Twenty years ago today at 4:13 PM in Colorado, Hell certainly froze over for me. I had just graduated from the University of Oregon after a long struggle through the Architectural program. The real graduation happened after the Winter term as I finished my 5th year/thesis project. The Spring term was about coasting through, picking up a few of the remaining requirements and engaging in on what seemed to be my passions. I long reckoned that being an Architect was not going to be my final destination, but the education lured me to stay with the degree. After eight years of struggle, I had taken several courses that final Spring term — in historic preservation to solve the mysteries of the construction of Deady Hall, the first building of the University, Native American architecture and the dwellings they created over centuries, and a course about building in our natural environment. In that last one, While the profession was heading into what is now LEED Citification, Solar and other tangents, I chose to address the recent East Bay Fire in California, I ended up writing a short thesis paper, Fire in the Interface, about how Planners, Architects, Developers, Builders and Homeowners could do a better job at building into the Wildlands of the West. Taking the first hand knowledge of the years of working in fire, to teach the next generation of the perils of building in this environment. From basic fire science, to specific design features, I tried to explain where the future was heading. That year, I didnt have a clear vision on where my life would lead. I had started the next phase of my life creating beautiful things and selling them at art shows, but success was still a far of dream. I had started making contact with friends that I had over the years working in fire, and made it over to my former crew for the annual party that came with the end of training with the Prineville Hotshots. Like any celebration that meant that they where likely to be shipped off to fire in just days or hours, so we partied most the night. I got to see old friends, and meet the new recruits that came after me. So, on that day, twenty years ago today was like any other. I was at home in a blissful sunny Oregon July afternoon, when I got word that there had been an incident in Colorado. This was the days before Facebook, cell phones and the internet. I got a call from a friend saying there was a burnover, possible fatalities, not much was known, but it included a hotshot crew, that could have been Prineville, and some jumpers. Later, I received another call to say Prineville Hotshots were there, and the number of Prineville Dispatch to call for more information. I shook as I dialed the number. I didnt know what to expect. A familiar voice was on the other end, I knew her from working on the Hotshots earlier. I introduced myself and asked if there was an incident. She replied, Hello Ben, yes their was. She proceeded to list all 20 on the crew members followed by the word deceased, or survivor. By the sound in her voice, I knew she had repeated this list over, and over all night. The tears welled up, and all became numb. The words I heard were far beyond my comprehension. The sorrow I felt for those who were lost, and the joy for those that survived. My emotions were all over the place between my friends that were loss, and the friends that survived. It was hard to hear the reality of what I just heard. When she was finished, with a broken voice, I had her list the names again. I carefully wrote them down again. It was just unfathomable. It had been decades since a tragedy of this magnitude. Nine Prineville Hotshots, and fourteen in all. Hotshots and Smokejumpers were highly trained, and we studied old fire tragedies like dusty text books. Death or injury from the actual fire was almost unheard of... After the Dude Fire in 1990 (that I wrote of earlier), several training and protocols were put into place to prevent future tragedies. The fire would soon be compared to the Mann Gulch fire from 1949. A fire that was one of those that changed policy for all that came after. I had studied this fire and read Norman Macleans (of A Runs Through It fame), Young Men and Fire after leaving the Forest Service and Fire. I had known the members of this crew as elementary school mates in Oakridge, as High School classmates in Burns, as acquaintances on the fireline, and the crew that I worked with in Prineville. On a Hotshot Crew, you lived with 20 people day-in, day-out for the season. We ate, drank, slept, ran, worked, and truly lived together everyday. We would all share an apartment, camping in every room with the hope we would never use it. For the coming months, this event consumed me. Memorials and funerals — it never ended. I consumed every article and report that followed. In less than six weeks, the official investigation was published. A longtime friend passed me a copy and the anger pursued as it put much of the blame went to the lost firefighters. Later in in 1999, John Maclean published Fire on the Mountain and told the larger story. I still think of that day. I still miss those friends. I often think about them. Every time I lace up those same boots to go do trail work, I think about where they have been. This time of year, I stop and think about it a little more. I still do not see fire as evil. There is not the devil or damnation in fire. Fire is simply a basic element and we have simply become out of balance. I enjoy sitting around a good campfire, and sometimes I may seem lost in my thoughts. If you see me in that fiery gaze, rest assured, I am traveling through time. The sound, smell, and sight of a good flame licking a log, bring me back to that time. My thoughts still linger like the stale smoke in the morning air after a good camp fire. I am not sure where this day is all going, but certainly, it will include good gin, and exactly three limes.
Posted on: Mon, 07 Jul 2014 00:03:08 +0000
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