The Fire Burns in Sadness
Fiction. Redemption in the Mission Mountains.
02.18.25. This story is a work of fiction. It is a part of a personal challenge to write a fiction story every two weeks. I hope you enjoy it.
Glen threw two logs on the fire. He smiled. They parachuted into the valley to fight a fire, yet he was stoking his own. He was cold. The mountains could not hold on to the day's heat in September, and the chill prodded him and his men to the flames.
Eight of them were a relief crew for the initial firefighting attack team of the same size. The others parachuted into this wilderness four days ago. They build a fire line to contain the flames from creeping up the slopes of the Montana Mission Mountains. But the embers leaped across the cleared land on the changing winds and began to burn the slopes beyond the barrier.
Glen's crew flew in to assist from Missoula. They jumped into a clearing two miles from here, then beat their way up the craggy slope. A hundred pounds of gear in summer heat. Brutal. Like back in the Army Rangers.
Glen was a sawyer on the crew, a chain saw operator, cutting branches and logs, then dragging them away from the clearings. A mule of a man. Average height, broad-shouldered, with calloused hands and narrow eyes that disappeared entirely at the first hint of a smile. That's how it used to be, before a smile stopped making it much onto his face. Maybe it would out in the wilderness now and again, but not in Missoula. There, around people, he became a quiet sort, living inside his grief.
"Don't get sleepy, yo'all. The other crew is sending their second to give us a rundown," Dave said. He was the jump spot foreman, the boss of the crew. Glen straightened, other men did too. Dave was a force of nature, a small man with wiry hair and a burn scar on his neck. Some story it was that gave him the scar. Dave never told it, refused with a wave. But they all knew it. It made the rounds, growing in legend and shrinking in fact. No matter. Dave was a pro and knew what he was doing. The men respected him and followed him into the fire.
"So the wind is tricky, they said, and we need to understand the terrain with the conditions changing a bunch. So, we listen tonight and fight that fire tomorrow. Yeah?"
"Yeah!" the men chorused. They tapped their fists against their open palms in a drumbeat of courage. Glen too. He liked the unity of men united by purpose, danger, and camaraderie. He liked the silly rituals. They worked. In the Rangers, they brought people together. They did here, too.
Mel argued that, he thought. She always ridiculed the rituals, said they were silly games of machismo for little people afraid of themselves. But she was never on the crews. She could afford self-sufficiency. And she was a contrarian before she knew the word, always looking to be different. Every day of her short life.
Glen spotted a headlamp bouncing up the hill. He pointed with his head, and other men turned to see. A light bunny-hopped through the trees, then stopped to clear a fallen log, then moved again until a silhouette emerged into the meadow.
"Trying to start another fire?" The silhouette said. His voice was raspy, smoke-filled, and tired. The man coughed. He spit and walked to the fire, then stopped before entering the circle of light. He stood there for a second. Then, he leaned and stepped into the light.
"Hi, Glen," he said. The full beard, trimmed and colored, full of vanity. Strong arms. Ash on the clothing. He smelled of burning cedar.
Glen nodded but said nothing. He ignored the glances of his crew mates. Instead, he looked at the new man then returned his gaze to the fire.
"Hey, Matt," foreman Dave extended his hand to the arrival, "Glad to see you. At least I am."
"Same. Glad you are here. This fire is tricky; we need experience," he waved at the other men. "What's with the amateurs?"
A round of 'boos' and chuckles.
"I thought you were in Spokane?" Dave said.
"After Missoula, I went to Spokane for a year, but they rotated me to Boise, Idaho. They have a few newer crews there, so they wanted to spread the experience."
"Sent the wrong guy," someone chuckled. Chuckles all around. Matt smiled.
Glen did not smile. He had not seen Matt since Matt left for Spokane. Always knew their paths would cross, and happy that so far they haven't. But here he was.
He tuned out the banter of men and watched the dancing flames, watched the logs he threw into the fire transform into light.
"Glen!" Foreman Dave raised his voice. Glen startled and saw all eyes on him.
"All right," Dave went on, "Matt and his crew got the lay of the land. This fire is tricky, so he'll pass the intel and what they want us to do tomorrow. Listen up."
"I gotta piss," Glen stood and walked to the woods to a round of boos. He took his time, longer than he needed, then sat at his former spot.
"Okay," Matt started, "our camp is on the other side of the ravine. A mile as crow flies, but about three on foot. The fire has not jumped the creek at the bottom yet, but if it does, it is a problem because the other side of the valley is the sunny side, and the trees are parched, so it will be an inferno. You will build a fire line from the creek out. I will work with you. Also, put a lookout a bit uphill on the other side to watch for the fire flanking. With the winds changing in the morning and late afternoon, the fire direction shifts, so gotta have the escape routes in mind."
Matt unrolled the map, gave it to another to hold open, then, with a flashlight in hand, walked the crew through details. Men listened, nodded.
