The low rumble of the plane's engine filled my ears, overpowering every other sound. Just as well, the crew and I weren't going to speak much anyway. They sat around me in the small space behind the cockpit of the plane, all sixteen of us crammed in like sardines. We didn't make eye contact, choosing instead to stare unseeingly at the inside of the plane while we explored other scenes in our minds, preparing for the long hours that stretched before us.

My watch read eight after three when I glanced at it. The sun hung high in the hazy blue sky, emitting heat at a ferocious level. I swore I could feel the rays sear through my gear, hearth-scorched arrows piercing the jump suit. I tugged uncomfortably at the sweat-drenched collar of my cotton shirt beneath, knowing that my day was only going to get hotter.

The smoke jumper base in Missoula had received the call a little before two, alerting us of a fire in the Gates of the Mountains, twenty-five miles from Helena, and, like an anthill surging to life, we had all scurried to the plane, a C-47 retired from the Second World War four years back. The little “Gooney Bird” was ideal for the transport of cargo and troops, so it worked perfectly for flying smoke jumpers and equipment to fires. As the report came in, I listened to the details with a sharp mind, as was my job as foreman. A flash of lightning had struck an old snag, sparking a fire quickly in the brittle, parched forest. The wind was manageable, however, encouraging the fire forward at a slow, predictable rate.

It sounded to me like a ten-o-clock fire, the sort where we jumped, dug, controlled, and headed back home all before ten the next morning. So, an easy fire. The boys seemed to agree, judging by the confident, almost cocky set of their bodies. I, too, was fairly relaxed. Years of smoke jumping had trained in me a calm head borne of experience that the other jumpers couldn't claim. For most of them, this was their third or second fire – for a couple, it was their first. They were the ones who appeared anxious, their muscles tensed, their heads between their knees, cracking their knuckles nervously.

I couldn't blame them. They were young and hotheaded and foolish, boys hungry for the right to be called men. Most of them were in their early twenties. Hell, a couple of these kids were just nineteen, and I knew there to be a seventeen year old, too, a stocky fellow from Willow Creek, Montana. His name was Sallee, I think, though I really don't know these guys. I had missed the three-week training course prior to the fire season. As the oldest one here, though, with thirty-three years and the longest career with the smoke jumpers, I knew I could lead the crew just fine. Plus, I had Hellman, my second-in-command, who had trained with them. The boys knew him, and he knew me.

The plane shuddered beneath us, a sudden jolt that sent a queasy thrill through my belly, the feeling you get when you miss a step and the ground lurches beneath you. I dismissed the movement easily; we were entering the canyon, now, and the air was strange from the rolling water of the Missouri River beneath us and the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. The others tensed, however, less sure of the turbulence. Then I heard retching noises and, twisting around to check behind me, I watched one of the jumpers hurl, his mess splattering across his lap.

“Hey!” I hollered above the hurricane of the engine. The young man looked up at me, his pale face wet with tears and snot. “You aren't jumping, understand?” The young man nodded, clutching at his belly.

I shot him an empathetic look. Smoke jumping wasn't for every man. I had probably been nervous on my first fire, but in the years since I had only felt excitement, passion. I loved this, the thrill of adrenaline that coursed through my body when I stood on ground licked by flame, felt the heat of the inferno just yards away, heard the song of the fire, the melody of pops and cracks harmonized by the low roar of the greater beast.

I respect fire, though. I understand how it moves, its lunges and crouches, its growls and purrs. I know how to handle the heat.

Of course, I had made a career of this. The other boys, they were here for the summer to save up money for college or a down payment on a chunk of land. Others were recovering form The War, trying to find themselves again after the hell of the trenches and tanks and bullets. I guess some of them just needed to feel control, and fencing in fires was as good a way as any.

“We're approaching the fire.” The pilot's voice suddenly crackled over the radio. “I'm circling, now. Dodge, Cooley, lemme know where you want down.”

I made eye contact with the man beside me, Earl Cooley, my spotter who would help me decide where we would land, and we both turned to peer out of the square windows of the plane.

We were flying north, following the current of the river. To our left rose a series of three mountains, with deep pockets between them. The central pocket was Mann Gulch and the farthest pocket was Meriwether Canyon, named by Meriwether Lewis when he and Clark passed through here on their journey through the Rockies. The fire crouched upon the top of the central ridge between the two pockets. I estimated it was around fifty or so acres, and fairly sleepy. Should be easy, I thought.

