miles of forest and mountain hazing in the heat and stretching with the bend of the earth to the horizon and to others beyond. And he banished the sadness that he’d felt and told himself that the world before him was brimming with hope and promise and that the way things were on this most golden of summer days was how life truly was and how it always would be.
7
T he clouds at which they had laughed that afternoon soon had revenge. They gathered and darkened and opened and for three days there was rain without pause. The ground had been baked hard by the hot, dry days of May and June and so most of the water ran right off into the creeks and rivers before the forests had a chance to drink it. But it moistened both land and air enough to give the Missoula smoke jumpers a few days’ calm.
Not that calm was ever too welcome. Rain meant fewer fires and fewer fires meant less overtime, less hazard pay and, although they had to be careful who they said this to, a lot less fun. A smoke jumper’s definition of what constituted a ‘good’ summer bore little resemblance to anyone else’s, especially those for whom forest fires could spell ruin or disaster. During a ‘normal’ summer, the Missoula base got five or six fire calls a week. A ‘good’ summer could bring that many each day.
Until the heavens opened, ten days ago, this summer had been looking good. The rain had dampened the jumpers’ spirits a little. Since it stopped there had only been four calls, all to minor fires that were quickly put out. But things were looking up. The skies had cleared, humidity was falling and the new heat wave looked set to stay. And as the barometer and fire risk rose, so did the jumpers’ mood.
The smoke jumper base lay in a long and shallow valley just south of Missoula airport. It was a cluster of mundane white buildings landscaped a little half-heartedly with a few token trees and shrubs. Beyond the buildings was the airstrip where planes of different makes and sizes stood ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Looming to one side, like a sinister circus of torture, were the towers and platforms and high-wire rigging of the training units, where many a young rookie had stood with a pounding heart, quaking knees and a face drained of all but fear, staring down at the ground and wondering if smoke jumping was after all quite as romantic as once it had seemed.
The epicenter of the base was known as ‘the loft,’ a warren of interconnecting rooms where the jumpers worked when they weren’t on a fire. At its hub was the lounge, a long room with a linoleum floor and low armchairs set against whitewashed walls. There was a coffee machine and a microwave where jumpers could cook their own food. It was here every morning that the jumpers gathered for roll call. Leading off it were the operations room where there were wall maps on which every fire in the region was flagged, the loadmaster’s where the firefighting gear and supplies were sorted and the ready room where every jumper had a bin. Then there was the manufacturing room, where parachutes and jumpsuits were made and repaired. And, finally, the tower, where parachutes were hoisted for inspection after every jump and hung from on high like the sails of some ghostly galleon.
In another building, a short walk away, was the visitor center. Here there was an exhibition where people could learn about smoke jumping and watch a video of some jumpers in action. There were life-size models, one in full jumping gear and another in firefighting gear and because the Forest Service was eager to convey the politically correct message that smoke jumping was open to both sexes, the firefighter model was a woman. The problem was, it seemed as if they’d lifted a mannequin straight out of a department store window. She was wearing lip gloss and mascara and in her spotless, neatly pressed shirt and pants, she couldn’t have looked less convincing. Ed had christened her Barbie Goes Jumping and
7
T he clouds at which they had laughed that afternoon soon had revenge. They gathered and darkened and opened and for three days there was rain without pause. The ground had been baked hard by the hot, dry days of May and June and so most of the water ran right off into the creeks and rivers before the forests had a chance to drink it. But it moistened both land and air enough to give the Missoula smoke jumpers a few days’ calm.
Not that calm was ever too welcome. Rain meant fewer fires and fewer fires meant less overtime, less hazard pay and, although they had to be careful who they said this to, a lot less fun. A smoke jumper’s definition of what constituted a ‘good’ summer bore little resemblance to anyone else’s, especially those for whom forest fires could spell ruin or disaster. During a ‘normal’ summer, the Missoula base got five or six fire calls a week. A ‘good’ summer could bring that many each day.
Until the heavens opened, ten days ago, this summer had been looking good. The rain had dampened the jumpers’ spirits a little. Since it stopped there had only been four calls, all to minor fires that were quickly put out. But things were looking up. The skies had cleared, humidity was falling and the new heat wave looked set to stay. And as the barometer and fire risk rose, so did the jumpers’ mood.
The smoke jumper base lay in a long and shallow valley just south of Missoula airport. It was a cluster of mundane white buildings landscaped a little half-heartedly with a few token trees and shrubs. Beyond the buildings was the airstrip where planes of different makes and sizes stood ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Looming to one side, like a sinister circus of torture, were the towers and platforms and high-wire rigging of the training units, where many a young rookie had stood with a pounding heart, quaking knees and a face drained of all but fear, staring down at the ground and wondering if smoke jumping was after all quite as romantic as once it had seemed.
The epicenter of the base was known as ‘the loft,’ a warren of interconnecting rooms where the jumpers worked when they weren’t on a fire. At its hub was the lounge, a long room with a linoleum floor and low armchairs set against whitewashed walls. There was a coffee machine and a microwave where jumpers could cook their own food. It was here every morning that the jumpers gathered for roll call. Leading off it were the operations room where there were wall maps on which every fire in the region was flagged, the loadmaster’s where the firefighting gear and supplies were sorted and the ready room where every jumper had a bin. Then there was the manufacturing room, where parachutes and jumpsuits were made and repaired. And, finally, the tower, where parachutes were hoisted for inspection after every jump and hung from on high like the sails of some ghostly galleon.
In another building, a short walk away, was the visitor center. Here there was an exhibition where people could learn about smoke jumping and watch a video of some jumpers in action. There were life-size models, one in full jumping gear and another in firefighting gear and because the Forest Service was eager to convey the politically correct message that smoke jumping was open to both sexes, the firefighter model was a woman. The problem was, it seemed as if they’d lifted a mannequin straight out of a department store window. She was wearing lip gloss and mascara and in her spotless, neatly pressed shirt and pants, she couldn’t have looked less convincing. Ed had christened her Barbie Goes Jumping and
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