Hotshot:
a talented and successful person : someone who is successful or skillful in a showy or flashy way.
One rarely hears the word used that way anymore. Nowadays, hotshots are men and women who fight wildfires, either full time or seasonally.
On the Burning Edge, authored by Kyle Dickman, himself a one-time hotshot, is a book that tells the story of the Yarnell Hill wildfire and the men who fought it. Yarnell is a small AZ town, about 50 miles southwest of Prescott. The book was a random pick from the Arizona section of the LHC public library - an excellent choice as it turned out. I was especially intrigued by the story because of my own brush with wildfires when I worked for the Forest Service in the mid 60s. More on that later.
The Granite Mountain hotshots, based in Prescott, AZ, consisted of 2 10-man crews. Several were veterans who had served in Afghanistan and Iraq. In 2013, when the story takes place, most of the men had already spent a few seasons fighting fires, although a few were newbies who had recently completed the grueling training required of all would-be hotshots.
Granite Mountain had proven themselves in several wildfires around the country, and were well respected for their ability to get the job done. The job was mostly building fire lines to contain the blazes, setting backfires, and so on. Their arsenal included chain saws, pulaskis, axes, shovels. And sweat. Lots and lots of sweat. Despite their training and experience, 19 Granite Mountain men were killed in the Yarnell Hill wildfire - the worst wildfire fighter disaster in 80 years. Miscommunication and freakish, constantly-changing, 50+ mph winds were mostly to blame for the tragic loss.
The movie
Only the Brave will be released in theaters next month. It tells the story of the Yarnell Hill wildfire, and the Granite Mountain crews
In the Forest Service, I was engaged in blister rust control, but was also trained to build fire line and do mop up work after a wildfire was contained. We, mostly college students from all over the country, prayed for wildfires because they meant more money. You got bonus pay - hazardous duty or per diem or whatever - and you worked long hours.
In late July, 1964, we were rousted at 3 AM to fight a fire in the 7 Devils wilderness of northern Idaho. We were bused from Pierce, ID to Orofino, ID, where we boarded a DC3. We were in the air about 45 minutes when the plane made a U-turn: turned out we weren't needed after all.
The following summer, I was promoted to crew chief. In early August, my crew and I (9 of us) were trucked to a remote location where a lightning strike had started a small fire on a hilltop where timber had been harvested several years prior. We packed in 3 miles, carrying food and water for 2 days, sleeping bags, and the tools of the trade: pulaskis, shovels, axes and jack-off backpack tanks.
As wildfires go, this little blaze didn't amount to much. It was only about 5 acres, had no tall trees and not that much brush. Still, building the fire line was no picnic. Nor was the mop up - a dirty, hot, nasty job. The fire line completed, and all hot spots taken care of, we packed out again after about 36 hours on site. Our filthy faces would have made Al Jolson proud. Although my wildfire experience doesn't hold a candle to what today's hotshot crews endure, it gives me an understanding of what they're up against and the deepest respect for these tough, brave men and women who put themselves in harms way, over and over.
