One Careless Moment (10 page)

I'm a little distracted on my drive back to town; it's been a while since someone shoved a gun in my face. Now I understand Castellino's reluctance to force the squatters off public land — you'd need a swat team. It would also create bad press: government versus the little guy. Best to leave them alone, which is why I doubt they started the fire — the last thing they want is a lot of attention. Maybe someone wanted to get rid of them and thought a fire would force their evacuation, or at least draw enough attention that they'd leave on their own. But why? There's nothing out there but empty, rugged country and a cursed canyon.

I'm still puzzling over this when I pull through the gates of Lakeside Estates. Aslund is waiting for me, his ball cap pulled low. I'm needed at the ranger station, so I follow Aslund's truck with my own borrowed unit. The Carson Lake Ranger Station is a few miles north of town and the drive doesn't take long. The parking lot is full; I hope they're not all here for me.

It's a nice ranger station, modern open-beam with lots of dead animals. A stuffed cougar menaces a strutting grouse. An elk head stares blankly at me from above the door. Fibreglass trout swim in a case below the reception counter. We walk through an area of open cubicles where people pretend not to notice us, then down a flight of stairs to the ready room. The last time I was here, I was playing cards with Brashaw and his men. Today, there's a different crowd.

“Thanks for coming,” says Grey, seated at the head of the table.

Another inquisition. I pull up a chair and look around. Noble gives me a slight nod. His jacket is off, his tie loosened; he's ready to liaise. Aslund rummages for a pad of paper. There are two new faces; an older guy with wispy white hair and a short, intense-looking fellow of about forty-five.

“This is Don Turner,” Grey says, indicating the older guy. “Don's with mtdc.”

Turner must read my blank expression. “I'm with the Missoula Technology Development Center,” he says. “We look at the equipment you used in the burnover. The Nomex clothing and the fire shelter — those sorts of things, to see how they performed.”

Not well enough, I'm thinking. At least for Brashaw.

“And this is Neil Ursulak,” says Grey. “Neil's with the Fire Center in Missoula.”

Ursulak gives me a curt little nod.

“The purpose of our meeting today,” says Grey, looking at me, “is to discuss events pertinent to the entrapment of Bert Brashaw and yourself. We need to hear from you what happened, to supplement what we already know, so we can prevent this sort of catastrophe in the future.” He glances around. “Sorry about having so many bodies here — we usually interview with only one or two people, but we thought it best that everyone concerned heard you out right away. So we don't have to keep you here any longer than necessary. I'm sure you're anxious to get home.”

The faces around the table are expectant. I nod, perhaps to reassure them; I'm not sure. In the centre of the table is a tape recorder. I take a minute to collect my thoughts, steady my voice — I keep seeing the black mummy in Brashaw's shelter.

“When I arrived at the fire, smokejumpers were on-scene and fire behaviour was moderate, with vigorous ground fire and some candling. In my opinion, direct attack was not feasible, so I started the dozers on line cutting along the rear flanks, with engines and personnel in support. Approximately forty-five minutes after this, the wind picked up and so did fire behaviour. I needed a better look at the fire and requested a helicopter, but was told none were available.”

Noble raises an eyebrow toward Ursulak, who ignores him.

“Without aircraft, I had no way of knowing what the fire was doing. The smokejumpers had jumped-in to a ridge along the south flank, which they assured me had good visibility. Given wind direction and terrain, the ridge appeared safe, so I decided to use it as a vantage point. An old trail along the backside of the ridge provided partial access. Brashaw and I drove as far as we could, then hiked the rest of the way to the jumpers' landing zone.”

“Why did you take Brashaw with you?” says Ursulak.

“I thought he needed an overview of the fire.”

“But you had a radio. You could have called him. Why separate him from his men?”

Despite his small stature and slim build, Ursulak has an aggressive air about him. His hair is unnaturally black for his age and his cheek muscles keep clenching. Coming from Missoula Dispatch, he has a lot of his own concerns to defend — the denied helicopter and the bombers that took so long to make it to the fire.

“I customarily orient my crew leaders to the overall fire situation.”

“Really? And what did Mr. Brashaw think of your trip to the ridge?”

I hesitate. “He had a few reservations.”

Concerned glances are exchanged across the table.

“He was superstitious,” I add quickly. “He was afraid of the canyon.”