I turned to Cooley. We deliberated for a few moments, taking into account the southwesterly wind, the steep terrain, and, of course, the availability of the sky – for both the plane, and us as we parachuted. We didn't want to jump out over a bunch of trees just to get tangled and stuck. Upon deciding our landing site, I radioed the pilot and the C-47 angled toward the eastern end of Mann Gulch, about a quarter-mile from the fire. I then turned to my crew and signaled and we all rose to our feet, taking a moment to shake the stiffness from our muscles after the forty-five minute flight. We checked our gear one last time. Cooley shoved the door open; hot wind rushed into the plane, whipping at our hair and suits. The air in the plane crackled with anxiety, trepidation, excitement, and anticipation as the crew waited for my next signal. I scanned the ground beneath me, waiting for the right moment to start sending the young men down. Then –

“Now!” I shouted, clapping the first jumper in line on the shoulder as he stepped into the sky. I waited a second, then sent the next, then the next. Had I been able to look behind the plane, I would have seen a wake of white jellyfish descending from the sky as parachutes snapped open in sudden bursts.

At last, it was my turn. My belly rolled with excitement, but my hands were steady and my head cool as I pitched myself out of the plane. The sky whistled past me as I plunged toward the earth. It was easy to become drunk on this feeling, the pure adrenaline that coursed through my body like heroin. But I pulled the ripcord on my parachute, instantly slowing my descent. This – this was my second favorite part of smoke jumping, the view as I drifted to the ground. Thanks to the wind, the smoke was blowing away from us. I could see the entire canyon, a unique, breathtaking view only fifteen of us were honored with seeing.

The ground rose swiftly to greet me; I tucked my body and rolled to soften the impact, though I couldn't do anything to avoid the cuts from the sharp rocks and dry grass. I unclipped from the parachute and stripped out of my jump suit, nearly gasping with relief as fresh air enveloped my sweat-drenched body, working to dry my clothes. I took a moment to breathe and calm my heart after the jump before collecting my suit and parachute and hiking down to the rest of the crew.

A chorus of shouts, laughter, and jeering caught my attention as I approached. I squinted through the sun and saw a commotion at the foot of a tall pine. It was my crew, clustered around the base of the tree, pointing and poking at the parachute caught in it.

Suppressing a sigh, I strode over to the tree. It was the boy, Sallee. He hung from the tree, only a few feet up, wriggling and squirming like a hatching cocoon.

“Sallee! Grab onto the tree and unclip yourself,” I hollered up to him. “Then shimmy your way down.”


The boy did as I ordered, stumbling into the hands of his crew mates as he left the tree, smiling with embarrassment, his face shining red.

Content that he was fine, I turned away from the scene and watched as a handful of smaller parachutes dropped from the sky. They carried our cargo, our equipment and food. I called to the crew and we scattered about the hillside to gather it. I kept my eye out for the radio, needing to report to the base and the plane that we had all landed. I found it after a few minutes, shattered across a rock, its parachute unopened.

“Dammit!” I swore between clenched teeth, staring down at the broken pieces of metal and plastic that had held the world. Without that radio, we had no way of communicating with anyone. I sucked in a deep breath, forcing the radio-problem to the back of my mind, knowing there was nothing that could be done.

I returned to my crew. They had all stripped from their jump suits also and sat amidst the cargo, drinking from their canteens and tearing open into the food packets. We ate quickly on the hillside, analyzing the scene before us.

We sat in the tail of the gulch, the snake body stretching southwest toward the Missouri River, corralled on both sides by the two mountains. A quarter-mile down on our left, the southern ridge, we could barely make out the orange shimmer of the fire at the crown of the ridge. More obvious was the brown smoke that huffed into the blue-jay sky above the shimmer.

I considered our options, working to formulate a plan. The fire's southern flank was bordered by the Missouri River, so we didn't need to concern ourselves with it. Its other three sides were free to devour the dry grass and forest, but the eastern side was moving more slowly, held back by the southwestern wind and the rockier terrain. The western side, however, had nothing to stop it from rolling down the grassier ravine and into Mann Gulch. I knew we needed to prioritize that flank and focus on digging a trench into the eastern ravine.

I lifted my watch for the time: five o'clock. I figured it was time to get moving. I motioned for the crew to pack up. They obliged, lifting themselves to their feet, scooping up their gear, the shovels, picks, and axes, and assembling themselves around me for the debrief.

“We're going to hike down the gulch, on the slope of the fire,” I informed them. “We'll work back the way we came to contain the fire. We should have this thing nipped by tomorrow morning. Let's go!”

I turned toward the fire and started down the gulch. Behind me, I heard the crew's chatter as they fell into a line behind me. I stayed quiet, my mind focused on the job. Besides, I wasn't much of a talker, anyhow. My wife has a word for me: reticent. She doesn't mind it, though. In fact, I'm sure she appreciates my silence in a time or two. But I can tell it troubles the crew, not knowing me or how to talk to me. However, I don't think I need them to know how to talk to me. They just need to know how to follow me. And they seem to do a good job of it, I thought, glancing back behind me at the bobbing line of smoke jumpers.

The sound of the fire grew as we continued toward it, steadily covering the quarter-mile of rough terrain. I noticed the sound of the wind also grew. It was picking up.

Concerned, I broke into a trot, leaving the crew behind. I needed to scout ahead. To my dismay, the fire was creeping down the slope in front of us, urged forward by the wind. I doubled back, quickly returning to the young men behind me.

