FLATHEAD MATCHHEAD
Written and Illustrated by Karan Mummigatti
For my dad,
who still floats somewhere in my dreams.
Sometimes I stare up at the still dark over my bed and will for it to stir. If not to make my heart race, then to assure myself that what happened all those years ago was as real as the sheets that soak the trickles of sweat off my back.
Here’s the deal Laura, the Mt. Baptiste fire was strange from the start. To this day, it warps the results of all official fire research and reports because of all the anomalies. I know you have an idea of what happened because of the papers but let me tell you what I know about it. I know you’ve never liked me talking about work, but if you want me to move on, then this time you’ve got to listen.
It’s been years since I’ve seen you, talked to you, run fingers through your hair. I’m still reeling from 2012, still reeling from, well—everything. I don’t have answers, well, maybe I do. Maybe they’re all neatly tucked up under sheets I don’t want to pull back. Truth is, I’m tired of waiting. You told me to wait and I did, but I feel what you didn’t have the heart to say was ‘move on’. So, I’m taking your advice, I’m going to try and move on. But to do that, I need to talk about Flathead. That’s what this is about, that’s what finally got me from sweating and tossing in bed to my laptop to write this, to tell you everything, to move on. And, since it was your unspoken wish, I think you owe me about twenty minutes of your time. So, here we go.
Moving on.
October of 2012, we were cruising at 1500 feet, circling the smoke on the west side of Mt. Baptiste at Flathead National Forest. The fire could still be contained, no spread to the trees, yet. It was burning Sage brush and dead mass in the clearing. We needed to get down there and do it quick, because once the fire reached the trees this became an entirely different situation. A fire pit around the burning perimeter meant all the difference to a smoke jumper. It meant we contained the blaze, saved the forest, and no lives were lost. End of the day, that’s what we wanted. Yeah, we’re thrill seekers, maybe have a little too much adrenaline pumping through us, but our basic motive is that—do good by the things we love.
The DC3 twin engines whir, as Scott brings it in for a second round of the fire. Scott’s a great pilot; he’s been with the Missoula Smoke Jumpers for two decades and, with his skill, he’ll probably stick around for two more. The guy’s a freaking maniac on the ground. I know rookies who were scared to get on a plane with him. My first time before we took off he turned, looked me right in the eye, and said “Don’t worry kid, every foot we climb brings us closer to God”. He ended that with a wink and that Jack Nicholson smile of his. My hair must have turned color—probably the first in the skunk like streak that has brought me this little touch of fame. But Scott’s transformation when he takes the controls of the plane is like Hyde turning back into Jekyll. He trades in his bounce-off-the-wall attitude for the focus and poise that earned him his reputation as an ace pilot in the Navy. You could hang out the door when Scott circled the plane at 1500 feet. And Hawk was doing just that. You know Hawk but allow me to tell you about George ‘Hawk’ Gordan. This guy was a Class A Spotter. A spotter’s the man who surveys the afflicted area, checking for wind speeds, surveying the terrain, looking for spots where the jumpers can land. You do not jump until the spotter has given you the go ahead, every jumper knows that, and every jumper needs to have that immense faith in their spotter. You need to know this.
Scott and Hawk started together, even came over from the same naval base. Hawk completed 233 successful jumps and was then promoted to Spotter. He was one of the few full-time employees of the Missoula Smoke Jumping base. When fire season had passed, he surveyed hotshot applications for potential recruits, ordered supplies and oversaw equipment repairs—all in preparation for the next season. His eyes never missed a thing. Save for the Mann Gulch fire and what happened at Flathead, smoke jumping does not get a ton of press –you know that because I’ve brought it up every time we fought about what I did. Still, under Hawk’s watch even injuries had dropped.
You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. Well, it’s because Scott and Hawk were with me when I jumped into the fire at Mt. Baptiste in Flathead. I’m here, as living proof, to tell you that sometimes you can have the best crew, all the equipment, what seems like a minor fire, and still things can change—just like that. That’s Jumper occupational hazard. That’s the nature of a forest fire.
As you know, when news of the fire broke, I was at the Missoula base with Jim Harp and Brian Crease. Jim and I started together, we were into our fourth season, and Brian was a rookie. All three of us came off my Hotshot crew outside Helena. That’s how it usually worked, you started off working in the Hotshot crew putting out fires on the fringes of urban life, then you put in for a smoke jumper and parachute into the heart of blazes for damage control. On October 21st, 2012, three of us were getting ready for a day of repairs and base maintenance. Fires in October are rare. Most of the Missoula jumpers had been shipped off to New York to fight a Cedar bug infestation.
That morning, when the bells went off, Harp, Brian, and I, were on the top of the jump list. At first, I thought it was a mistake—the alarm set off by accident, someone pushed the button by mistake, but Hawk’s face cleared that right up. The fire was real—minor—but real. We were ordered to suit up, pack the regulation gear, and head to the North tarmac. I swear Laura, I had a funny feeling about it from the start. Looking back, I think everyone did. We prepped in silence, I have never been in combat, but it felt like we were getting ready to run out of the trenches. In a sense, we were.
