Tough Enough
Photo: Horseshoe Meadows Hotshot Crew members 1989. L to R: Craig Brown, Nancy Ayala, me (Big Hair), Chancey Bridges, Elena Rios, Eugene Osborne, and James Workman.
It’s August and we’re in the thick of a bad fire season. As I sadly search our smoky horizon knowing our forests are burning, memories from my firefighting days return. Occasionally I found myself doing things I wouldn’t normally do just to fit in with the crew. I smile, remembering I was 20. We do things when we’re 20 that we wouldn’t normally do…
Whitesnake’s classic hit blared over the stereo as I sang with the lyrics “Here I Go Again on My Own…” as we traveled to the fire in the foothills above Fresno, CA. Far from family, friends and comfort zones, I wasn’t at all sure that coming to work here had been a good idea.
This crew seemed older, more stoic and subdued than other crews I knew. Maybe the rugged landscape, daily oppressive heat, and the intensity of California’s wildfires affected their personalities.
At higher elevations, the Sierra mountain range is steep. Areas not peppered with black and white granite are covered in dense dry brush, that combination of scrub oak and manzanita that dulls a chainsaw in five minutes.
In other states, firefighters enjoyed a reprieve at night when temperatures and wind dropped and humidity levels rose, giving firefighters the upper hand. Not so in California. Especially when devilish Santa Ana winds blow away any humidity and crazy fire behavior sneaks up at any time of day or night keeping crews constantly wary.
This roadside fire was on a steep hill in the afternoon’s triple-digit heat. Flames moved fast through shimmering heat waves and tall fuels. It was a race to carve a line around it before it jumped the highway and blasted up the hill. In the nick of time, engine crews arrived to douse the biggest flames from the road, but not before a crewmember collapsed because he did not stop working to drink water.
Once the flames were extinguished, came the long process of improving the line and mopping up. It was dark by the time my weary companions and I boarded the rigs. I wondered again about being in over my head as I wiped the salty grime off my face with my wet bandana before fantasizing about cold watermelon. While I made it through the first fire, it was the second fire a few days later that resulted in my “initiation.”
We drove as close as we could to the fire and then started the long hike. Almost by way of introduction to the character of this crew, I witnessed something I wouldn’t have believed had I not seen it myself. Hiking single file through the sparse, knee-high grass of the forest, I looked forward and saw what I thought was a stick pop up from the ground, as if someone had stepped on the end of it.
One man yelled “SNAKE!” and jumped out of line. The guy in front of him turned with his tool to hold the snake down while the guy behind him took aim with his Pulaski and hacked its head off with one swing. With this snake-killing choreography, that rattler was dead in less than four seconds and without a single scream from anyone on the crew.
By the time I got there, shovel guy was already walking away with a big, ugly rattlesnake head on his shovel to bury it. The one who almost got bit used his pocket knife to cut two inches of rattles from the tail to put in his fire-shirt pocket. He picked up the snake’s body and proceeded to tie the tail end to his belt loop. We admired his trophy for half a minute before hiking again, him with the snake dangling off his leg. When we took a dinner break hours later, I got curious.
“Why don’t you just skin the snake and toss the rest?”
“You ever eat rattle snake, Hamberger?”
I thought, rattle snake-hamburger and smiled at my own joke.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, you have something to look forward to.”
He coiled the flaccid snake into his now empty Tupperware container and carefully loaded his prize into his pack.
We worked through the night lining and mopping up the small fire. Back at the station the following morning, we sharpened tools and filled canteens to be “fire ready” for the next one. Someone lit the coals for a barbecue. I had the tedious task of sharpening shovels when I smelled something cooking and approached to investigate. The meat roasting on the grill was white and tubular and it writhed as it cooked. The burnt-dust stink of sizzling snake made my mouth water the way it does when I’m about to vomit. The men congregating around the chef were smiling and lighthearted. This barbecue might be a test for the newbie.
“Tastes like chicken!” They chuckled amongst themselves.
Once the snake stopped moving, the guys came by with their pocketknives, speared a section, dipped it in barbecue sauce and went to town on it while they watched me watch them. I got out my pocketknife, cut the smallest section in half, applied salt and sauce liberally, and with much resignation, took a bite. I chewed and chewed the rubbery stuff and managed to swallow. Struggling to keep that snake from slithering back up my throat, I gave my two cents.
“Chicken… tastes a lot different where I come from.”
Judging from their reaction, I passed the test.
What about you? You got a snake story?
Did you ever try to prove something that you wouldn’t do again? We’d love to read it!