"And, the radio comms here suck. If you are in a narrow ravine, you may not hear anyone, so check in once an hour."
Foreman Dave asked questions. Others asked a couple, and then the chatter quieted down.
"Might be here for a few days, a week, more. No idea. Will work in shifts. Don't get complacent. Will leave at five am, before dawn."
Men shuffled to their sleeping bags. Glen pushed the coals around with a stick, broke them into small clumps that he could douse with water. The two logs he added kept their structure still and held firm against his prodding stick. He watched the flames pop and disappear from the cracks in the burning logs, watched the dance of colors changing in the heat. All hues of red, brighter or dimmer, then black at the edges where the fire burned its fuel.
"You were close?"
"What?" Glen startled. Foreman Dave sat down on a backpack next to him.
"You and Matt? Grew up together?"
"Nah. But in the same town. He was a loudmouthed windbag quarterback and all. I stayed away from his sort."
"But close later?"
"In the Rangers. You have to be there. Gotta trust your men."
"Like here. Gotta trust your men."
"Yeah." Glen nodded, a slow nod, full of reluctance.
Dave looked at him. "You are wrong to blame him."
"He killed my sister."
"You were in that car too, drunk as a skunk. Like him and your sister. Mel, she was drunk, too."
"Yeah, I know. It's irrational. They all told me, you know, the counselors and the shrinks. But how do you stop hating a person?"
"Don't know, Glen. I am not a shrink. But I am a foreman, and I want to know that all men here can trust another."
He looked at Glen, and Glen looked at him. He nodded. "Yes, boss."
Alone, Glen watched the embers burn out and join the darkness. He spread them with his stick and poured water on the few still glowing. Then he lay in his bivvy with the hood open and watched the star rise from the mountain and slide through the sky around Polaris. He smiled. When Mel told him that the North Star was called Polaris, he asked why someone named a star after a snowmobile. That made her laugh. He was twelve then, and she was fourteen. Since, he wondered how many things people have upside down in their heads.
He woke from a kick, a not-too-gentle nudge with a boot on his shoulder.
"Wake up, sleeping beauty." Charlie, his crew mate, handed him coffee. Glen took a sip and rolled up his bivvy. In ten minutes, he was following Charlie and others into the dark woods.
They trudged through the virgin forest built of old trees, still too remote to fall under a greedy axe of human needs. They had two miles to go or two hours on these craggy slopes through the thicket. But the walk was the best part. Start in the dark, follow the headlamps of the others but be alone in your thoughts. Watch the darkness cede to the light, and listen to the scurrying of night animals cede to the songs of day birds. Feel the dew fall on the face from the sky and watch it soak the sleeves of his shirt. The mornings of unity with the mountains. He loved it.
It was light when they made it to the fire line. Glen unclipped his chainsaw from the backpack and set it on the ground. It felt heavy after two hours. He dropped the backpack and sat on it next to the saw. Glen rummaged in a pack's pocket and pulled out a pack of venison jerky. He slowly chewed on a salty strip. Foreman Dave looked around assessing the spot and Matt pointed out the features on the map for him.
Glen gritted his teeth. Here he was, ten years out of the Rangers, in a new place, but living the same life, watching two people with a map looking for danger and tell Glen what to do. Talibs were the danger then, Nature was now and the fury of its fire. No difference - life and death, boredom and excitement.
"Smells like a fire. I like that," Charlie said.
"What else would it smell like?" Glen said.
"Barbecue. You know if the animals are caught in it."
"Bullshit. Never smelled it, "
"I have."
"Have something to eat so your fat gut does not screw with you," Glen tossed a strip of jerky at Charlie. He caught it.
Forman Dave folded his map and walked over. Matt stayed back.
"So the main fire is moving from the East at an angle to us," he pointed downstream of the creek. Our escape route is the way we came if shit hits the fan. We will work in this spot for the next day or two. Build a line from a creek up, clear the woods, and start a counterfire to burn the fuel. That should stop the main fire from crossing the creek. Split into two teams, three people each. Chainsaw and two pulaskis downstream, and the same upstream. Carry a radio at all times and check that it works once an hour. Have the fire shelter with you. And Charlie, put your Nomex on, don't fuck around."
Charlie booed. Nomax suites were hot but kept the rest of you from starting on fire from the heat and the embers. They were not close to the fire today, but that could change in a hurry with a change in wind or something else unexpected. Dave was strict on safety after he got his neck scar.
The team split up and fell into a rhythm of work. Glen sawed down trees, trimmed the branches, cut them into smaller pieces, and then dragged the logs away. Charlie and Chuck swung the axe end of their pulaskis at the bushes, and the pick ends at the roots to break them up. Every hour, they stopped and sipped water. Glen refueled his chainsaw from the fuel can he brought with him from the camp. They chewed on the jerky. When the sun passed overhead, they took longer breaks to allow their tired bodies to recover strength.
"Hey, do you smell barbecue?" Charlie said.
