
All this time and the days preceding, the question of the day remained: Do we get to go to another fire? As I mentioned earlier, rumor and speculation fueled most conversations on this topic. We had heard that half of Idaho was burning and that we would be going there. Yes, we would definitely head north. We had done such a good job—everyone had said so. We received a glowing written report—how could they manage without us? We were going to Idaho! Best be prepared; it's cold up there. We were almost convinced it was true.
And yet, it was obvious when the messenger came with the news—we were being sent home. "Tonight you will be put up at a hotel in Elko, and tomorrow the bus driver will take you to Salt Lake City to board a commercial flight to Albuquerque."
I have to say that though most of us were prepared and eager to stay out another week or two, the prospect of dining out, a decent shower and a bed appealed to all of us. We had worked hard, and a good number of us were quite sore, especially after the insane day of disassembling all we had essentially just assembled. In our efficient teamwork we finished demobilizing early, so mid-afternoon we hurried into town, where we waited again for instructions before heading to our hotel. It seemed to be taking such a long time—were we being reassigned to. . . ? No such luck.
We saw the hotel from the interstate, but the exit was closed for repairs, so we drove and we drove. And we drove until we thought we might just as well drive to Salt Lake City. Miles later we came upon another exit and turned back. Rather than check in and shower, the consensus on the bus was to eat first, so we went to our assigned restaurant that was in a sports bar with many different large-screen TVs airing many different sports programs. More noise, and not very relaxing, but we ate well, and the bed at the motel was lovely.
The continental breakfast offered several appealing choices, and we all seemed to be fat and happy as we boarded the bus for the five-hour drive to Salt Lake. The weather was sunny and pleasant, and the scenery was, well, scenery—sometimes intriguing, sometimes boring. That's when I started writing this article.
We arrived at the Salt Lake City Airport comfortably ahead of schedule, rumors abounding. Can you take lipstick in your carryon? Do they allow liquids in your checked baggage? How long are the lines going to be? But everything went smoothly, and we had time to loiter and relax at the little shops and bars waiting for our flights. I say "flights" because the 20 of us were divided into three different flights leaving at different times—one via Phoenix, one via Las Vegas, and one direct to Albuquerque.
I was on the flight to Phoenix. It had been delayed, so we were waiting. We could just imagine missing our connecting flight. Arriving in Phoenix with five minutes left to board, we ran down long corridors to the gate—the manic phase of hurry-up-and-wait. Once the plane started moving, we spent interminable minutes waiting in line to take off.
Amazingly, we all arrived in Albuquerque within 20 minutes of each other and were shuttled to that disagreeable Mob Center about 10 p.m. I believe our Forest Service "host" was a little taken aback when we all rebelled against a sack lunch for supper. We were not polite about our refusal to eat it, and one of the crew called up his son-in-law to bring us pizzas. Lights out at 11, only to be awakened much too early the next morning.
Back on the munchkins' bus (the one that had brought us to Albuquerque in the beginning), we took a few wrong turns before locating the restaurant where breakfast was being served. In a little better mood, we then traveled back to Silver City. We had heard that Hatch had been flooded again (for, what, the third time?), so we went through Hillsboro, rubber-necking the landscape, gaping at the incredibly flowing rivers where there are usually dry arroyos. Southern New Mexico never looked so green and lush, especially compared to where we had just been.
By noon we were back where we started our adventure, waiting for our rides home, saying our goodbyes, and no, not hoping for a new fire to break out—but hoping that when it did, we'd be called to go.
When he's not working on a camp crew, Kyle Meredith lives in Silver City.