This is a Smokejumper story.  A few months ago Rod Dow, an old Smokejumper buddy contacted me.  He was writing a book and wanted to know if I could remember a fire on the Innoko Flats of Western Alaska in 1972.

I have vivid memories of that fire.  What’s more, I dug out my old notebooks and found I had detailed notes of the fire but not the names of the jumpers who fought the fire.  What I remembered the most was the Muskeg.

Most people have never heard of muskeg.  Muskeg is a bog.

In the warm sub-arctic summer the snow, ice, and upper permafrost melts.   The flat lands are covered with a layer of water from a few inches to many feet deep.  Random spits and islands of land covered with grass, brush and scrub spruce rise above the water.  Together with the tundra, this kind of land is known as the “Taiga” in Russia.

From the air it is a vast forest of small trees punctuated by a million bright green meadows filled with streams and oily dark ponds.  The bright green meadows are muskeg; sphagnum moss a few inches to a few feet thick, with occasional tussocks of grass.  It grows and floats on the ice water.  Muskeg is tightly woven and thick enough in many areas to support the weight of animals and people.  Much of it will only support the weight of very small animals.  The water under the muskeg is often shallow; sometimes it is deep.

There is no way to know the strength of the muskeg or the depth of the water by looking at it.

Walking on muskeg is tedious.  Like walking on a huge water bed; occasionally breaking through to the water and permafrost below.  It is cold, wet, deceptive, and dangerous.

In the summer, the long hot days dry out the trees and moss above the water line.  Lightning starts fires that run through the dry vegetation with the wind.  The fires are natural and the flats are uninhabited.  They are usually left to naturally burn out.  When the fires threaten an active caribou migration, settlements or military assets, they are fought.

Smokejumpers are careful not to land in the muskeg.  They steer their parachutes for the small spruce and high ground.  Air cargo and fire packs sometimes disappear in the muskeg.  If lucky, the cargo chutes are lying on the surface and the wet gear can be drug out of the bog.

On July 13, 1972, at 1845 hours we left Talkeetna, Alaska on a Fire Call to the Innoko Flats.  We were in an old C-47 jump plane leased to the Alaska Smokejumpers.  At 2045 hours, nine of us  jumped fire number 7819, located at 63º 17’ N; 153º 59’ W.  Dick Jeppson, a McCall Idaho squad leader, was Fire Boss.

The fire was running when we jumped and the smoke was against the ground.  Visibility deteriorated to about 200 yards by early morning.  We had made good progress and were getting hungry.  I volunteered to go back to the landing zone for some food.  I found our tracks back to the gear in low visibility.

I filled a rucksack with ‘rats, C rations, and put on a GI mosquito head net I found in the gear.  I was new to Alaska.  Never before had I encountered mosquitos of the number and ferocity of those on the Innoko Flats.

As I returned to the crew there were numerous game trails through the muskeg that crossed our tracks.  In the dense smoke I followed the wrong trail.  Before I knew it I was about 250 yards out on a bog.  I wasn’t concerned when I broke through.  The water under the muskeg had heretofore been shallow.  I expected to quickly hit a shallow bottom and step back up on the surface.

It was pure luck that as I went down in deep water, I reflexively spread my arms out to the side on top of the moss and sod, holding it open as my head went under.  I was in trouble.

If the sod closed over me there would be no air.  I was able to grip the sod and kick my way back to the surface through the hole I had made, and get my head out.  With my clothes, pack, boots and gear, it was all I could do to keep my head above water.

It took forever to shed the pack without sinking below the surface.  I had to find the buckles on the shoulder straps and loosen them until they separated.  By then I was exhausted.  I could not shed my boots or clothes.  Nor could I climb out onto the sod or make way through it.

The best I could do was slowly tread water, keep my head up, and try to stay warm.  I was getting very cold.

After several lifetimes I heard voices discussing the fact that that it was Bastille Day.  Soon I saw jumpers coming out of the smoke.  I hollered forever before they heard me.  It took them a while longer to see me.  With the mosquito net, I looked like a grass tussock sticking out of the bog.

I remember Jeppson telling me to quit screwing around.  I told him that I was drowning and needed help.  He scoffed and started out on the bog to pull me out.  He broke through and barely got out.  That got everybody’s attention.

They rapidly cut Black Spruce, laying a mat of small trees on the bog out to me.  In the smoke they looked like ants at work.  Jeppson eased out and pulled me up on the mat.  We were a long time crawling back to solid ground; my arms and legs were so cold they didn’t work well.

It took me several hours hunkering over a smoky fire with a lot of coffee and brandy to warm up and regain my strength.  Meanwhile our fire burned into another nearby fire and more jumpers were called.

The Alaska Smokejumpers had a tradition of giving each other nicknames; often disparaging ones.  Thereafter I was known as the Beekeeper.

I never again wore a mosquito net.

Guardian Angels have had a leading role in my life.  They have been both corporeal and spiritual.  One of them was Idaho.  He was older than my Dad; not old enough to be my Grandpa.  He was a Basque, a pillar of our community, a Grocer; and most of all my friend.

When I was very small, Idaho worked in a local independent grocery.  By the time I was about 8, he had his own neighborhood grocery store at the corner of Main and Spring streets.  I was just a kid, one of many he knew, but he always had a kind word.

One summer evening we were playing hide and go seek in the dark.  As the game evolved we ended up playing in the lot behind Idaho’s store.  There was a lot of stuff around that made for good hiding places.  There was also some old machinery from the Coca Cola bottling plant next door.  Suddenly there was a Police car with a spotlight on us.  We were summoned out of hiding to explain our presence.  It began to look like we were in trouble; until Idaho appeared.

He vouched for us.   We were neighborhood kids that played around his store; we were harmless.

Not long after that I was involved in a hostile relationship with a ‘college kid’ who lived nearby.  He and his buddy were the prime suspects in the death of our cat, Tagger.  Needless to say I took every opportunity to make life miserable for the SOB.

One day the older kid happened to be riding his bicycle past our house.   He launched an insult or two in my direction.  The fates were smiling; I had a decent, loaded slingshot in hand.  I hit him in the jaw and knocked him off the bicycle.  I had a few choice words for him as well.  My shot had been more of a reflex than an overt act.

I was in big trouble.  He was at least 10 years older than me and I had no backup.  I ran across the street, through the neighbors yard, hoping someone was home.  No luck.  I turned and ran up the alley at full speed.  I had about a 300 foot lead but he was closing fast.