“Afraid?” Ursulak gives me a skeptical look.

“Some people believe the canyon is cursed,” says Grey, coming to my rescue.

Ursulak isn't pleased. He tries to press the point but doesn't get a chance.

“Was visibility adequate from the ridge?” says Grey.

“Yes. We had an excellent view of the canyon.”

“What did you do, once you were on the ridge?”

I sigh, ordering my thoughts.

“I assessed the fire and requested a bomber drop across the canyon.”

“And what response did you receive?” says Grey.

“The bombers were tied up on a higher priority fire.”

“But you did get the bombers,” Ursulak says quickly. “We promised you a drop.”

“Yes. After several requests. Unfortunately, they didn't arrive in time.”

Ursulak bristles. “That wasn't our fault.”

“No one said it was,” Grey says evenly. “Did you order any other resources?”

“No. We were doing all we could on the ground. We needed air support.”

Noble shoots Ursulak another critical look. Ursulak passes it on to me. Grey watches this exchange and chews his lower lip. “When did you first become aware that the fire had jumped the dozerline below you?”

“I received a call from Sue Galloway.”

“You didn't notice anything before that?” says Noble.

“No. Our attention was on the fire in the canyon.”

There's a pause as notes are taken. I can picture what they are writing — all actions on a fire are weighed against established operating procedures: the Ten Standard Fire Orders and Eighteen Watchout Situations. Like every firefighter, I have them memorized. Now, they're writing up my mistakes. Failing to post a lookout. Failing to determine safety zones and escape routes. Allowing unburned fuel to come between myself and the fire. My only defence is the fire seemed unlikely to pose a threat to the ridge. Today, it doesn't seem like much of a defence.

“What did you do after Galloway's call?” asks Grey.

I picture the curling fist of smoke rising above the treetops, how we stood riveted to the ground, held captive by its power, but it doesn't seem like a good thing to mention. “On the way up the ridge, I'd flagged a route back to the vehicle. We began to follow this downhill.”

“But you were found on the ridge,” says Ursulak.

“Yes, if you'll allow me to finish — we started downhill. Brashaw twisted his ankle and we had to reassess. Given the speed and direction of the flame front, it now became apparent the only safe location might be on the ridge, in the open, where we could deploy shelters. I assisted Brashaw and we returned to the ridge, where we deployed.”

There's a lengthy pause. No one is clapping me on the back today, calling me a hero.

Ursulak breaks the silence. “What experience do you have, fighting fire in mountainous terrain?”

“I've been on several mountain fires in Alberta.”

“I see. Is the terrain comparable?”

“It's similar.”

Ursulak frowns, refers to a notepad. “You mentioned previously, in an interview with Mr. Noble and Mr. Grey, that you were unable to determine the origin of the fire strictly from the burn indicators on the trees.” He looks at me, his expression intent. “Is that correct?”

I nod, with a sinking feeling. I know exactly where he's taking this.

“Given the inconclusive nature of fire travel patterns in the canyon,” he says, giving me a severe look, “did it occur to you that the wind direction in this area was unpredictable? That it was possible the fire could spread to the ridge?”

Strike four — unfamiliar with weather and local factors influencing fire behaviour.

“Apparently, I failed to take that into consideration.”

“Apparently,” says Ursulak.

There's an uncomfortable silence. My head is throbbing and I'd like to shoot Ursulak. But the worst of it is, he's right. In his shoes, I'd be asking the same questions. Grey clears his throat. “We're not trying to assign blame here. We're just mapping out the sequence of events and contributing factors. The emphasis is on developing recommendations to prevent future occurrences.”

“I've got a recommendation,” says Ursulak, staring at me. “Stop using out-of-country service people.”

Grey looks annoyed. “You know that isn't going to happen, Neil —”

I can't take this anymore. The guilt. The finger pointing.

“Don't worry,” I say, standing and glaring at Ursulak. “I won't be back.”

I leave through the backdoor. Footsteps behind me — it better not be Ursulak. I start walking.

“Porter ... Jesus Christ, man ...”

It's Grey, his stubby legs working hard to catch me. When he does, he's puffing and his face is pink. I stop and grit my teeth, not trusting myself to say anything.

“That was a crappy thing for Neil to say. Totally uncalled for.”

I nod, stare at the ground.