"No. But more smoke now," Glen felt it in his eyes. He looked upslope. Thicker smoke drifted over a ridge. He spotted more embers, felt more heat.
He picked up the radio. "Bossman? Dave?" Dave answered. Glen went on," More smoke here now, and the wind is different. What do you have up by you?"
"Same. Checking it out already. Stand by."
The radio went silent.
"How much time does he need?" Charlie said.
"Probably climbing those rocks over there to see what's up. Let's go back to work."
In fifteen minutes, Dave came on the radio, "Hey, crews! The fire is moving downslope now east of us, flanking the team two. Team two, leave your position and come back to us. Acknowledge."
The radio stayed silent.
"Hey, Glen. Team Two is around the lower ridge in the ravine. No line of sight. You are closer, can you relay?"
Glen keyed the radio. "Yeah, boss. Team Two, do you read? Team Two, do you read? Team Two. Team One is relaying the command order to return to base. RTB. You are getting outflanked. Over." There was no answer. Glen went on the radio again, "Hey, boss, they are not picking me up. I'll walk over there and get them. Acknowledge?"
"Yeah, Glen. Affirmative. Go ahead."
Glen pulled the second fuel can out of his backpack to lighten the load, threw his fire shelter inside and a bottle of water. He clipped the radio to his belt and double-timed downstream.
Glen hopped the rocks at the edge of the creek. The stream was narrow in places but mostly twenty feet wide. Glen stuck his hand in the water, cold and clear. A good trout stream. He hoped the rocks and looked for holes where the fish would sit, waiting for flies to float by for easy pickings. Yep, there is a big rainbow trout looking at him. He will trek out here with someone to fish this virgin waters sometimes.
Who was on team two? Another Chuck, Tony, and Matt. Chuck and Tony - good guys. Simple, but good. Matt.
Glen rounded the ridge finger and reached for the radio. He will just walk there. Should be close. He stopped to listen. Wind. He thought he heard a chainsaw. He picked up the pace. Less smoke here. He passed the team two's backpacks, three of them piled together, and a bear-proof food bin. In two hundred yards more, he saw Chuck and Tony swinging their pulaskis into the dirt. He whistled. They stopped and turned to look at him.
"We radioed but could not reach you," Glen said.
"Trouble?"
"Maybe. The fire is moving downslope South of you. Unexpected. Foreman wants you RTB. Where is Matt?"
"A couple of hundred yards that way. Cutting some dead trees by the narrowing in the creek."
"You pack up, and I'll go get him."
The two men picked up their axes and headed to the backpacks. Glen walked over the cleared ground, meandered around rocks, then joined the creek. He heard the chainsaw. He saw Matt's back. In the Nomex suit and a helmet, he could be anyone, but Glen knew the way Matt swaggered with the saw. He saw that swagger in the Rangers, hauling a mortar tube or an M50 machine gun. The quarterback swagger from high school.
Glen stopped and sat down on the rock and watched. Matt stepped to a tree and swung the blade with practiced expertise. From the right, cut low, then cut high at an angle, swing from the left, and cut against the opposing notch. A continuous motion, a dance of a master to the music of his instrument. Then, step back from the falling tree.
Did he hate this man enough to watch him burn? What would it give him? An absolution? From what? Guilt? Only if he burned with him. It won't be good for the crew. All men must trust each other, the foreman's mantra. Would he betray their trust for revenge?
Matt stopped sawing and was looking at Glen. He stood with the chainsaw hanging in his right hand. The helmet askew, the Nomex suit dirty from the ash of many fires. Matt stopped the chainsaw and, with it at hand, walked to Glen.
"What's up?" Matt asked.
"There is a flanking fire coming over the ridge."
"Why not call on a radio?"
"I came to watch you burn."
Matt looked at him for a long time. "I know what you mean."
"Fuck you."
"Remember in Afghanistan I came to get you from your post when the Talibs were moving around us?" Matt said. Glen nodded. "I was standing there wondering if I should just leave you there."
"Why in the fuck?"
"You slept with that girl I was dating. Marissa."
"You knew about it?"
Matt nodded.
"So why didn't you?"
"You were a friend. And I would never make it work with Marissa. Well, no one, really. Why lose a friend?”
Glen shook his head. "You are a weird dude, bro."
"You will never forgive me for Mel?" Matt dropped the chainsaw.
"I will never forgive myself either."
Matt swallowed. "Would you really let me burn?"
Glen shook his head. "No. I don't have the guts."
They stared at each other.
“There is a good trout stream here,” Glen said, “I saw some monsters.”
Matt dropped his eyes, lifted them again, “Good for casting?”
“Yeah. We should get out of here," Glen said.
Matt picked up the saw. "When we are out of here, you will not see me again. That's a promise."
"When we get out of here, you should transfer back to Missoula. And then we will quit drinking together. Our penance."
They reached the other two men. Everyone threw the backpacks on their shoulders.
"I will carry that," Glen took the chainsaw from Matt, “my pack is light.”
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