Storm King
Terrain across from Storm King Mountain near Glenwood Springs, Colorado.
Two years ago this week, I took a trip to Colorado that I’d been dreading for 25 years…
to hike the aptly named Storm King Mountain where 14 firefighters were killed in a firestorm on July 6, 1994. Nine of the firefighters were Prineville Hotshots, friends and people I’d worked with on several wildfires. Each year (except 2020) the Forest Service reserves a day for what’s known as a staff ride where firefighters study and remember lessons learned. I’d always wanted to climb the last mountain my friends had climbed, but didn’t want to make the trek alone. When a friend and former hotshot from the Prineville crew told me about the staff ride, I was eager to attend.
When I arrived at the meeting place, over 70 firefighters (mostly hotshots) had joined six groups of mostly men, each led by someone with decades of wildfire experience and fire behavior training. It was an intimidating group, but an honor to be among them.
Several FS cause and effect documents were required reading, as well as a well-researched account titled Fire on the Mountain, The True Story of the South Canyon Fire, by John N. Maclean. It was the book I rushed to buy when it was published in 1999, but then it sat on my shelf, unread, for over 20 years. Did I really want to know exactly what happened? I preferred to keep it a distant mystery. It was the final element of closure. In 1994, I did my best to move on from the tragedy, but it wasn’t until I was preparing for the staff ride that I ventured with grim determination to turn the pages on the story of a firefight gone wrong.
Yes, it hurt to read. Throwing the book across the room more than once, I learned of the human error involved in the decision making (even before the hotshots arrived). As I suspected, this new information was harder to know than thinking it was purely an unstoppable act of nature and a result of years of drought.
I flew from sea level in the Willamette Valley in Oregon to a steep hike to 6,000 feet in elevation. While loudly huffing with each step, I remembered I was at least 20 years older than the hotshots in my group, but this is where great leadership began to show itself. Instead of having to step aside to catch my breath, my group leader made timely periodic stops to review different aspects of the challenges firefighters faced on July 6 of ’94. He stood downhill from us with the sun glaring in his eyes instead of ours. He encouraged dialogue by removing his dark sunglasses to make eye contact when he spoke. He bantered with some, putting us at ease while waiting longer than 2 seconds for questions.
Each group member brings a different but valuable perspective was the theme of the day. Whether it’s the rookie with a day of fire experience or the ranter with a decade, every voice matters. When circumstances at the South Canyon Fire were discussed, participants were asked to role play a given position of the fire’s command team. The basic question being What would you do if it were up to you? It required a focus on facts known at the time, available resources (if any), and knowledge of fire behavior and standard firefighting methods. This practice with key leadership roles created a new level of respect for the often life-saving responsibility of those who fill the positions.
Good leaders, we were reminded, have the humility to stay curious and approachable, especially when members aren’t comfortable with a given assignment. I was encouraged to see the high priority the Forest Service now puts on inclusive teamwork. I’m glad I got past the dread to finally visit Storm King Mountain. If the values taught at that staff ride represent the leadership methods used across the country, our national forests are in good hands.
The spring of 2019 was unusually cold. A snowstorm the day before the event prevented us from climbing the actual ill-fated fire line. I didn’t get to experience that final 55 degree incline with my own legs and lungs, but I did hear the haunting sound and power of the rush of wind up the West Drainage as an afternoon cold front hit the slope. One of the survivors paused in his talk to point to the canyon with a look of surprise as he shouted over the roar, “That’s it! That’s the sound I heard as the wall of flame came at us!”