On the tarmac, Scott stood by his 7-ton baby, the Douglas DC-3TP, what we called DOUG. He was smoking a cigarette and looking out North. He looked haunted. His eyes were distant, as if he saw past the miles of pines and mountains to the fire. I guess that was the second sign that something was wrong, ‘Ground Scott’ did not say a word.
It was a small group, just the three of us, Hawk, and Scott. Our orders were to aid and drop supplies to the Jumpers who were already at the fire. Hawk walked us through it; a smoke jumper mission from McCall was deployed earlier to snuff a small fire in Flathead National Park (strange right? Why didn’t they just call us, we were much closer). The intel was spotty (weird again), and the Jumpers found that they were short in man power and supplies, we were to fill that gap. Climbing into the air, I tried to shake my nerves, ‘just a support job, that’s all’ I reassured myself, silently. The season was at an end and I just wanted to wrap it up and get back home, get back home to you. I know the strain fire season took on us, you thought I didn’t, but I did. I loved you Laura, but I also loved my job. I loved what I did. It’s not about chasing a death wish, or jumping into “blazing infernos”. Smoke Jumping is about damage control, its time sensitive. An hour delay could mean the difference between a fire and a conflagration. That’s why it is crucial that we are always on hand and ready to go. If that meant me being away, and my wife getting lonely for four months—so be it. Don’t get mad, I’m just getting it all out.
DOUG rose to 1500 feet, and nerves or not, we were doing this. My dread built as the ground dropped away and I tried to lighten the mood. Harp began telling us how he was getting jerked around by this guy on e-bay for a comic book he was trying to buy.
“Guy wants seven hundred bucks for a signed copy of The Killing Joke. He won’t send me a picture of it or tell me when he got Alan Moore to sign it.”
“Seven hundred bucks on a comic book? That’s an obvious choice Harp, even for you.” I loved busting on Harp, “Why’re you still talking to this guy?”
Harp shook his head, “It’s a signed copy of The Killing Joke dude, Alan Moore man! I wouldn’t spare two minutes for this joker, but I want this, and he’s got a decent sellers rating.”
“You can buy that, you know?” Brian pitched in, and I could see the cloud come over Harp’s face.
“You can?”
“Yeah, totally. There are companies out there that can help with your social media profiles, make you popular, get rid of all the negative reviews. There’s a business about making yourself look good on the internet.”
“What the hell? Used to be, you made yourself look good by doing good. Where’s the integrity anymore?”
“Fire.” Hawk cried from the door, and we all looked out the window.
The plume of smoke rose about three miles to the right of the plane. It looked meek, the burn was surrounded by woods, meaning the fire had started in a clearing, lightning probably struck a dead larch tree. Problem was, the clearing was riddled with Sage Brush which was the perfect kindling, but if we could get down there and dig a fire pit around the area to keep the fire from the trees, we would be okay.
“Terrain’s not too bad.” Hawk shouted. Scott took DOUG closer and began to circle the area. Hawk grabbed the streamers and dropped them from the plane. As they fell, he dropped to his belly and watched them till they hit the ground. “Wind’s blowing south, not too strong. “Let’s get ‘em a little closer Scott.” The plane lifted and tilted. Harp and Brian started to get their helmets on, but I was staring at the smoke. It did not look like wildfire smoke. It was thicker, darker—looked closer to a tire fire. There was something else, but I couldn’t figure out what. Hawk was telling me something. I jerked out of my head and listened. “Play it safe and go for the timbers” He said, “There isn’t a clearing for miles, and we need to get down there as soon as we can. Those are Ponderosas skirting the fire.”
I looked out the window, he was right. Ponderosas surrounded the burning clearing and they lit like candles. They would turn this into a crown fire. The plane circled until Hawk was satisfied enough to call me up. I patted myself down, did a final mental check, and went up to the door. I got in position and waited.
I remember when I stuck my legs out of the plane on my first jump, my nerves were electric, my heart was in my mouth. I wanted to scream and just go. It had taken all my training to keep me on the plane. Now, that old urge returned. ‘Steady’, I told myself. Feel the wind, study the terrain, mark your landing, and focus on it. Hawk waited, I’m not sure for what. He seemed hesitant, and to this day, I don’t know what his eyes spotted in the burning clearing. Finally, he nodded, patted me on the back, and I dropped. Here is the strange thing, and maybe you will think I am writing this in hindsight, I’ll have to let you judge. But, on my honor, as soon as I jumped off that plane, my gut panged, and I knew I’d never see Hawk again.
The air at that altitude is sharp. It parts your face and sets it back in place at the same time. Despite the visor, my eyes watered as I cut through the air. I always wondered how weighed down I must be to fall with such force. I hoped for a smooth deployment. Bad deployments happen, sometimes the chute lines get tangled and leave us spiraling to the ground. Sometimes they just deploy wrong and the jerk is strong enough to give you a concussion. I have never used the back-up chute clasped to my chest and I did not want to start today. I pulled the chute and it sprung out itching to escape its confines. The lines went taut, and the red, white and blue chute spread above me, good deployment. I grabbed the control lines and gauged my position. I was probably about 800 feet off the ground and a half mile away from the fire. Everything was smooth, I just had to maneuver to a tree close to the fire and join the ground team. I prepped myself, going through the motions: land on a tree, use the safety line to get down and pack the chute (if it’s not too damaged). I believe I got that far when the first explosion ripped through the air.