Ahead on my left a garage door was opening, it was Idaho’s.  I ran inside, slammed the door shut and shot the bolt closed.  Idaho stood there stunned, his wife and mother in-law sat in the car staring at me.  Before anyone could speak there came a loud pounding on the door.  The enemy called me every name in the book and described in vivid detail how he was going to dismember my lifeless body.

Idaho’s eyes got big and he asked what was going on?  I told him that the SOB had killed my cat and I just nailed him with a slingshot.  Idaho smiled and told me to stay in the garage.  He went out and spoke to the guy for a long time.

After an eternity, Idaho summoned me outside.  He made us face each other and shake hands.  He declared that the war was over.  He announced, in no uncertain terms, that if one of us violated the truce there would be hell to pay.  We believed him.

He sent the big guy home to get his jaw patched up.  He took me into the garage and inspected my slingshot.  He could not believe it had done so much damage… until I showed him a handful of marbles.

I ran into the cat assassin a couple of more times.  He never spoke to me or made a hostile overture.  I returned the courtesy.

Idaho was another story.  He always mentioned the incident whenever he saw me.  Sometimes he told the story and laughed until tears came to his eyes.

I never doubted he saved my life that day.

I built a canoe in my mother’s living room one winter.  A story in Boy’s Life had captivated me.  The dream was a big one with an outrigger, a sail… and Hawaii.  That summer at Camp Fleischmann, I got the canoeing merit badge.

I discovered a kit for a 12’ wood frame and canvas canoe advertised in Boy’s Life. It was not in the section with the sea monkeys and x-ray glasses, so it had to be legit.  A fortune, $25.00 plus shipping, REI Express.  I could handle it with the remnants of my summer earnings and the income from my paper route.

Mail ordering anything was a leap of faith.  When I was five I sent fifty cents to Laura Scudder Potato Chips for a miniature Whirly Bird helicopter.  Seven years and five moves later I was still waiting for it to arrive.  Never cared for Laura Scudder stuff after that.

Dad seemed to think REI Express was up to the task and Boy’s Life was reputable.  I was reluctant, then realized I had leverage; powerful friends everywhere.

If need be, I could write to the local Scout Troop and use them to enforce the contract if my canoe didn’t show up.  Boy Scouts had more reach and soldiers than the mafia.  We flew beneath the radar and were worldwide.  We outnumbered the Masons.  To this day I bet you never heard about the Boy Scout network… our cover story was that good.  Our enforcers were tough, and prepared.  Who could resist a skinny, freckle faced kid in a rumpled scout uniform, determined to do a good deed?

One day after school a big green REI Express truck stopped in front of our house.  A miracle.  The kit was complete, and there was no damage.  It was big.  Since there was snow on the ground, the only logical place to work was in the living room.  I had it unpacked before Mom got home.

Everything was pre-cut.  It took my brothers and I several weeks to build it.  I decided to go first class and finish the canvas with fiberglass instead of marine paint.  I was banished to the back yard for that part of the project.  I ruined a new pair of corduroy pants but everything else went relatively well.  The fiberglass was heavy and did not go on evenly.  There was too much weight on one side that made the craft extremely unstable.  All you had to do to tip it over was turn your head.

It was time for the maiden voyage.  My brother and I carried it down to the river by the old railroad trestle.  It was early spring and the water was fast.  We made it about 20 yards before hitting a rock and tipping over.  The water was COLD!  It was a good thing we wore life jackets.  A canoe full of water is incredibly heavy.  We finally got to shore and surveyed the damage.  There was a big tear near the bow and a little bit of frame damage.

The canoe repaired easily.

I had to recruit a new crew.  My brother was pissed.  In addition to the wild ride, I had turned into Captain Bligh and clobbered him with the canoe paddle a couple of times to emphasize the urgency of a course correction.  He had enough canoeing with me.

My buddy, Bill Bradley, was game.  He and I had gotten the canoeing merit badge together.

Bill’s house was on the river, just above some very serious (class 3-4) rapids we called “slippery gulch.”  The river travelled through a steep, narrow basalt earthquake fault and lost about 20 feet of elevation in about a quarter of a mile.  The rapids ended in a 90 degree bend to the east and slow, deep water in the swimming hole under the Richmond Road Bridge.  It was probably the worst stretch of river for miles.  As far as we were concerned, it was perfect.

We launched in the slack water above the rapids, behind Bill’s house.  We hit the first rock at the top of the rapids.  The boat quickly swamped and we jolted from rock to rock as we descended through the white water gulch.  There was nowhere to go but downstream.  At the bottom of the rapids the boat rolled upside down as we hit the bend.  Bill was thrown clear of the boat and held onto the rope at the bow as he swam to shore.  He could not see me.

When Bill could touch bottom the canoe was upside down and very heavy.  He decided to roll it over and drag it ashore, before looking for me.  Out I popped as he turned the canoe, I had been jammed under the heavily damaged canoe by the floatation of the life jacket.  My guardian angel had been on duty, again; I had not been under water for long.

We were freezing, it was March or early April.  To add insult to injury, we had to go back into the river with the canoe and drift another couple of hundred yards downstream, through deep water, to a place where we could haul out.

The dream of canoeing was still alive, but well tempered with experience and a new found respect for water and rocks.

Issac Newton was too narrow in his experience.  He observed a falling apple and became the father of theoretical physics.  Any kid that fell out of a tree learned about a hell of a lot more than gravity.

I only fell out of a tree once.  It was enough.  When I was about 9 we had a good size elm in the back yard, near the alley.  One evening I decided to do a recon for a tree house.  We had just seen Swiss Family Robinson.

The tree was about 30 inches in diameter at the stump.  The stem was straight and the first branches were about seven feet up.  It was a challenge.  If we actually built the tree house we would also have to build a ladder on the trunk to go with it.  As for the recon, I decided I could shinny up… just this once.

It was a tough climb up to the first branches, hugging the tree, inch by inch; fingers and toes in the rough bark.  Once I got up into the branches it was a piece of cake.  There were a couple of nasty, slimy areas of bark where sap was bleeding.

It was a tall tree with not a lot of potential for a tree house.  The limbs seemed strong enough but too far apart for my level of construction skill.  I went as far up into the top of the tree as I dared.  The limbs got pretty thin but the view was great.  I didn’t expect the tree to sway so much in the evening breeze.  It was kinda scary.