“Come back in. The other guys have a few questions.”

I take a deep breath, glance at the ranger station. “I don't think so.”

Grey gives me a long look. “Okay,” he says finally. “We can finish up later.”

“I wouldn't count on that. I might need to talk to a lawyer.”

Grey looks worried. “No — I don't think you'll find that necessary. Neil Ursulak has his own axe to grind and will no longer be participating in the entrapment investigation.”

There's an awkward silence. Grey looks pained.

“Anyway,” he says. “You don't worry about that.”

I've missed lunch, and all I want to do is get away from the Forest Service and find something to eat. I go foraging for a restaurant in town. There's quite a selection along Main Street. I pick the place with the fewest vehicles in the parking lot.

The Filling Station is a restaurant-and-bar combo with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and old gas pumps against the stucco walls. I slide into one of several crescent-shaped booths. The only other customers are a group of middle-aged bikers, sitting at a wooden table close to a window so they can admire their Harleys. The bikers all wear the same uniform: blue jeans, red bandanas, and black leather vests that no longer fit over their big bellies. A waitress with white poodle hair and skin aged to the same deep walnut as the furniture offers me a menu. She tells me the special today is the Pioneer Burger with fries and a drink, which I order, then sink back against the cool vinyl and watch the big ceiling fans.

From where I'm sitting, I can see across the entrance hall into the bar, where a big-screen TV has a football game on. My Pioneer Burger arrives: three patties the size of a plate, and the fries in a wicker basket

— this'll take me a week to eat. I get started, work on my Harley physique.

Someone switches the channel on the big screen in the bar and the news comes on. A talking head with perfect hair tries to look both appealing and serious. She's talking about the Holder's Canyon Fire, shown on a map over her shoulder. Suddenly, I'm looking down at the ridge where Brashaw died. A quick close-up of two crumpled silver shelters, then the view begins to swing around and I watch, transfixed, expecting to see the black mummy in Brashaw's shelter, but someone with more taste than the cameraman has edited that out. Instead, I see Grey pointing toward the camera, his features tense. Then my face fills the screen, in an unflattering close-up, my name in red letters at the bottom. Porter Cassel — Incident Commander and survivor of the Holder Fire Burnover. A new message flashes at the bottom of the screen: Memorial service, tomorrow at ten. I set down the burger, half-eaten, take a deep breath, and stare at the dessert menu until I realize someone is standing by the table.

“How is everything?” says the waitress, glancing down at the half-eaten burger. “Fine,” I mumble. “Just a little too much food for me.” “Are you done?”

“Yeah.” I try to give her a good-natured smile. “I'm through here.”

She reaches for the plate, looking at me. “You're that guy from the fire,” she says. “The one that had to stay in one of those little silver tents, right?”

I nod reluctantly. “One of them, anyway.”

“What was it like?”

“You don't want to know.”

She gives me an appraising look, clearly wondering how much more to ask. “Tell you what,” she says. “It's on the house. You want some dessert? On the house too. Blueberry pie. That must have been something, being in the fire like that. Would you mind giving me your autograph?”

“My autograph?”

“Yeah. We don't get many celebrities here.”

“Maybe after the pie.”

She brightens, heads for the kitchen.

I toss a ten on the table and get the hell out of there.

7
•

THE NEXT MORNING I eat breakfast at the cabin. No television. No waitresses. No reporters. Only drawback is I have to cook for myself, so I eat cold cereal. I dress in a clean shirt and jeans, wishing I had something more formal, and drive the borrowed Forest Service truck toward town. There's a traffic jam at the intersection with the highway, cars and trucks backed up all the way to the sawmill. It might be a while — the drivers are out of their vehicles, wandering along the road or standing in groups along the shoulder.

I shut off the truck, join the crowd at the intersection.

A convoy of fire engines inches its way toward town, lights strobing. Men and women stand along the highway, hands solemnly clasped. Children stare at the bright, silent procession. It's a parade without the noise and excitement. Drivers in dress uniform gaze grimly at spectators as they pass, returning the occasional salute. I count eighty-three engines from towns and cities all over the state. It's an impressive sight — a procession worthy of a king. The crowd begins to disperse, returning to their vehicles. I wait for my turn in the queue and follow the convoy.