One second, the fire was tame, a thin plume of smoke rising into the sky, the next, something in the effect of a tanker explosion, sending out a shock wave that shook the trees and hurled my chute back. There was a force in that shock wave, Laura, when it hit my brain flared, felt like I ate a spoonful of wasabi.
The explosion changed everything—the wind switched direction, the ponderosas burned and swayed towards their unlit kin, and I found myself being pulled right into the fire. I was about a half mile away, again, but with the wind strength, I would be at the fringes of the fire in about thirty seconds. Here, I got my first lung full of the blaze’s stench. Like most fires, it was thick, noxious, and over powering. I am guessing what I inhaled was a good deal of Carbon and Nitrogen oxides. But, oddly, there was also a tinge of chill to this one, like holding one of those Vicks VapoRub bottles to your nose. My brain flared again but I fought it. The blaze was now a quarter mile away. It had spread and grown, angry yellow tongues shot up into the air and engulfed more ponderosas. I feared for the ground crew, their proximity to the explosion could have been fatal. Gritting teeth, I struggled to decrease altitude in an attempt to grab onto a tree. I tugged at the chute and sunk a little. My boots grazed the tips of a Douglas Fir. The wind pulled me closer and I could feel the scalding. If I didn’t cut the chute then I would be pulled right into the heart, but I had to time it just right. The wind had picked me up again, so I tugged down harder and harder until my boots struck the apex of the trees. I saw my chance in a tall Douglas Fir. It was about twenty feet ahead of me—at the current rate—I would be there in about three seconds. I counted, one, two, three, and hit the detach button on the shoot. Red, white and blue rose and I plummeted through the tree, my legs hit the branches and the tree fed me pine needles. Training kicked in, I kept my hands steady, allowing the tree to break my fall before grabbing on to something. About twenty-five feet down, I managed to get a grip on a broad branch. Pain slivers shot through my shoulders but did not fray my grip. I rested my feet on a branch below me and dug my head into the tree trunk.
I reached for my safety line, tucked into a pocket by my left shin. I pulled it out, let the bottom drop, and tied the top to the Fir. The fire was close, I could hear the sharp crackle and the underlying roar. I looked up to see if I could see Harp or Brian. I spotted a chute off hovering high up in the distance, but I couldn’t tell who it was. My safety line secure, I made my way down. The line ended about ten feet of the ground and I dropped the rest of the way into a bed of brown pine needles. ‘Kindling’ popped into my head as I stood and brushed them off. Catching my breath, I looked up again, trying to spot the red chute that Scott and Hawk should have dropped. The chute would bring down the polaskis, fuses, chainsaws and gear we would need to battle the fire; although, at this point, we would need more than polaskis. What we did need—and the drop would have—was the pump and hoses. If I had my bearings right, Horsehead reservoir was close. I gave myself the pep talk: go up to the fire, rendezvous with ground crew, find the drop, get the pump and hoses, beat the blaze, make it down to Horsehead and keep this thing at bay.
Go.
I ran up the terrain, past cedars, firs, up a rocky knoll and down the other side. Along the way woodland critters ran past me. I remember seeing a black bear. I put my hand down and felt his thick, matted fur brush my palm as it ran past me. I could see the fire, a black silhouette was hunched forward and walking backwards. I pumped my legs and ran.
Diego was doing his best to get Harry away from the fire. I grabbed Harry’s feet and put some distance from the flaring wall of yellow and orange. Diego looked like he had walked through coal dust. Harry was unconscious and unresponsive, but alive.
“We gotta get him outta here.” Diego shouted.
“What happened?”
“It just exploded.” He shook his head. “This ain’t just a blaze, there’s something in there?”
“What?”
“Somethin’ big, didn’t you see the explosion?”
“I didn’t see anything in the fire.”
“We didn’t either. But the way the flames were burning, it was like they were burning around something, something solid, but there was nothing there.”
Those were his words Laura, he was on the ground when it happened, first hand witness.
“That doesn’t sound right.” I shouted.
“I know. We were digging a trench around the area, making sure the fire doesn’t go anywhere. We were just about done when the core of the fire just explodes. And then, well…”
“Others?” I asked, knowing it was a miracle I had found anyone at all. He shook his head and I nodded, there was no need to get into it. “The drop’s gonna have a radio, we’ll call it in. We’re definitely gonna need an Airtanker now.”
I heard rustling and turned; Harp was approaching.
“Harp, we got casualties here. Did Scott make the drop?”
“About half a mile that a way.” He said pointing behind him.
“Ok let’s--” I started and stopped. We all did. For a moment we just listened. From beyond the wall of fire came a sound. A whir spliced with a deep hum. Whatever it was, it did something to the blaze; the fire began to breathe. The tips of flames paused mid-air, then retreated, flared, then retreated.
I did not wait to find out what would happen. “We gotta get far from this.” I said and hoisted Harry over my shoulders in a Fireman’s carry.
We ran from the fire, ran from the sound. Harp took the lead, Diego behind him, and I brought up the rear. The hums and whirs grew louder, my back burned and cooled as sweat pooled and drenched my suit.