It was getting dark and time for me to start making my way down.  The sparse limbs were more difficult to navigate while descending.  There were places where I had only two points of secure contact when I preferred three; but I managed.

Everything changed when I got to the bottom branches.  It was a lot farther to the ground looking down from above the branches than it had been from standing on the ground looking up.  I didn’t have a lot of time to plan a strategy, it was getting dark.

Shinnying down looked hazardous.  Finally, I decided to hang from the lowest branch and drop to the ground.  It was more of a drop than I liked, but within the pain threshold.

As I lowered myself below the branch, my grip began to fail.  I made a snap decision.  Rather than fall to the ground and try to land on my feet, I swung to the trunk and wrapped my arms and legs around the rough bark.  I slid down the trunk, leaving a lot of hide on the tree.

I was raw from my palms to the center of my chest and neck.  The inside of my legs weren’t much better from the ankles to the mid-thighs.  When I hit the ground I went down on my butt so hard it knocked the wind out of me.

In all, I fared pretty well.  No bones were broken, but my raw spots felt like they were on fire.

Mom was nervous about trees so I needed an alibi.  I told her that I had been playing tag in the street and tripped while running on the pavement.

Imagine how much more advanced our knowledge of physics would now be, if Isaac had FALLEN out of the apple tree…

I was blessed with four Grandmas; I’m not sure they would have said the same.  Maternal and paternal grandmothers, as well as maternal great grandmothers.

The first crisis was with Great Grandmother Brewster.  She and my Great Grandfather had a little store and gas station, across the highway from their rural home.  It was the social center of the community.  I remember a family gathering at the store one weekend when I was three or four.  As I toddled by, Grandma snatched me from behind, gave me a bristly kiss; sat me in her lap and held me prisoner.  I was startled, scared, and didn’t know for a while who had grabbed me.

I squirmed to escape and a power struggle developed.  She was bigger and stronger, so I had to improvise.  I knew better than to bite, but was tempted.  From where we sat I saw through a window to the gas pumps.  Hansel and Gretel were a recent and fresh source of inspiration; the rest was history.  I told her that if she did not let me go I would pour gas on her and set her afire.  The gambit worked and I was set free.  I took refuge in the salt blocks next to the animal feed and veterinary supplies in the back of the store.

The first hint of trouble was a tearful conference I observed from my sanctuary.   Mom and Grandma Thelma were huddled around a tearful Great Grandma.  Mom came and drug me over to the Grandmas by the scruff of the neck; a token gesture of punishment.  Great Grandma had cultivated an audience by then and was inconsolable.  Resolution came in the form of a hasty retreat home.  Our relationship was forever clouded by the incident.

A few years later we were visiting Grandma Thelma and Grandpa Fred, who lived nearby.  Great Grandma called on the phone.  She had just shot a deer she had discovered in her vegetable garden and wanted my Uncle Kenny to dress it and hang it in the barn.  Kenny was out for the afternoon in his new car pursuing the elusive scents of gasoline, perfume, and pheromones.  Grandma Thelma sent me to do the job.

When I arrived Great Grandma closely supervised.  I was a little nervous because she used her old rifle, with the flashlight taped to the barrel; as a baton to direct my work.  My labors apparently met with approval since I was fed peach pie and milk before being dismissed.

About 20 years later, when she was in her 90’s the properties that abutted hers had built up and Great Grandma had new neighbors.  City people.  They called the Sheriff on her for shooting another deer out of her garden, next to their house.  He came out and confiscated her rifle.  She never understood.  That garden had produced an abundance of venison and vegetables for 60 to 70 years.

Great Grandma Frazer was older, her husband rode in the Rough Riders with Teddy Roosevelt.  By the time I came along she was in her mid 80’s and soon lived with Grandma Marion and Grandpa Herb.

She was my first cribbage master, and ruthless; she gleefully pegged all the count and score I missed.

My only other memorable moment with her was over breakfast.

I had taken the bus up to Salem, Oregon; by myself, to stay with my grandparents and earn my fortune picking strawberries.  I was twelve years old.  One Saturday morning when my grandparents were out of town.  She decided to cook me bacon and eggs after the morning peace had been shattered by a cherry bomb my uncle John and his buddy Jay had thrown in my bed with me.

I think Great Grandma was trying to re-establish the peace while keeping a protective eye on me.  By that age I had developed a keen sense for surreptitious adult supervision and my hackles were up.  John and Jay were gone and all I wanted to do was hunt for cherry bombs.

She asked me how many eggs, and how much bacon, I wanted.  I told her one egg and six pieces of bacon.  Never before had I been offered a blank check!  After I placed my order she paused, scowled at me over her glasses and announced I would have TWO pieces of bacon.  Good thing I didn’t ask for coffee.  Obviously I failed the test of character.

Grandma Marion had infinite patience… with grandchildren.  Dad, and his siblings have led me to believe that she kept them on a much shorter lead.

She and Grandpa Herb made sure all the grandkids got a new, high quality winter coat, every Christmas.

I remember foraging through her kitchen one time and encountering booby traps set specifically for me.  The first was a bar of Hershey’s Chocolate.  A giant bar that must have weighed a pound.  One bite did the trick, how did she make so bitter?  How did she know to poison that piece of candy?  What if somebody else had gotten it?  She knew what I was going to do and set the trap for ME!  At that time of my life I perceived all chocolate was the same, I had never heard of semi-sweet cooking chocolate.

The next trap was olive oil.  All the kids in my family loved black olives and the brine they were packed in.  In her pantry I found a tin of Italian olive oil, obviously the expensive good stuff.  Oil… brine; in my mind there was no difference.  I took a big swig of the Italian oil and barely got it spit back in the can without spraying it all over the pantry.  Reminded me of the oil, or some other crud, Grandpa Herb had in a coke bottle in the garage.

She was a mind reader, a formidable adversary!  How could she have the clairvoyance to booby trap the first two things I would sample in her pantry?  No telling what other poisons awaited me in that larder.  I never again dared eat anything in her kitchen that was not served me.

Grandma Marion was my second cribbage master.  She actually taught me some strategy before beating me in the dirt.  She also helped me count and score.

Grandma Thelma was an absolute saint.  Her capacity for forgiveness was unlimited.  She also took us fishing and camping.

