He Spoke of the Loneliness

Montana, USA - We sat at the bar, gathered around a chunk of rock, staring at it closely. He leaned in, his weathered face looking at the rock, then up at us. “Do you see it?” We all looked closer, examining the rock as he moved it back and forth. “Gold”, he said. “That’s how you can tell. Gold doesn’t reflect the light like the other rock around it”. We all nodded, unsure if we actually understood what he was saying, but all agreeing that it did look different. Relaxing in our seats a little, he set the rock down and began to tell us a series of riddles. Every time he finished the riddle, he would look at us, repeating a line or two. I’ve never been very good at riddles, but I surprised myself by getting a few right.

Joshua was a character. Before moving to Montana, he had resided up in Alaska in a cabin he built himself. Living alone in the bush had taken its toll, though. Speaking of his experience up north, he shrunk a little, and his voice softened. He spoke of the loneliness, and how unbearable it became. How it was the reason for his move south. He looked down, fumbling with the rock in between his hands, exhaling with a sigh.

The Quiet Calm

Denali National Park, Alaska - Mountains stand, jutting straight up from the valley floor. And while the quiet calm washes over those willing to accept the challenge, filling the human spirit with determination and hope, they continue their stand, ready and willing to break anyone that isn’t up for the task.

Landing in a Marsh

Alaska - In 2009 I was working for the Bonneville Hotshots, a wildland firefighting crew based out of Salt Lake City, Utah. At the beginning of the season, we flew up to Alaska to help fight a massive wild fire raging out of control. After flying in to Fairbanks and jumping on a chartered bus, we arrived at the helibase and flew in to the fire on helicopters.  Flying in low over the timber, we landed near a marsh.  On the second load, the helicopter ended up landing in the middle of the marsh, It's tail rotor sinking dangerously close to the ground.  The pilot knew the danger and ordered everyone out. I watched as the crewmembers jumped out of the helicopter into waist deep water, wading toward dry land, holding their bags above their heads like they were in Vietnam.

For two weeks, we worked 18 hour days, cutting line, and securing the edge of the fire. Toward the end of our tour, we were assigned to burn out a section of line. For this particular assignment, my saw team, along with two other saw teams and a handful of diggers, were assigned to the hold the line, meaning we were going to spread out and make sure that our burnout operation didn't jump the line. We were positioned so that if it did cross, a handful of us could jump on it before it got out of control. As the burners staggered down the line, igniting the undergrowth, we crossed our fingers and prayed for good wind. They passed us with glazed looks on their faces, a result of the insane work schedule we all had for the last two weeks. Zach Henseler, a lead firefighter at the time, paused to check out his work as he moved by me. On our way home after our tour, we found out that the fire had blown up and destroyed all the work that we had just put in. Such is the life of a Hotshot.