“We have to get to the radio.” Diego shouted.
“Just a little further.” Harp returned, “I saw the chute come down around here.”
“Maybe Scott can land by Horsehead, and we can regroup.” I shouted. Harp turned back and looked at me. I heard, and can still hear, his voice in my head, “That’s not going to happen man.”
“Why?” I shouted, over the blaring sounds but I couldn’t get it all out. Harry’s weight and the encroaching smoke clasped my lungs in a vice.
Harp never answered, he scanned the woods for the drop. Smoke and haze blanketed the forest. Somewhere in the space behind us, the humming got louder. “There, it’s over there,” he finally relayed and moved towards it with Diego and me in close pursuit.
We saw the crate, on its side by a Red Cedar. Harp got to it and pried it open. I put Harry down and Harp threw me the Traumatic Injury Kit.
“We may need to brace him up, the explosion knocked him back into a tree.” Diego said.
“We got a spine immobilization kit in there?” I asked Harp. He nodded and tossed me a canvas back pack. Diego and I opened it up, pulled out and assembled the back brace and the head wedge. We placed Harry—still unconscious—in it and secured his head. Harp frustrated with the radio, shook and smacked it. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he said and shook the radio again, “here listen.”
He held the button down and static crackled through its speaker, but there was something else. It sounded at first, like the chitter of an insect swarm, but there was more to it, a sort of pattern.
Diego stood and looked around. “It’s happening again man.”
“What?” Harp asked.
He ran his hands through his grime covered hair and screamed. “Shut it off.”
“Easy man. We need to get through for back up, or we’re done.” I explained, but it did nothing. The man looked terrified Laura. I don’t think he was lying about hearing those sounds before—although I can’t imagine where.
You know, I read that once that the Blind don’t dream in colors, pictures, or faces, but in sounds. I have a sense of that now, because I have nightmares of those sounds—those conniving chitters. Not the fire, not Diego’s petrified face, just the sounds. Those chitters coming through the radio, slowly joined by the whirs, the hums in the distance and then the underlying roar of the fire. In my head, the chitters tune, enunciate and take on a phonetic rhythm. It was a language Laura, unlike any language I had ever heard. The tone was cold and unwavering. And as I dream, the voices are slowly overpowered by the hums and whirs as they cascade, get louder, stronger, until whatever force held them together could hold no more.
Here, I wake up.
“Shut the fucking radio off.” Diego screamed, and the world behind us, exploded. Harp ducked and I flattened onto the forest floor, hands wrapped around the back of my skull. Air from the explosion rushed past us, I heard leaves and needles from the forest floor lift and whoosh away. The heat swooped in, scalding and unmerciful.
I did not have to lift my head to know that, like it or not, we were now in the fringes of the blaze. Still, I dared and looked up. Tiny flames had taken root all around us. Some began devouring the trees, while others worked at the forest floor using the needles and leaves as fuel. Harp and I got to our feet at the same time and looked at the same thing.
Diego’s head was impaled against the red cedar. What had struck him? I do not know. At first, it looked like nothing, like Diego’s head was being held to the tree by a meat magnet. But the gushing wound on his forehead told otherwise. I got closer and tilted my head just a little and what at first looked like nothing, turned out to be a razor thin shard of—what I believe was—metal. Looking at it, head on, you would see nothing. But step a little to the side and you would see a slick, black, glistening material with an immense density to strength ratio. I tried to get closer look, but Harp stopped me.
“We gotta move, now.” He stated, and he was right. As strange as this was, there was no time to stand still. I grabbed the front of the brace and Harp grabbed the back. We left Diego at the gates of the inferno, his eyes open and fixed on the last thing they saw before his head was punctured.
“We need to put some distance, until they send a rescue chopper or another squad.” Harp said.
“We need to get down to Horsehead. They can spot us better from there.”
Harp nodded. “Do you know which way?”
I had lost my bearings. The lake was to my right when I parachuted down, then I turned left and ran up the mountain. Whirs and hums and chitters, drowned out any further recollection. The heat was at our backs and I made the decision, we went left towards a short incline and outpaced the fire grasping for us.
Harp had been carrying something he needed off his chest. I could sense it, but I also had an idea of what it would be.
“Scott, Hawk, and Brian, are gone.” Harp managed.
“What?”
“Gone man—poof—into thin air.” We reached the knoll and descended.
“You jumped. They dropped the cargo, then Hawk calls me up minutes before the first explosion and I know something’s wrong man. Hawk gestures to me, but his eyes, they’re looking at something else. I tried to get it out of him, but you know Hawk.” We reached the bottom of the knoll and went right, Horsehead had to be this way. “Hawk says he sees a fox on the ground from 1500 feet and I know better than to argue.” Harp continued. “He saw something man, and he rushed me out.”
Despite everything, that was a notion I had trouble getting my head around. Hawk never rushed. He took his time, did it right, gauged wind, terrain, wild life. He did not rush. “What’d you mean he rushed you out?”
“I was waiting for his cue, ready to jump. He never took his eyes off the center of the fire. Then, whatever he was trying to figure out must have clicked. Cause he called Brian up and told me to go. Not just ‘go’, but ‘go, go,go’.”