She let us bring our BB guns whenever we came to her house, despite the fact we shot everything.  The only things off limits were pets, chickens, livestock, kids, cars, and windows.  If one of Grandpa’s yard cars had previously damaged glass, it was fair game.

I always had a vague impression she had bigger, more destructive weapons available for us where the yard cars were concerned.

We cut trees and made log cabins in the woods next to her house; no power saws allowed.  She always worried about us.

I accidentally blew her up one time and she never said a word to me or my parents about the matter.

I had a windfall of high quality cherry bombs the summer I was twelve.  Not long after I had returned home from Oregon my parents decided they needed to get away for the weekend.

For some unknown reason my mother frequently suffered a rather severe nervous condition.  It often manifested after one of my adventures.

Grandma Thelma was enlisted to baby sit the four of us.  I was the oldest of four boys at 12, Phil was 10, David was 8, and Tracy was 3.

I had been waiting for the right opportunity to try a cherry bomb on Phil.  Saturday morning, after Mom & Dad left, looked like a good time.  I  established a simple ambush from the grape arbor, above the back door.  After a very long wait I heard the door open to the back porch from the kitchen.

I struck the match and counted… one thousand… two thousand… and lit the fuse.  The back door opened… three thousand; the fuse was burning fast so I let go.  Out stepped… GRANDMA!

I knew I was dead.  I decided it was best to take my lumps while she was still concussed.  Her disorientation might work to my advantage.

I could not find her.  All the kids were watching cartoons on TV.  She was gone.  Then I heard her VW.  I looked out the front window in time to see her drive down to the end of the street and turn toward home, two hours away.

Monday morning Mom & Dad got home and asked where was Grandma?  I told them that she… just left.  I awaited my doom for the rest of the day, the week, then month.  The axe never fell.  She never spoke of the incident, and died many years later with our secret intact.  I sent her flowers on every Mother’s Day.

I dearly loved my Grandma’s.  I can only hope that they knew it.

Our neighbor, Charlie was a HAM Radio operator and had an antenna in his back yard big enough to reach Mars.  It went at least a mile straight up into the sky with an elaborate spiky structure on top.  Kind of a cross between a huge aluminum snowflake and the letter “H” on the HOLLYWOOD sign.   

Charlie was a mild-mannered nice guy; eccentric and quiet.  He reminded me of TV’s Mr. Wizard, the archetype of Popular Mechanics.  He was brilliant and always tinkering.  Charlie’s wife, Ruth, was the family alpha and also our Sunday school teacher.  He and his wife were active in local liberal politics.  The only time I ever really interacted with Charlie was when I was on my paper route.

Winters were long and sidewalks were icy for weeks at a time.  Ruth always made Charlie keep the sidewalks clear.  Charlie once had an idea, and broke up the perfectly good sidewalks in the front of his house.  The new walks were designed with pipes running through them.  His plan was to run the water from the household hot water heater through the cement, and back into the house.  He would never again have to chip ice, or shovel snow.

Like all projects, it took a lot longer than planned.  In Sunday school, Ruth was enthusiastic and told us about it. The cold weather finally came.  Ice was everywhere but Charlie’s sidewalk.  We marveled.  Ruth told us that it worked well but they had to turn up the heat on their electric water heater.

After a month or so, the ice was back on Charlie’s sidewalk.  Ruth avoided our questions in Sunday school.  We were all curious.  Late that spring, I had a chance to talk to Charlie.  I grilled him about the sidewalk.

I was about 12, and my social barometer was not well developed.  Charlie was avoiding the subject.  He was flustered by my questions.  Later, I heard it took Charlie a long time to pay off his electric bill for the month his sidewalk was operating.

Danny, my brother David’s friend, lived next door to Charlie.  David once mentioned that Danny had a cool “Tarzan” swing on the hill next to his house.  That got my attention.

A steep, high hillside meandered for about three quarters of a mile through our neighborhood and was our playground.  My Dad said it was actually a small earthquake fault.  Halfway up the hill an irrigation ditch bisected the hill.  The half of the hill, above the ditch, was steeper than the lower.

Most of the hill was covered with brush that was about eight feet deep.  The ground under the brush was a warren of tall grass “tunnels” where we had forts and played army.  Scattered along the ditch were several big pine trees that were about 100 feet tall and about 350 yards apart.

Charlie and Danny lived at the base of the hill on the west end.  Charlie’s property was the only one in the neighborhood that included the part of the hill that adjoined his home.

Located in the center of Charlie’s part of the hill was his HAM antenna.  The first big pine along the ditch was next to Danny’s house.  The “Tarzan” swing hung from high in the pine to a strategic location above the ditch where, presumably, it was out of the reach of kids.

The swing was kinda weird.  It consisted of about six feet of railroad rail hanging lengthwise from a cable that descended from the nether heights of the pine tree.  A three foot piece of galvanized 2” pipe, the perfect grip for our hands, rested above the rail with the cable running through it.  Very heavy, expensive, and industrial for a kids swing.

The swing was easily reached with a long stick and pulled to the uphill slope, where we could mount it.  When launched, we flew high over the ditch, above Danny’s apple tree and the roof of his house.  The reverse brought you gently into the upper hillside.  It was perfect;  the lethal fall from the far half of the arc added just the right flavor to the experience.

We discovered an unusual feature.  The more kids on the swing at one time, the better.  The extra weight of more kids added a bouncy roller coaster quality to the ride.  With four kids, you bounced ten to fifteen feet up and down as you rode the swing out and back.  That bounce really made you to concentrate on your grip in the death zone.  Whoever designed the swing did a hell of a job.  Over the course of the summer the swing started to hang lower over the ditch and was easier to reach.

One day, when delivering papers, I saw Charlie up high working on his antenna.  I stopped and visited as he worked.  I had never seen anyone working that high off the ground.  Much higher than the power poles in our neighborhood.  Charlie said that the wind was pushing his antenna around so much lately that it was driving him crazy.  His guy wires needed constant tuning “to keep the damn thing from falling on my house.”  I started paying more attention to the antenna, particularly in the wind.  It never seemed to move very much.

My last ride on the swing was a couple of days later.  I launched off the hill and the cable parted where it went through the rail.  The hole in the rail had been cut with a torch and was rough.  It eroded the cable with every ride.  I fell to the ground above, and slid down into, the ditch.  I was incredibly lucky that the fall happened there.  At the far end of the swing, I could have fallen 30 feet or more.  I was also fortunate to have landed on the rail rather than the rail on me.  It was so heavy it would have broken a lot of bones.

