One Careless Moment Read Free

ridge, the trail curves and we lose sight of the fire. An indistinct mass of white smoke, like an approaching storm, is our only guide. The trail snakes around boulders and clumps of large trees at the mouth of the canyon, crosses a small creek, then makes a hard right and drops sharply to some hidden destination on the far side of the northern ridge. We stop just back from the bend.
    â€œWhere does this trail go?” I ask Brashaw.
    He shrugs. “Nowhere. There are some squatters about ten miles farther up, but that’s it.”
    â€œSquatters?” I can’t imagine anyone making this drive frequently.
    â€œYeah. Old hippies and misfits. White trash.”
    â€œWould they be in the path of the fire?”
    Brashaw shakes his head. “Not with this wind.”
    â€œWind could change. We should think about evacuating them.”
    â€œYou can try,” he says, “but you might get shot. They’re pretty anti-government.”
    I’m thinking that’s not a very good reason to remain in the path of a fire, and make a mental note to call Dispatch about this later. For now, given the topography, they’re relatively safe. We get out of the truck and watch the crew bus lumber to a stop behind us. It’s a boxy, green vehicle, higher than a normal bus. The name of the crew — Carson Lake Hotshots — is printed in black on the side. The door squeaks open and young men in green pants and yellow shirts emerge. They cluster along the side of the bus, watch the bank of white smoke hanging above the canyon, and I hear one or two muted comments about a curse. Brashaw gets them moving, opening cargo doors, pulling out chainsaws and hand tools. Hard hats are donned, equipment belts strapped on, backpacks shouldered. Handheld radios are tested, squelches adjusted. Behind the bus, the first engine pulls up, squealing to a halt, its tank rocking. Engine is a bit of a glorification — it’s just a big green water truck. A chubby, stubbled face peers out a side window.
    â€œJesus Christ,” says the driver as I approach. “That was one mother of a hill.”
    Beside him, the engine module leader watches the smoke. He slips on a hard hat and climbs out of the truck, asks what the plan is. I tell him we’re going to wait until the dozer is up, cut a line from the trail straight to the tail of the fire. Once that’s done, he can pull in his engines and get to work.
    â€œAll right,” he says, staring toward the canyon, looking concerned.
    â€œIs there a problem?”
    He hesitates. “No — no problem.”
    Brashaw saunters over. His men are ready, Pulaskis in hand, chain-saws resting on broad shoulders. I tell Brashaw that the brush is far too dense and I don’t want anyone in there, even at the tail of the fire, until the dozer has pushed in an anchor line. He tells his men, but they don’t budge, preferring to wait with packs and saws ready, despite the heat and weight of the equipment. It’s all part of the image — hotshots are the elite ground-pounders of the firefighting world.
    As we’re waiting for the semi-trailer with the lowboy and dozer, the brush rustles and the other elite warriors of the firefighting world appear. Sweaty, curly hair plastered to her forehead under an oversized hard hat, Sue Galloway extends a fire-blackened glove, and we shake hands. Introductions ensue, during which several of the hotshots give Galloway disapproving glances. Firefighting is the ultimate macho career and not all of the participants are thrilled with the female presence. Personally, I like the variety.
    â€œWe’ve got a line flagged right to the cliff,” says Galloway, brushing hair out of her eyes.
    â€œExcellent. How far from the trail is the fire?”
    Galloway pauses for a drink of water. “About a hundred yards.”
    â€œAny sign of the origin?”
    â€œNot so far,” she says. “But I