“And then?”
“I jumped, and the fire exploded. I don’t know if I imagined it, but I think I heard Brian scream, but you know how it is at that altitude, you’re in the middle of a wind tunnel and your brain can conjure sounds. But, here’s the thing man. The explosion knocked me back and, even at that height, when my head jerked up—the plane was gone. Vanished.”
“Maybe Scott just maneuvered away.”
“It was gone man, like I said. I looked up and it was gone. I didn’t see Brian jump, didn’t see the plane go down, I didn’t see anything after that.”
I mulled over it, the absence of the plane, the sounds on the radio, that piece of metal sticking out of Diego’s head. It had all happened and yet it had not. The adrenaline refused to let anything sink in. At that moment, anything besides survival was inconsequential. We still had the blaze at our backs and an injured Jumper between us. We still had to fight this thing.
Off in the distance, came another sound, a rumble approaching fast. The sound of blades cutting through the air added to the cacophony. The weight dropped from my chest and my heart rose. I screamed with relief when I saw it.
An Apache helicopter loomed above us, decked out in all its facilities, parting the trees with the blowback from its blades. It had no reason to be there, but we didn’t care. We waved, hollered, Harp even tried the radio. I know they saw us, military tech like that could spot a possum a mile away. It slowed and hovered over us like a giant metal wasp.
“What’re they doing?” Harp asked. “Fire’s over there.” He screamed pointing behind him. The Apache did not move, it hovered for another minute and I struggled, unsuccessfully, to see the men in its metal brain. It moved easily, floated back, turned and started back from where it came, moving away from the approaching fire. We screamed and waved but we could barely hear ourselves over the fading gallop of its blades.
“What the hell was that?” Harp asked. “You think Forest services called ‘em?”
“You don’t send a 15-million-dollar combat bird to fight a forest fire Harp, no matter how big it is.”
“Well, then why didn’t they help…”
Harp never finished, his words were cut out by a distant boom and then a whoosh. We saw the device of our approaching deaths shoot past the sky, heading for the mountain above, to the center of the blaze. Of course, in subsequent media pieces, this is referred to as the second explosion caused by the fuel tank of the supposed trailer at the center of the blaze. Bullshit, a trailer does not explode like that. That was a missile; that was the military blowing up whatever was in the middle of that fire.
As soon as we saw it pass, we both knew what was happening. It’s funny, you see things like this happen in the movies all the time; the hero sees the missile fly by, and he turns and runs for cover, usually jumping just as the missile hits.
Here’s how it happened with us.
Harp and I saw the missile fly by, we grabbed Harry, and maybe took two steps when we heard the Boom. It took three steps after that for the shockwave from the blast to hit us. It blew us apart. I still recall that feeling—especially when I drink. Maybe it’s got something to do with the feeling of weightlessness that comes with a heavy night of rye. I remember the ground race below me, the heat on my trail, and a sort of bizarre feeling of elation. Movies did get the slow-motion part right. That moment felt like it lasted forever, in it, I swear, I thought of you. Not that I would never see you again—just that I hadn’t seen enough of you. I hit braches, some fledglings, some stumps, felt a nerve flare up my right shoulder. Still, I thank whatever force responsible for steering me away from the trunks. I hit the ground shoulder first, about four feet to the left of a boulder and the world went dark.
I do not know how long I was knocked out for, but when I came to, I was amidst the apocalypse. Cedars, Firs, and other Timbers had been uprooted or severed. Despite the felled trees, I could not see the sky in its entirety. Black smoke rose and hovered above me as patches of blue sky teased through. And whatever they blew up was all around. A thick yellow fog hung close to the ground, slick shards of metal stuck out of tree trunks and lay strewn on the floor, my suit was stained with a blue viscous liquid which also clung to the trees. The pain flared up my dislocated shoulder again, I took the weight off it and lay on my back. My ears rang with high pitched hums, but distant coughing and wrenching poked through. I gnashed my teeth and turned my head to my left. Harp was about ten feet from me, he was down on all fours, hacking, gagging, and spitting. A line of thick yellow saliva bungeed from his mouth. His red, bulging eyes looked my way before he collapsed on the forest floor. Maybe it was the pain, prompting adrenaline and dopamine to flood through my system, maybe it was delirium, maybe it was remembering Harp spending 700 bucks on a comic book, or maybe it was just everything, but I started laughing. This was all some sort of bad dream, an unbelievable and implausible joke—a killing joke.
I got a couple of chuckles out before the heaviness settled on my lungs and I began to wretch. Through the fits, I looked over at Harp once more and, some feet away from him, saw Harry’s hand sticking out from under a massive trunk. The dread settled. Smoke forced into my lungs and what felt like 100lbs settled on my chest. I was nothing but a bug on the floor blasted with bug spray. I coughed and heaved, the spasm made me sit up, my shoulder flared and pushed me back down.
I thought of Hawk, thought of Scott, his maniacal catch phrases. I thought of Brian, fresh, eager, and ready on the first day of fire season. I thought of you, your blonde hair and your pillow smelling like vanilla in the morning. I will tell you what ran through my head then, after all, that’s what this is about. “I love you Laura, I fucking do. But I’m dying protecting what I love. Maybe I’m not entitled to both, but I never chose.”