Later, Charlie was working on his antenna.  The top was leaning way off to one side.  I asked him what happened.  He was in the house and heard the antenna “whooshing” from side to side.  As he came out of the house it drooped over and stopped.  He was afraid it might fall over.  He was still working when I delivered his paper that afternoon; by then he had it figured out.  The cable on his ‘custom designed anti-sway damper’ had broken.  I asked him what was a damper and he pointed to the remnants of our Tarzan swing that he had fished out of the ditch.  He speculated that the limbs of the pine tree had grown, and while swaying in the wind, they pushed on the damper cable so much it made the antenna sway excessively.

The swing was so far from the antenna that I had never made an association between the two.  My blood ran cold as everything came into perspective.  Each ride on the Tarzan swing whipped his antenna back and forth like the tachometer on a teenager’s car.  It never occurred to Charlie that anyone might have been responsible for the events that had transpired.  A few days later I noticed that the new counterweight was hung so high that it was truly beyond our considerable reach.  There were also a lot more, and bigger, guy wires supporting the antenna.

Charlie being Charlie, never said anything.  As I write I am not certain that he didn’t know the truth.

Lately I have been reminiscing about my years as a Smokejumper; a separate life compressed into the years 1971 through 1977.  I was 19 years old my first season.  It was the toughest job I ever had and I loved it.

Most will agree that no matter how many seasons, or years, they were ‘jumpers… it was a lifetime.  We worked hard and competed fiercely to earn our wings.  There were no new-hires over age 27.  Jumpers were restricted from parachuting after age 40.  There were no women.  The civil rights laws started changing during my tenure.  I don’t believe women became jumpers until the early 80‘s.

The Smokejumpers were the most hard working, dependable “got your back” people I have ever known.  All were individualists, mavericks who worked very well by themselves, thank-you.   Some had a hard time staying out of trouble.  As a group, a smokejumper crew’s capacity for work was enormous. However, we always worked well as a team.  “Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way,” was the mantra.

The buddy system was the rule; the minimum number of jumpers dropped on a fire was two.  We often went for days on short rations.  The fire packs were dropped on cargo chutes after the jumpers were safely on the ground.  They contained tools, sleeping bags, and 3 1/2 days of food for two jumpers.  Saws, rescue gear, fuel, drinking water, and other specialized equipment were dropped as needed.  Sometimes the cargo chutes failed, landed in the fire, or hung-up in tall trees.  Occasionally the fire crept around later and burned the gear.  Once in a great while a bear, or thief, got in the food and gear.  In hot weather it was not unusual to run out of water.

Two man fires were prized.  “Two manners” kept jumpers very busy for several days before the fire was corralled and put out.  Often there were streams full of trout on the way home.  On large fires, full plane loads of jumpers were dropped to slow the head of the fire and were quickly relieved after a shift or two; as soon as sufficient ground troops were on scene.  Dispatchers got nervous when too many jumpers were deployed on large fires.  It left the forests vulnerable to lightning fires, where the Smokejumpers were most effective.

Jumpers were the happiest in the remote back country with very little “outside” supervision.  Few non-jumpers understood waterless firefighting as as we did.  Direct attack (working up against the flames) is much safer than indirect; as long as you keep your head up and eyes open.  Backfires and burn-outs were the force multipliers that we relied on to catch fast moving fires.  We rarely had enough manpower to fight fire conventionally.  Our tactics made local fire managers nervous.  They were not accustomed to highly capable crews using aggressive techniques that local crews were not trained, or allowed to use.  We understood that there was a lot less fire to control the next day if all the available fuel within the fire-line was reduced to fine ash by morning.

These days it probably takes approval from Washington, D.C. to start a backfire.

Jumpers who were reckless or inattentive washed out during training or their closely supervised first season.

Ours was dangerous work; jumper culture was cautious, vigilant, and decisive.  If you were not at the top of your game you got instant uncensored feedback.  The greatest danger was an inattentive or unaware buddy.  Things often happened very fast.  We were expected to recognize a situation, determine the correct response and act appropriately in a split second.

We often did not have radios, they were precious commodities.  We were never lost but rarely knew our exact location.  With a compass, a rudimentary map and a landmark or two; we never had any trouble finding our way to the rendezvous point.

Our mission was to quickly put firefighters on the ground in remote areas beyond the reach of conventional firefighters and put the fire out before it got any bigger.  We could be on the ground fighting a fire in hours where it would take conventional crews days to arrive on scene.  Many of the locations we jumped were so remote that we were out of radio range.

In Alaska, dispatchers would try to send a plane within radio range to check on us once a day.  Sometimes we were out of touch for several days with an injured jumper.  Occasionally we made rescue jumps for airplane crashes, logging, or smokejumper accidents.

Most of us carried small signal mirrors.  If we could see an airplane or lookout we could help them locate us from miles away.  We each carried two signal panels in our leg pockets.  They were fluorescent orange, about 16 inches wide and 10 feet long.  We laid them out on the ground to signal our status and needs to aircraft.  An “L” next to your parachute said you were safely on the ground and unhurt.  With different symbols we could order food, additional jumpers, medical supplies, and tools.  Not all orders were filled.  We often had to make do with what little we had.

We were careful to ask only for the gear we truly needed before the plane left.  Everything dropped out of the plane came out on our backs.  The packs ranged from 90 to 150 pounds depending on how much gear was dropped and whether or not someone was injured.

Pack-outs ranged from less than a mile to 20 or more miles.  Sometimes helicopters were dispatched to pick us up if we were too far out in the boondocks or if we were needed for other fires.  Occasionally a packer with a string of horses and mules was dispached to retrieve us from a wilderness area.  In Alaska, I have been “de-manned” by seaplane; our beloved Grumman Goose.

Once in a while, a fire got away and grew large; rarer still, we had to fall back to a safety zone and let one run.  If we didn’t have effective escape routes we burned-out until we had them.

A lot of of the other firefighters regarded the jumpers as Prima Donnas.  Few of them could keep up with the smokejumpers, or handle the same fire assignments.  Most smokejumpers did their best to belie the reputation.

We were acutely aware that the end of our days was as near as the next jump or the next fire.  There were accidents.  Fatalities were rare, but we had more than most other firefighter crews.  Aircraft accidents, usually helicopters; firefighting accidents, usually widow-makers.