The memorial service is at the Carson Lake Community Center. Streets are jammed and I park halfway across town, walk the remaining distance, my hard-soled work boots clacking on pavement. Two fire engines stationed at the entrance to the centre grounds have their long derricks extended toward one-another, an American flag hung between them. There must be several thousand people massed on the grass in front of the building. It's likely only a small percentage of them knew Brashaw, but all are mourning — typical of a profession where you face danger every day and rely on the skill of your co-workers. I doubt the crowd would be as large if Brashaw had been an accountant, or a lawyer. Near the big double doors, technicians are setting up loudspeakers for those who will have to remain outside. Close to them, a dozen Forest Service staff stand in rigid lines, dressed in crisp green uniforms, white gloves, and broad-brimmed hats. I circle around a cluster of reporters and their camera crews, spot Aslund among the crowd. He looks official this morning.

“Cassel, we've been looking for you.”

Not very hard, I'm thinking. I was at the cabin all morning.

“We've got a spot up front for you, if you'd like.”

I'd prefer a spot farther back, where I'd be anonymous, but Aslund leads me inside and offers me a seat a few rows back from the stage, among Forest Service staff and officials. I recognize Grey; the rest of the faces are largely unfamiliar. On the other side of the aisle are Brashaw's relatives, most of them wearing black, and it occurs to me how little I know about his family. A little red-haired girl sits swinging her legs and I have a sudden impression this is Brashaw's grandchild. Grey is behind a podium. There must be a platform behind there, or he's on his toes. He taps the mike, looks out over the crowd.

“If I could have your attention please, we'd like to get started.”

Grey introduces himself, describes how Brashaw provided decades of leadership, friendship, and guidance to those he worked with. He speaks of tragedy, of loss to both Brashaw's immediate family and the broader family of the Forest Service and firefighting. Grey is a good speaker — his voice strong and filled with emotion. He's a striking figure behind the podium, white-haired and distinguished. Pine saplings have been set up on either side of the podium. A shovel and Pulaski are crossed behind an enlarged photo of Brashaw, grinning, covered in soot and ash — a good picture of a man I barely knew. On either side of the stage stand the honour guard, rigid and solemn.

A string of dignitaries follow Grey's stirring introduction, reading their prepared speeches. The mayor. A fire chief. Higher officials from the Forest Service. Even the governor takes the stage, after which he presents a folded American flag to Brashaw's daughter, Delise. The governor places a hand on her shoulder, offers a few words, then kneels and takes the hand of the red-haired girl. Flashes pop as reporters zoom in to capture this touching moment. The ceremony wraps up with the honour guard playing a piercing tune on their bagpipes as they march down the aisle and out of the building. Brashaw's relatives follow, his daughter and grandchild first, holding hands.

Outside on the lawn is a large crate, filled with balloons. The wind has shifted and a smell of woodsmoke is in the air now, drifting in from the fire. The crowd stands silent, purple ribbons on their chests rustling in the breeze, while a final ceremony takes place. The crate is sprung and a flock of balloons rise into the air. The honour guard close ranks behind Delise Brashaw. In front of her a line develops, starting with the dignitaries and Forest Service officials. She shakes their hands, accepts their few words, her expression grim and determined. I hang back, wanting to meet her, to say something but not sure what that might be. No doubt, she'll have a few words for me. Grey sees me hanging back.

“You holding up, Porter?”

“Yeah.” I try to look reassuring. “Good eulogy.”

He doesn't say anything, just looks at me until I wander over, join the line. The line inches closer and soon I'm only a dozen yards from Brashaw's daughter. She's in her early twenties, with a strong jawline and handsome features. She has her father's sturdy build, without his bulk. She nods after each handshake, wincing a little with each attempted smile. Suddenly, it's my turn. I can tell she doesn't know who I am.

“Porter Cassel,” I say quietly. “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

I extend my hand, hoping she'll just give it a quick shake and I can be on my way.

“Porter Cassel?” she says, then her eyes narrow. Here it comes.

“You were up there with BB when it happened,” she says.

“Yes. I just ... wanted ...”

She leans forward, gives me an unexpected hug. I'm not sure what to do and stand there like an idiot, my arms frozen at my side. Suddenly, her voice is an urgent whisper in my ear. “Come to Del's Greenhouse.” Then she lets me go. Confused, I try to catch her eye, gauge her intention, but she's already busy with the next mourner.