SURVIVING

Ken Bartlett 1934 (Leominsterr Mass)



Twelve of us started out in darkness on a long and tedious walk. We climbed in a line to confront a slumbering giant.  We knew in our bones he was unlikely to be friendly or compliant.

The stench of his breath could already reach us, permeating the
hairs in our noses. At times burning our eyes and clinging to our
dirty clothes. We trudged on until morn greeted us without bird song, bathing us with an orange glow on brows beaded in sweat and sinews aching below.

Our direction was guided by the rhythm of a Caterpillar tractor
  building fire lines to contain 'his nibs'. The vibration became louder and louder until its thump was felt on our ribs: then ebbed in salute of our presence, never once ignoring the essence, of what was lurking
not far from that billowing dust surrounding our heads. Dust thrust
by the strengthening breeze, congealing unease in anticipation of the conflict ahead.

Our arrival on site gave no delight that we could contain and make this fire stable.  Our priority became to
locate someplace where we could be safe,  yet available.  No way was we about to say:  “Let's accept defeat and retreat.“

On the left was a south-facing slope.  The vegetation was not lush, a mixture of cheatgrass and sagebrush.  On the right was a site different and bright. The north-facing slope shimmered from light dancing on young  Douglas-fir.  Its needles were juicy with resin that makes an excellent tea.  Needles that will also burn ferociously.

Good sense  guided us a thousand feet up; using shovels, ax and
Pulaski to support our climb and arrive in time before everything became nasty.  We had chosen the south slope that leveled out on a bench with no shade and a view of the fire.  A place we could shout
out; to anyone coming our way and help desire.


From this position, we were able to rest, watch belching in the drainage below of the awakening and unrest of a blow-up waiting to blow.  It continued emitting sudden puffs of smoke, as it sucked in air and exhaled stuff that would choke anything breathing close to its lair.

Concern was expressed for the 'cat skinner'.  I lept and leaped on both of my feet to quickly meet him on his tractor. I delivered the warning to get out now. He shrugged his shoulders and replied he was staying and would manage somehow.  He did.

Turning my head, attention was placed on climbing the slope and making it before what is in store destroyed my hope.

Halfway back to the top, soaked in sweat, pausing to rest
on limbs barely working; I strained back on my feet.  It happened!   With a sudden roar and blast, I was pressed to the ground.  Digging in fingers I crawled back up the slope.  No other memories exist.
The blow-up had become a firestorm, sucking in oxygen and blowing out the fire, making wind that transported it again, to a place no one could possibly desire.  

Later we heard the beat of a chopper.  The Fire Boss came with
instructions.  “Leave for another threatened piece of land”.  Before going he said:  “Forest fire season is here, that is the reason we need you on up ahead, fire will be back!.”  So will I!

About this poem

A MEMORY OF FIRE FIGHTING ON THE BOISE NATIONAL FOREST IN THE 1950's

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Written on April 15, 2022

Submitted by compostken on October 02, 2022

Modified on March 05, 2023

2:53 min read
6

Quick analysis:

Scheme X XAX AXXX XX X XXA X X X XXA XX
Characters 3,191
Words 578
Stanzas 11
Stanza Lengths 1, 3, 4, 2, 1, 3, 1, 1, 1, 3, 2

Ken Bartlett

retired forester residing in a continuing care home in Lancaster, PA with his wife of 59 years more…

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