Occasionally a jumper would “burn out” of a tree; i.e. the chute would partially hang-up in the side of a large tree, and collapse.  Then the limb holding the jumper and chute could not bear the weight and break, dropping the jumper to the ground.

Some of the trees we landed in were well over a hundred feet tall.  We had to rappel to the ground and retrieve the chute later.  Sometimes a jumper would fall out of a tree while retrieving a hung-up chute.  Parachutes malfunctioned; the reserve chutes almost always saved the day.  Once in a great while a reserve failed or was deployed too near the ground.

Seems like every base had at least one career ending injury every season.  Season ending injuries were not infrequent.

There were sub-sets of smokejumpers, it was seasonal work.  Only a small number at each base worked year round, they were squad leaders and managers.   Students worked to pay for their education.  A  few teachers.  Some were ski-bums.  Vagabonds travelled the world.   A small number of veterans worked for government contractors in war zones; once and a while one of them didn’t come back.  Some were ranch hands.  Others aspired to be career Foresters or forest Fire Managers.  Some became pilots.  All left jumping life reluctantly.

We hoped we would have the good sense to leave the smokejumpers when it was time.  A few hardy souls became career smokejumpers.

We have reunions every few years.  The larger bases usually sponsor them in rotation.  Missoula Montana, McCall Idaho, Boise Idaho, Cave Junction Oregon, Redmond Oregon, Redding California, Winthrop Washington, Grangeville Idaho, Fort Wainwright Alaska, Anchorage Alaska, West Yellowstone Montana, and Silver City New Mexico.  Regretfully, I have only attended two.  Missoula 1983 and Redding 2000.

I eagerly anticipate, yet dread, each new issue of the Smokejumper Magazine.  The obituaries have too many surprises.  The same is true of the website.  Most people who become Smokejumpers work hard, play hard, and don’t waste their days trying to make them longer.

When I left the Smokejumpers I became an Administrator.  That did not fit well.  I moved on to become an FBI Agent.  I hope my jumper buddies found new lives that were as rewarding.

On July 1, 1990, a day of boating on the Potomac River nearly turned into disaster.  We were at Fairview Beach, on the Potomac River, about 40 minutes cruising time south of Quantico, Virginia.

Our boat was a 19‘ center console fiberglass SEA SQUIRT, with a 115 HP Mercury Outboard and a 10 HP Mercury kicker.

Terry, our sons, Joey age 6, and Mark age 4, and I were swimming.  We were at anchor, tied to a 24’ cabin cruiser belonging to our friends, John and Diana Long.  The boys were swimming and playing with Diana and their dogs.

We had been there about an hour when a storm warning was broadcast.  I immediately got the boys back in the boat, untied and headed back to Quantico.  I didn’t want anything to do with a thunderstorm on the water.

The Potomac was glassy and flat.  We joked that it was the calm before the storm.  I opened the throttle and we skimmed along at about forty-five miles per hour.  The boys had frequently asked how fast the boat would go, so I seized the moment and showed them.  After a few minutes I slowed back to cruising speed of about twenty-four miles per hour.  I wanted to conserve fuel and avoid frightening the boys.

About 15 minutes south of Quantico it started to rain and hail.  The sky was getting dark, we were not going to beat the storm.  I followed the example of a boat ahead of us and turned east, out of the channel, toward the Maryland shore.

A lot of boats were taking shelter in the same cove, Wades Bay.  It was too crowded for my liking so I went south about a quarter of a mile to avoid the many boats and anchor lines.  I didn’t get a good look at the shore near our position but it looked like red clay bluffs going straight into rocky water…not too hospitable.

About 400 yards from shore I turned west, into a rising wind, and slowly made headway against the waves to maintain control of the boat.  I decided to ride the storm out there.  We were out of options.  It was getting rough so Terry put on a life jacket.  The boys, as always, were wearing theirs.

In retrospect, I should have run the boat up on the beach.

Within a few seconds the wind came up hard, blowing the tops off the waves.  Rain and hail grew intense and the waves began breaking like ocean surf.  The waves quickly rose higher than my head as I stood at the console.  The sky blackened, and lightning began a constant barrage.  Between the flashes, the air was a very dark, thick grey-green.

Visibility dropped to about ten feet.  I could hardly see the bow through the darkness and blowing water.  It was a struggle to keep the boat headed into the waves.  With the roar of the wind, and the constant thunder, we had to shout to be heard.  Somewhere in the course of things Terry handed me a life jacket; I didn’t have time to fasten it.  I could barely see.  Terry gave me some swimming goggles so I could see into the wind.  They blew off.

Terry yelled for me to turn on the bilge pump; it was already on.  She yelled something about bailing.  I looked back and saw the ice chest float out of the back of the swamped boat.  The engine drowned.  We were going over.

I grabbed Mark as a big wave broke over the boat, turning us broadside.  Terry was holding both Joey and Mark and we inadvertently had the upright aluminum support of the Bimini top within our grasp of the boys.  The top was badly wind damaged.

The next wave rolled the boat.  As we went over Terry and I were trying to get the boys out of the boat.  We were concerned that someone would get tangled in the top.  I kept yelling to her that I had Mark; I could see that she had Joey.  She couldn’t hear me.  As the wave turned us over, we went under and down with the boat.  I pulled Mark out of her grasp and to the surface with me.

I was relieved to see that Terry came up with Joey.  Terry was frantic, she thought she had lost Mark.  She almost let go of Joe to go down looking for Mark.

After a brief eternity, Terry saw Mark and I.  Things were happening fast.  I kept yelling “stay with the boat” but it never surfaced.  I swam as hard as I could to get Mark and me over to Terry and Joey.  The storm was violent; I knew if I couldn’t assemble us immediately, I never would.  By the time we were huddled together and rolling under the next wave, I was physically spent.  I desperately needed to rest and regain some strength.

I couldn’t believe the boat was gone.  In retrospect,  we were lucky.  If we had been with it, the waves would probably have thrown several tons of boat and water on top of us.

The speed and violence of the storm was astounding.  I believe only two to three minutes elapsed from the time the rain began, until the boat went over.  I was exhausted; Mark and I were in real danger of drowning.

