Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [31]
When the tourists had gone, Walt sipped from the beer he’d offered Steve. “When I went home, I happened to catch the national news.”
Steve tensed. “The fires are a regular six o’clock circus.”
Walt nodded. “Secretary Mason took a chopper ride with Ranger Shad Dugan and saw that the Clover-Mist really exploded today. When Dugan mentioned we’ve suspended letting natural fires burn, Mason said that after all this settles down, the entire park policy on fire would require review.”
“Damned bureaucrats. Thinking they know what’s right for the forest because they were elected or appointed.” The bag ripped as Steve pulled out a beer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The terrain south of West Yellowstone was relatively flat, making it a good place to acclimate the soldiers to the forest. Clare was pleased that her first group of forty troops from Fort Lewis, Washington, seemed to be in reasonable shape. They’d hiked several brisk miles with full packs, a gallon of water, and heavy Pulaskis.
In an area that had been clear-cut for timber, Clare stopped the column. As typical young people, the soldiers broke ranks and milled about in the midafternoon sun.
Time to talk safety, and these kids had no idea how dear that subject was to her heart. Rather than tell her own and Frank’s story of how quickly dreams could become disaster, she began, “Edward Pulaski, the inventor of your fire tool, was a Forest Service ranger in Idaho back in 1910. One day, he and forty-five men got caught, surrounded by fire.”
Some restlessness and murmuring continued. Sergeant Ron Travis, the troops’ bantam leader, stood at parade rest, making Clare suspect he was permitting the lax behavior as a insult to her. All day he had been disdainful, walking a fine line between accepting her authority and laughing when she’d only halfway turned her back.
She determined to plow on. “Pulaski led his men to an abandoned mine, the War Eagle. They wet themselves down with water from a seep and hung dampened horse blankets across the tunnel mouth.”
The troops showed the same reluctance to listen as the high school students Clare used to have in P.E. Today, she wasn’t going to blow a whistle, but tell a story that might reach them.
“The firestorm of 1910 was the worst in the history of the West. Three million acres of western Montana and Idaho burned in two sweltering August days. The fire generated hurricane force winds that rushed up the hill and filled the mine with smoke.”
Some of the soldiers fingered the bandannas she’d told them were to go over their noses and mouths under smoky conditions.
“Those men wept, and not because their eyes stung. The air grew fouler, until prew an audible breath.
“Everyone passed out. The next morning, they awakened one by one . . . The last five did not. Pulaski lay by the entrance and they thought he was dead, too. Then he spoke to them.”
Clare had the troops’ attention. “When we go out to the fires, you’re going to see small flames creeping along the ground, but don’t ever forget you’re here because over one hundred-fifty thousand acres, almost ten percent of Yellowstone has burned.” Her mind spiraled down a vortex into a raging inferno, a blazing apartment superimposed over the awesome might of the Shoshone firestorm. “Never lose sight of how quickly disaster can strike.”
She let a moment of silence pass. In her mind, it was a memorial to both the fallen men of Pulaski’s group and to Frank Wallace.
Sergeant Travis looked bored. If she had wanted to slap him earlier, now her palm fairly itched. Instead, with the efficiency she used to set basketball players running laps, she called, “Now you’re going to show me how fast you can make a fire line.”
She bent to demonstrate how the Pulaski was used. “Everybody works in a row. You ‘strike’, turn the sod, and keep moving. I’ll be checking to make sure you clear down to a mineral soil that won