“We need to cross over to the other slope,” I yelled down the line. “The fire is coming down this slope. I want the river at our back when we fight, so we need to skirt around this bit that's growing on us.”

Heads nodded in agreement with my words. The smoke jumpers quickly redirected their course, sliding down the hill to the bottom, where the ground was momentarily flat before it scooped back up into the other slope. The incline wasn't terribly steep, but still had us breathing heavily after a few moments. We were all fit, though, and I reckoned we could take a moment to rest a moment when we reached the mouth of the ravine and had the river hugging our backsides.

Suddenly, a sharp draft of wind surged down on top of us. I glanced up at the fire and watched in alarm as the wind picked it up and carried it across the ravine, forming a crouching monster between us and the river. Famished flames bit at the trees and dry grass only yards in front of us, tearing at the branches with scarlet and orange teeth. Then the wind tickled the gulch again, and the fire exploded, lunging toward us.

“Back!” I shouted, motioning fiercely with my hands. “Go back! Up this slope!”

Flashes of frightened faces whipped across my vision as my crew realized the danger of the situation and hurried to follow my orders. They scrambled up the hillside, clawing at the ground to aid their climb. I rushed past them, desperately trying to get in front of them so I could lead them. They followed – too slow. They were weighed down by their equipment, easily an additional fifty pounds to each young man.

Behind us, the fire cracked and popped, spitting boiling tree sap. The intense heat scorched at our skin, a hundred times worse than the sun. The air was paper in our dry mouths. We had to move faster.

“Drop your gear!” I screamed, tossing mine to the baked ground, but none of the jumpers released their equipment. I cursed. Of course they wouldn't; they were trained never to do so. Even if it would save their lives, they would follow this order that had been drilled into them.

I looked past my crew struggling behind me to the fire. It was a solid wall of swirling red and orange and yellow, a spectacular display of color that put Montana sunsets to shame. The sound was deafening, an unceasing cacophony of wails and snarls and roars and shrieks and screams. And the heat. It evaporated the flood of sweat on my skin, seeped into my body, boiled the marrow in my bones. The fire was leaping at us, thirsty with the desire to embrace us in its claws.

We were all going to die, unless I did something, and quickly.

Forcing aside the terror that threatened to overwhelm me, I gazed into the flames and emptied my mind, knowing I had to trust my instinct. I reached into my pocket and ripped out the matchbook. With swift fingers, I snapped off a match and struck it against the box. A tiny flame, tame and harmless and peaceful compared to the Devil inferno before me, sprung to life. Calmly, I dropped the match into the tinder at my feet.

It grew shyly at first, then grew more greedy and picked up size. I watched it burn away from me, leaving a blackened wake devoid of fuel. I stepped into this wasteland.

“Get in here! Lie in the ash!” I screamed, waving my arms at the others. They looked at me, their faces obscured by terror and disbelief. But they rushed past me, disobeying my final order, and I realized, they had been well-trained. But not to me.

“Come on!” I reached out in desperation and grabbed one of the jumpers as he scrambled past me, tried to pull him into the small circle of cleared ground with me.

“To hell with that!” he shouted, shoving me away. “I'm getting outta here!”

He rushed away, abruptly disappearing in the thick, pungent smoke that billowed past. I tore a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it to my face as I threw myself to the black ground. I squeezed my stinging eyes shut as the roar of the fire grew impossibly greater, as the terrible heat filled my world, as the darkness collapsed in on me even as everything around me was filled with the cruel light of the inferno...


I respect fire. I understand how it moves, its lunges and crouches, its growls and purrs. I know how to handle the heat.

This wasn't fire. This was a demon, with a will that doesn't follow our understood rules of fire. Fire doesn't jump across ravines. It doesn't explode before us in seconds.

At least, it didn't.

But yesterday, I encountered something I've never seen in my nine years as a smoke jumper. I saw the true side of fire, the side our science has never studied, the side we, as smoke jumpers, have never before prepared to fight.

Yesterday, I lifted my face out of the ashes and looked at an unfamiliar world. A world that was colorless and desolate, where it had been red and alive only moments before. I pushed myself to my feet and forced myself to climb the ravine, to find my boys. And, through the evening, I did. Thirteen bodies, scattered across the slope. Two still held life when I found them, one of them being my second-in-command, Hellman; they were airlifted to the hospital in Helena. That life abandoned them around noon.

I walked away unscathed, along with only two others - that kid Sallee, who lit himself in a tree when we landed, and his buddy Rumsey. They had been able to make it over the ridge to crouch in a rockslide. They had been the first to see Hellman, when he staggered over the ridge, horribly burned and reeking of singed flesh. I found those three next. It's been almost twenty-four hours, but I still have that image scored into my mind. All of the other images, too. I think I know how war veterans feel coming home, now.

I glanced down at the cigar in my hands. Its bitter taste lingers in my mouth, but I'm happy to have any other taste on my tongue than ash and bile and the numbness that has taken up residence inside me.