Terry and the boys had their lifejackets on securely but mine was not fastened.  I was holding onto the belt of Joey’s life jacket with one hand and Terry with the other.  Terry was holding onto the boys.  Mark was holding my face against his chest with his legs under my arms.  His feet were pushing my life jacket behind me, which negated much of the vest’s floatation.  Luckily, he had on a new life jacket that was designed to hold children that were fifty pounds heavier that he weighed; that helped a lot.  The waves grew larger and kept breaking over us.  We were under water most of the time.

Mark was taking on a lot of water and I was having trouble getting air.  We were huddled together, which gave us some added buoyancy.  I wanted to let go of everyone and try to fasten my vest but I wasn’t sure we could stay together if I did.  I knew that if we gave up, or made a single mistake, we would surely drown.  I needed to conserve strength as much as possible.

A full, six gallon fuel tank; floated within my reach.  It was unorthodox, but offered buoyancy.  I grabbed it and put it under Mark.  With the gas tank supporting him, I was finally able to keep my head out of the water between waves and get enough air.  Later a seat cushion floated by, I caught it and replaced the gas can with it.  Several more life jackets eventually drifted within reach and we retrieved them for extra flotation.  I began to believe that we had a chance of surviving.

As the waves continued to grow and break over us; we held together, and drifted, conserving strength.  I knew that panic would kill us, and kept verbally minimizing our predicament. Terry and the boys held up well.

It was forever before the worst of the storm passed.  Visibility slowly improved.  The waves were still huge, but turned to swells and stopped breaking over us.  At one point I felt something under my feet and thought it was the boat.  Terry felt the same thing, she said it was slimy, maybe an old tree trunk.

As the water calmed, I began to touch the bottom between waves; and was eventually able to walk.  I could barely see the shore through the mist.  I was concerned that the waves would pound us into the rocks and cliff.  Luck was with us, there was a narrow rocky beach between the water and a high vertical bluff.

Terry had lost her glasses and her shoes.  She could neither walk nor see well.  I left Joey with her, walked Mark up to the shore, left him in a safe place and then made the same trip with Joey and Terry.  Our gear littered the shore.  I found the ice chest and a waterproof bag containing dry clothing, and towels.

We bundled up the boys and sat them on the ice chest at the base of the bluff to shelter them from the rain.  I began looking for a way out.  The bluffs were too high to climb with Terry and the boys.  The rocky beach petered out into water against the bluff on both sides of us.  We were not sure what condition the boys were in but they seemed of sound mind and body.  Terry and I were exhausted but ok.

As the storm dissipated, a boat became visible offshore.  I waved the life jackets in hopes of getting their attention.  I thought they didn’t see us.  They did, but their anchor was hung-up in the rocks.  They finally cut the line, picked us up; and took us to Quantico.  They had watched us go down and were determined to find us once the storm passed.

On the way back, Joey and Mark huddled together down in the cabin.  Terry and I sat in the stern savoring the rest and the breeze.  It was over.  We had survived.

It was a miracle.  The magnitude of the storm was apparent everywhere.  Two of the large motor boats that had been anchored in Wades Bay, about fifty feet and sixty-five feet in length respectively; had been blown up on the beach about a mile from where we wrecked.  It looked like their bottoms were badly damaged and they were a remarkable distance from the water’s edge.

When we arrived at the Quantico Marina, it was a mess.  We learned that many boats on the Potomac River and Chesapeake Bay were capsized and a lot more were damaged.  The staff told us the storm winds at the Marina blew between 50 and 80 miles per hour.  The Harbor Master opined this was one of the worst storms he had ever seen at Quantico.

It seemed like years since we had left Fairview Beach.  John and Diana’s boat was not in their slip.  We had lost our keys and waited for them in hopes they were ok and could take us home.  I wondered if they were in trouble and had not been as lucky as we were.   Finally, I saw them coming up-river.  John was hunched over the wheel and looked like hell.  Diana was sitting behind him looking dazed.  They too, had been through an ordeal.

John had big rope burns on both of his hands, a finger that looked broken and ribs he thought were broken.  He had been standing halfway out of the bow hatch trying to set the anchor when it hit.  He held on, half out of the hatch, through much of the storm; wrapped in the anchor line.  Diana was shaken but ok.

Diana took Terry and the boys home.  John took me back to look for the boat.  As we approached Wades Bay we could see there were several boats.   The Maryland Natural Resource Police, Coast Guard and a Virginia Game Warden near where we had wrecked.  I could hear them on the radio saying that they had just righted a boat and had not found the bodies.  I got on the radio and let them know it was my boat and that I was inbound to their position.

One of the Maryland State Officers brought his boat alongside and took me aboard.  John went back to Quantico to tend to his boat and wait for me.  The Officers were ecstatic to learn that we had all survived.  They had found children’s clothes, my wallet, keys,  FBI Credentials and revolver.  With the wrecked boat and gear scattered along a half-mile of shoreline; they believed we were probably drowned.

The boat was badly damaged.  The hull was repairable but the railing, console, engines and electronics were destroyed.

The Officers were great and could not do enough.  They retrieved the boat from the Coast Guard, which was already towing it away.  Several of them waded along the shore with me and helped salvage our scattered gear.  We recovered very nearly everything.

They towed the boat back to Quantico; where we could fill out the accident reports.  John was waiting at the Harbor Master’s office.  It took about an hour to finish the reports.  I thought John was going to get sick when I told the Officer that I had no casualty insurance on the boat.

When we were finished, the Officer volunteered to tow the boat around the point, to the boat ramp, where my pickup was parked.  Diana had returned with some dry clothes for me.  John and Diana drove my truck and boat trailer to the ramp.

I rode in the boat, to steer it back to the ramp.  It was full of water and riding low.  I found myself relishing a cool, calm evening.  The sunset was beautiful and the world was at peace.  I couldn’t believe we had survived.

Neither Terry nor I slept that night.  We held onto the boys and each other for weeks; giving thanks for our survival.

To this day, we still savor the little things, the family things; that are so easily taken for granted.

“Technology” is the word of our era.  We rarely read a newspaper, magazine or watch a newscast without being bombarded with the word.  Future academics will probably refer to this period of earth’s development as the ‘Technologic Epoch.’  It will be identified by archaeologists as a thick band of plastic and other toxic waste clearly visible in the strata of the earth.

The philosophical controversy as to whether technology betters or worsens the human condition, intrigues me.  There are any number of causes that favor a simple existence.  Many of them are indicted, quite ignorantly, in the press as anti-technology.