My head settled, and I waited. The high-pitched whine died down and I heard a whirring again. Not just the whirring, but also the hum. They came to my ringing ears, spliced together like an alien thought, vying for my attention. I braced, turned onto my stomach, and looked up. The sound grew and—through the smoke and fire—I saw their source.
A blue orb, no larger than a baseball, hummed in the distance. Its hypnotic pulse drove away every sight and sound around me, beckoning me softly. Keeping my head low, I crawled towards it. Grit and gravel cut my cheeks, embers caught my brows, but I trudged on, never taking my eyes off the orb. The closer I got, the louder it called. The closer I got, the further its solidity stripped away. I remember it now as mostly gas held together by pulsing blue energy. I reached my left arm toward it and as I did the humming condensed. I felt the need to hold it, to grasp and protect it. Blue gas leaked out and grazed my fingers. They were frigid. That familiar flare shot through my brain. Instinctively, I drew my hand back. My finger-tips had gone numb, but the cold felt good.
The hums and whirs started up softly as soon as I winced my fingers. I dug my head into the forest floor for the second time. I looked to my side, saw the woods burning, Harp dying by the minute a few feet from me. This was Flathead forest, this was where I die. I fished this lake with my dead-beat dad when I was twelve, I had my bachelor party up here. Harp caught a Carp and we called him Carp for the rest of the night. Hawk led that charge, like he led everything. Hawk my mentor, supposedly gone forever. He was there that night drinking his Jack, the only time I’ve ever seen him drink. A couple of drinks later when we were all light on our feet, he took me aside and said, “We need more kid’s like you”. I remember laughing at that, I laughed at that about twenty feet from where I lay dying, I told him “I’m not special”. He never wavered, just said “Maybe you’re not special, but where every kid I know has shipped off to LA or New York City for a better life, you stayed here. You care. That’s good enough for me.”
I screamed and looked back at the glowing orb and I know it sensed me, because its tone changed from alerting to inviting. I reached for it again, my fingers had still not recovered but I think that is what helped me the second time, I knew what I was getting into. Like before, the sound subsided, and blue mist rose. My fingers danced on the edges of the gas, I knew what I had to do. I pulled my hands back and drove the collar of my suit between my teeth. I clenched the thick cloth and drove my hands to the ball. My left hand grabbed the ball and ice pumped in my blood. My body convulsed, jerked, and went into spasms, but I held on to the ball. Maybe I am talking crazy, but I believe it latched onto me. I could not let go if I wanted to. Instead, I raised the ball to the sky. The hums and whirs began again, like before the frequency built, and just when I thought I could not take anymore, the ball sent out a thin blue wave. I swear to God, the wave hit the top of a burning cedar, and the fire went out. I reeled to the floor and my hand dropped. Let me tell you, when that beam shot out my hair went straight, and I got that wasabi up the brain jolt again.
The orb detached from my hands and rolled away. I fell on my back and sucked clean air, briefly. Face down on the forest floor, I looked for it. It lay a few feet away and beckoned urgently and this time I didn’t hesitate. I knew I needed to bite down on something harder before I grabbed it. I broke the tip of a branch lying near me and placed it in between my teeth. I braced myself and grabbed the orb. The frigid shock drove my teeth into the branch, and I heard it tense, my body buckled and jolted as the orb reattached itself. Blood, moss and pine on my tongue and numbness in my shoulder. Slowly, the electricity settled into me. When I felt I could, I let the soles of my boots feel the floor. I pushed up and stood, the orb steady in my left hand. It felt like holding the leash on a Tiger. The orb hummed and whirred in my hand, diving into me, reaching, drawing from my reserves. I looked around at the approaching fire, muttered a ‘fuck you’ through the branch, and raised my left hand. But it did not fire, instead, it pulsed steadily. The air thickened around it, acquired fluidity and started to ripple. My myriad of pains passed, and power surged through me. I felt like I could shake the ground with stomps, rip trees in half, like the fire around me was nothing but glowing air. The orb pulsed in my hand and drew me, steadily, towards the blaze.
I did not resist. Arm up, holding the orb, I began to walk. I walked past Harp—I tried to stop but the orb tugged harder. I stepped over the trunk that had crushed Harry and marched towards the blaze. The blue aura around the orb began to grow as I entered the gates of the inferno. I felt no heat and I was not scared. Around me Cedars, Firs, Larches, burned yellow and orange, I reached a wall of fire, and simply stepped through.
The other side of the wall was no longer earth, I was walking on the sun; bright yellow everywhere. The blue aura got larger, what covered only my forearm a few minutes ago, now enveloped my shoulders, the tips of my hair and the heels of my boots – a ball of blue afloat in a sea of yellow, growing larger with my every step. I walked up the incline, where Harp and I had looked up at the Apache. I walked past the tree where Diego was impaled, his body was a burnt lump on the floor of the tree, the black shard that killed him still stuck out of the cedar.
