Fire on the Rim. Stephen J. Pyne
a spot of flickering yellow on black velvet: the fire. There is no point in unpacking our fire maps; there are no points of reference; the fire could be anywhere or nowhere. Below, Kent has turned the tailgate of the pumper into a small cafeteria, with half a dozen rations, gallon canteens, even a quart canteen of instant lemonade; he discovers some pound cake and fudge, mislabeled in a B-2 unit. I yell down that my best guess is that the fire is about a mile away, that if we drive back on the fireroad, we can walk north, reach the Rim, and contour around it in a way that will bring us to the fire. Kent stuffs some extra cans of crackers into his pack. “It’s all overtime,” he says.
We drive, park, double-flag our embarcation point, and, fully loaded with fire gear, walk by compass and headlamp. The Rim is not well defined; instead of ending on a rocky point, which we could use as an observation platform, we find ourselves glissading down a steep slope of pine needles and shrubby locust. We follow our flagging back to the truck; I drive on another half mile and we repeat the expedition, again without result. From time to time Kent shifts his tools to one hand and reaches into his fireshirt for crackers or candy. The night is opaque, broken only feebly by the clanging of canteens and metal tools. The taunting flame was visible from Swamp Point. I reason that we should come upon it if we contour along the Rim. It is simply a matter of logic and smokechasing. We will get to it. We must get to it. I drive another half mile down the road. This time we will walk to the Rim and traverse along it back toward Swamp Point. Kent inserts a spare set of batteries into his headlamp.
We walk for an hour, confident that I have found the Rim—a high mound—and are contouring along it. Any moment now I expect to discover the eerie glow of the fire. Then Kent points. Ahead of us, caught in the beam of our headlamps, glare two yellow eyes. Too small for a coyote, they can belong only to a mountain lion. We drop to our knees and slide behind a tree. We turn off our headlamps and approach cautiously. As nearly as we can tell, the eyes, now dulled, watch our every move. We are stalked and stalking. Abruptly Kent stands up and flashes on his headlamp as we stare slack-jawed at the rear of our truck. Two yellow reflectors stare menacingly back at us. We have come full circle.
We drop our packs and spread out sleeping bags and listen to the Park radio. It is nearly midnight. Other crews have reached and controlled their fires and prepare to rack out for the night. “You’re right,” says Kent, as he tosses empty ration cans into a sack. “There is a fire out here, and I’m going to make it.” He gathers needles and branches and starts a cooking fire and warms up a can of chili. The Park dispatcher tries to contact us; but we are in a dead zone and cannot reply. The radio is worthless. Everything is worthless. “How do you figure it?” Kent asks matter-of-factly. “Seven hours of OT, no hazard pay?”
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