It is not uncommon to hear the assertion that much of humanity is technophobic.  Just because a culture embraces certain technologies and rejects others does not mean they prefer to live without technology.

The Amish come to mind.  The height of modern technology, for them, is focused in the agrarian era.  Despite their resistance to “English,” ways, their hand tools, buggies, and construction techniques are the acme of pre-industrial technology.  They have even improved their technologies with modern materials.  We outsiders ignorantly label them technophobes; they have simply embraced a level of technology that suits them, and might well enable them to survive the rest of us.

Then there is the fringe.  Take the example of Theodore Kaczynsky, a.k.a. the “Unibomber.”  He railed against industrialism, modern technology, and God knows who and what else.  Yet he embraced the highly technological manual typewriter to write his manifesto.  He also developed his own sophisticated technology for making improvised anti-personnel explosive devices. Technological serial homicide in defiance of technology.  He was a psychopath camouflaged as a technophobe.

Most of humanity craves the luxuries technology provides.  Safe, fresh food; clean water; shelter; health care and medicine; efficient transportation; and entertainment.  What’s not to like?  None the less, we go too far in our expectations and applications of technology.  Two of humanity’s primary attributes are addiction and excess.

Mankind developed an appetite for technology with the stone age.  We define rudimentary intelligence as the ability to identify problems and make tools to solve those problems.  The fact that new technologies often manifest themselves as weapons has added an evolutionary imperative to the equation.  Cultures who embrace cutting edge technologies often use them first to make weapons.  Stone slings, bronze and iron swords eventually evolved into nuclear weapons.

A healthy skepticism of technology is a good thing.  We have all come to learn that there is a lot of ‘bad science’ asserted to sell us stuff or beliefs.  Pure research is almost a thing of the past, if it ever existed.  Universities depend on grants to fund research.  We are bombarded with conflicting research conclusions.  The health benefits of caffeine and coffee are a case in point.  The coffee drinking public has developed whiplash trying to keep up with the latest academic verdict as to whether coffee is harmful or not.  The public is not stupid.  We have learned to ascertain who funded the study.

Big Pharma invested billions in cholesterol reducing drugs.  After they found drugs to do the trick, they funded studies that concluded previously established cholesterol levels were too high.  What was a normal level for an adult in the 1980’s is now considered at risk of death or stroke if we do not medicate ourselves to levels unattainable without drugs.

What about the controversy over healthy food?  Vitamins?  Obesity?  There are privately funded university studies that support damn near anything, as long as the money is there.  How much money did the tobacco industry spend in the 20th century trying to convince us that smoking was not harmful?

Technology is not a deity, though we tend to regard it as such.  It is a human endeavor and is subject to all of the fallibilities of human behavior.  We should assess it with healthy level of skepticism as we embrace our personal computers, tablets, and smart phones.

I love pickup trucks.  They have personality, attitude and are a hell of a lot more loyal than a horse!  Most vehicles convey the personality of their owner; pickups also have their own individual nature.  I’ve never met one that I didn’t like.  Trucks I thought I didn’t like, were actually a reflection of my regard for their owner.

You learn a lot about a guy, or gal, when you look at their pickup; beginning with the fact that they actually drive one.  Some people baby their trucks and lavish them with gifts.  Others neglect them, never clean them or change the oil, beat them up; and are rewarded with loyalty they do not deserve.

I’m not much for bumper stickers but one of my favorites says “Silly Boys, trucks are for girls.”  When I met my wife, she had an old rusted-out International Harvester that she took away from her dad.  We sold it for almost nothing when we moved from California to Tennessee.  She still pines for “Old Red.”

I learned to drive at age 9, on my Dad’s 1954 Willys Pickup.  It was a 4 cylinder, 4WD with a three speed stick-shift.  It was worn out when he bought it circa1961 and was not reliable.  It never left us stranded but we limped in on baling wire more than once.  If duct tape had been around then we probably would have kept it running a couple of years longer.  I have missed it every day since Dad got rid of it.

My first pickup was a 1952 International Harvester long bed.  It had a flat six and a four speed transmission.  I bought it in 1976 from my childhood neighbor, George Kirov; he was too old to drive and it had not been driven for a long time.  He probably bought it surplus from the Forest Service in the mid ’50’s.  It was brush-painted Forest Service Green.  I put in a new 6 volt battery and away it went.  Had to replace all the belts, hoses and tires before I took it out of town.  It was a great truck.  Top speed was about 50 and the windows were so sand pitted that you could barely see when the sun was wrong.  The brakes were good, as long as you had a ton or less of cargo, usually firewood.  The engine and transmission were bullet-proof.  In a moment of weakness, I gave it to my brother David.  He PROVED it was bullet-proof and I never forgave him for it.  That’s another story for another day.

Some people accessorize and pamper their trucks like rich men pamper their daughters.  Others never change the oil and drive them into the ground.  I guess I am somewhere in the mid-range.  My sons would say that I am a bit obsessive with maintenance.  Tires are my biggest concern; then general cleanliness.  My truck doesn’t have to be spotless but it needs to be reasonably clean.  They aren’t waste baskets or storage units.

I had a new tire, on a new vehicle, blow out at a very in-opportune time.  Left front tire was a 2 ply nylon rated at 4ply.  Had about 400 miles on the tire when it blew.  I spun through the median and three lanes of heavy traffic without hitting anything or rolling.  Pucker factor 9.  I have driven steel belted radials, preferably Michelin, since.  I replace them about 5000 miles before they are technically worn out.  No re-caps.  Haven’t had a tire problem, other than road hazards, since.

No single truck-bed configuration is optimal.  Ladder racks, caps, campers, headache racks, tonneau covers or stock; they all have their advantages and limitations as to what you can do. I would lean to a “swiss army” configuration if I could.  However, I have to consider how it looks to the neighbors and my wife.

Outfitting is critical.  A basic set of tools, a good jack, tow chain, tire chains, shovel and ice scraper are the minimum.  I generally add another 800 lbs. of supplemental gear as dictated by my destination.  I rarely need the stuff, but when shit happens… I’m ready.  When I really get serious, I add a chain saw and a torch to the kit; along with three days food and water.

The simple pleasures of life are the sweetest.  One of my favorite things is to load up the truck on an early morning with the dog, grand-dog, and my wife; we go to McDonalds for coffee and sausage biscuits.