What I saw, Laura, was the look in the belly of a force completely ignored until it frees its confines. Fire, we used to boil water for ramen, raging and destroying life like it was nothing but dust waiting to be blown over. And this thing I held, its center humming softly in my hand, almost like it was purring, gave me the ability to walk through this murderous blaze—forces beyond us Laura. If the phantom pains didn’t still throb in my palm, I would spend my life convincing myself it never happened.
I topped the rocky knoll, walked down past where I grazed the black bear, and reached the spot where I helped Diego pull Harry away from the blaze. I gazed at the core of wildfire. Here it burnt the brightest, the hottest, fueling its fringes – the heart. The orb let out a sharp throb in my palm, and like a good horse I obeyed. I stepped into the heart. In Scott’s words “Every foot was bringing me closer to something, not God, but something.” Where before I could see the skeletons of trees, or tufts of brown soil, now I saw nothing but flames rising sixty feet into the air, finishing their ascent in flicking orange tails. I didn’t know where I was going, but the orb did. It guided me, it was at its furthest expanse. A mental picture of the clearing came back to me, back when I was at 1500 feet, when it was just smoking terrain.
I must have walked about fifty feet further when I slowed. A dark shape loomed in the distance, it stood at about three feet tall. As I passed it, I saw it was made of the same metal as the shard that had killed Diego, it was triangular, smooth at its edges – like the rudder of a plane. The orb drew me past it, drew me past numerous other strange black shapes strewn around the burning clearing, seemingly immune to the fire.
Then it stopped.
I waited, then tried to walk forward but the orb resisted me. My elbow would crumple but my orb-clasped-palm would not go any further. Another thing happened, the aura began to shrink. When I stopped, it stood about forty feet high, now it was retreating. The roar of the fire rushed into my ears. Panic fluttered as my sense of invincibility diminished. But what would I do? Let go?
In the distance, something popped followed by a crackle and a swish, a pause, then another crackle and swish, pause, another. Footsteps. I looked around, saw yellow. The furthest I could see was to the edge of the blue aura, which had now shrunk down to about ten feet. The crackle and swish got louder, closer. The aura shrunk down to about three feet around my outstretched hand and stopped when it was large enough to envelope the ends of my body. The footsteps crackled closer and then stopped just outside the frosted blue edge. I waited. I felt like I said ‘Hey? Who’s out there?’ but I don’t think I did, I don’t think I was capable of speech. I just stood there, hand outstretched clutching the blue orb, waiting.
My palm began to throb again, vibrating incessantly. The particles in the blue frost shook, collided, and bounced off each other. A dark shape loomed beyond the frosted blue wall. It had human proportions, a head, shoulders, but that’s all I could make out. It stood there for a moment staring at me. Then something pierced the aura, starting with a thin black tip and then growing—a finger. One at first, then a second, followed by a third. They were slender, curved at the tips and slick like they were dipped in oil. They were followed by a palm about the same size as a man’s but flatter, devoid of hair, and a fourth finger sprouting at the wrist. Then came a ropy forearm, slick like the fingers with a kind of amphibious sheen. The black arm was caked with blue liquid, the kind had stained my suit after the missile explosion. Seemed like whatever it was, it was hurt.
I stood petrified as the three digits reached for the blue orb, and the closer they got, the harder the orb throbbed. The creature’s flat palm hovered over the orb, and where I held the bottom, it gently clasped its palm and fingers over the top. As soon as it did, the orb pulsated, and began to rotate between our cupped palms. The vibrations were strong, and I feared losing my grip, but the creature kept it steady. The orb began to whoosh and suck in everything around us. Our collective grip gave it new life as it inhaled volumes of air and smoke. The pulses grew and turned to flashes and it sent out streaks of blue light with every beat. I strained my eyes, looking beyond the flashes for the rest of my companion, but saw nothing more than the dark humanoid shape. The whooshing grew louder, the flashes got brighter, and the vibrations dug into the bones of my palms. My legs gave out and I buckled to my knees but kept my grip. The weight of my smoked lungs returned, and my shoulder resumed its flares of pain. The fire descended on me and scalded. I went from a desert, to a sauna, to gritting my teeth in a circle of fire. Then my companion twitched one of its fingers and touched the base of my palm with the tip.
The touch of that finger Laura was as jarring as the entire ordeal. It sent the nerves in the middle of my head, my neck, and my spine, pounding with energy. It momentarily drove out the rest of my senses and I came awake, staring wide, just in time to watch the orb explode in a brilliant flash of light and sent out, what I was assume was, the sonic boom that the papers reported.
I fell back.
When I awoke, the blur shifted, and my eyes focused on the mask clasped over my mouth. There were sounds around me, no longer strange, no longer blaring, no longer crackling, just the sounds of men trudging over burnt terrain. I heard voices, fellow jumpers I discerned from the lingo. I moved my head a little to the left, then to the right, before I could do any more a medic loomed over me. He checked me for vitals and motioned to out-of-view colleagues. The conflagration was gone, extinguished. If not for the smoke, and the burnt woods, you would never know it happened. The medics secured me onto the chopper, I looked beside me and saw Harp unconscious with a mask of his own, and beside him a black body bag: Harry. I looked away and stared out over the black, charred landscape of Mt. Baptiste. One of the medics – blonde hair and tan like a surfer—taking in the view, turned and said to me with a grin, “They’re gonna wanna talk to you Amigo.” Then brushing his fingers in a line over the middle of his head said, “Cool streak.”
I had no idea what he meant, I didn’t have a mirror. Reading this, you know that he was referring to the thick white streak that now runs through the middle of my hair, lightning the tiny hair strands on the rear of my neck, and down my back – like a skunk—I wasn’t kidding about that. A result, I’m guessing, of the momentary contact with my strange companion in the heart of the fire.
As the story goes, jumpers from McCall, jumper reserves from Idaho, airtankers, medics, arrived at Mt. Baptiste to find the conflagration they were expecting, completely extinguished. They spotted Harp about half a mile up from Horsehead reservoir at the edge of the fire’s destruction, they assumed he was the only survivor. Then, a couple of jumpers, keen to hike to the source, climbed up the mountain and found me unconscious in the middle of the clearing, at the supposed heart of the fire.
I was taken to Montana General, where I slept for three days, under your watchful eyes—thank you for that. You said I occasionally winced and shouted out, that’s because I dreamt of shiny dark creatures in sleek metallic ships, moving unseen over Montana, hovering over Big Sky country. I dreamt of the blue orb, could still feel it throb in my left palm. And I remember when I woke, you came up, sat beside me, and ran your hand over the white streak that cuts through the middle of my head. I grasped your hand, and if my lungs didn’t feel like bags of sand and I could have spoken, I would have told you how glad I was to see you again; my sweet, sweet, Laura. But you had more on your mind. “Quit this, or I’ll leave.” You said.
Your ultimatum.
Days doled on, and that medic couldn’t have been more wrong. Nobody wanted to talk to me. Yeah sure, people look at you like you’re some kind of celebrity for a week, but it all fades. Everyone has their own problems, life goes on. Forest services commended my efforts, they pinned recognitions, patted my back, but no one wanted to talk about what really happened. The official story spurned that reckless campers had started the fire and died in the blaze. The squad from Missoula had battled it and after numerous casualties, brought it under control. A poster story for Smokey the Bear commercials. DOUG the airplane, supposedly, crashed into the fire, killing Scott, Hawk, and Brian. Harp and I had survived because of our quick thinking of getting to Horsehead reservoir. A great media story, Hollywood couldn’t have said it better; I heard they maybe working on a movie. Miles Teller may be playing me.
However, none of that is true. DOUG disappeared into thin air. Scott, Brian, and Hawk disappeared off the face of the earth; they couldn’t even find DOUG’s wreckage. Harp and I never made it to Horsehead. I was found unconscious, in the smoldering heart of the doused inferno. All these anomalies conveniently left out. Only a handful of the first responders know about them and they keep it to themselves. I don’t know if it’s because of some outside pressure, or if it just spooks them out.
Tell you what, here’s what I do know, when I could walk again, and after I refused to give up smoke jumping in the wake of Flathead—you followed through on your ultimatum. Harp quit, and still refuses to talk to me about that day. The military denies flying an Apache into Flathead; despite numerous sightings of the bird over Butte, Missoula, and by a couple of drivers on Highway 93. It denies firing the missile—denies, denies, denies. So, in the end, I find myself alone with these memories, these sensations, and the image of that outstretched alien hand. I still work Missoula in fire season, they’ve even given me Hawk’s job so now I work there year-round. I screened and hired a couple of Hotshots from Helena and trained them the way Hawk trained me. They listen with rapt attention when I go through the drills, I’m guessing it’s because I come with a reputation. That white streak on my head makes me look like a burnt match-head; the Flathead matchhead.
I think about telling them my story, but then think better of it. At this point, I don’t think it will do their training any good. In any case, the pay is better, I just wish I knew what to do with it.
I got to ask: Did I do wrong Laura? Would you have felt better if I told you this story when you threatened to leave? And if I did, would you have believed me? Do you believe me now?
Maybe I should have listened to you. Maybe, like Harp, I should have left and started a comic book store in Butte; but that’s not me. All I ever wanted, was to protect my home. I don’t get to decide if the forces that threaten that home, are foreign or domestic, natural, man-made, or something beyond my perception. I just know that I love these woods. And I know that I have, that I am, and that I will, always be there for my home. Like I said before, I never chose, I love you both.
To this day, to the last day of fire season in 2015, when I cruise at 1500 feet, spotting for my jumpers—I look out at the sky. I look out for DOUG, I look for Hawk, Scott, and Brian. I breathe deep and hope that their plane would just materialize and appear just like it vanished. It would just land at Missoula one day and Scott would run out, eyes wild, ranting about how DOUG, Hawk, Brian, and him had this amazing adventure. I look out for Hawk, hoping he would walk into my office one afternoon, pat me on the shoulder with his calloused palms and say, ‘You did good kid.’ And when it’s all done, I come home, and I look for you.
You asked me to move on, but, how can I? After all I know, how can I?
I can promise you one thing, which I hope, and pray, that through this letter I have shown you—no matter the fire, no matter the danger, no matter the odds—this smoke jumper will come home to you Laura Price. I just need you to come home to me. Please, please come home to me, because I want to come home to you.
©2019 by Karan Mummigatti. All rights reserved.