My Little Brother
The dry black ash and lack of shade magnified the punishing sun, roasting our skin as we moved. Fifty pounds of water sloshed in our rubber pisspacks, hammering our tailbones with every stride. We gripped our hand tools tighter and pushed toward the smoke.
“Okay, buddy, let’s do this,” I said.
Farley grinned from ear to ear. “Even more initial attack.”
Black smoke from the stand ahead billowed into the sky, thickening by the second. Our run shifted into a sprint as we closed in on our objective. We dodged and weaved through the blackened skeletons of 20-foot charred black spruce, their brittle remains snapping underfoot. Everything around us had burned, except for the occasional clumps of cones still clinging to the tops of the trees. It was clear these boreal species had evolved to protect their reproductive efforts.
Farley and I, on the other hand, hadn’t acquired that evolutionary advantage. We had to rely on constant situational awareness, adjusting and reevaluating with every step through the volatile terrain.
We needed to move faster. Farley’s footsteps matched mine as we ran, our lungs straining in the black ash. One more small hill and we’d be there. I glanced over at him and saw the same determination burning in his eyes.
Fire tore through the trees ahead, cooking off their branches and hurling waves of heat in our direction. Our faces and arms stung under the sun’s unforgiving glare. It was always too hot to keep our sleeves rolled down, no matter what the SOPs said.
The smoke ahead of us began to thin. The fire must have consumed the pocket of trees it had been feeding on. We climbed another 100 meters, leaving the flat muskeg behind and entering the white spruce habitat.
A group of the conifers threw light smoke into the air. Hot embers encrusted their trunks, and their branches, freshly cooked off, were now void of needles. Nearby, a larger clump of their unburned neighbors pleaded for help as flames danced at their feet, threatening to consume them next.
We lowered our mesh face shields to protect ourselves from the radiant heat and drove our hand tools into the earth. Cocking the pisspack nozzles, we pressed down the metal tabs at the ends, fanning water at the base of the trees. With no water source nearby, every spray had to be tactical and precise.
We ducked in and out of the intense heat, targeting the seat of the fire. The water evaporated almost as fast as we could pump it, and flames climbed higher into the ladder fuels. The heat was overpowering, the fire gaining the upper hand.
“We need a bucket!” Farley yelled from the other side of the stand. He was right. My Nomex shirt and pants had soaked up all the heat they could. Now my body was starting to cook.
“JKN, this is Peace Unit Leader. I need to steal your next drop to hit that smoke south of the north guard,” I radioed.
“Copy that. Be there in two,” the pilot responded.
“Hold! We got this,” I shouted to Farley over the roar of the flames. With each spray, the fire slowed for a moment before surging again. We worked in rhythm, trying to stymie the flames before they could take control.
The thump of rotor blades grew louder as our precious heli-bucket came into view. Farley and I backed away from the stand into a small clearing, waving our arms toward the fire to mark the drop site and signal that we were clear.
JKN slowed overhead, the helicopter hovering steady as the pilot dropped the bucket low, just a few meters above the canopy. With precision born from experience, he released a perfect string line of water onto the flames. The impact was immediate. A wall of steam erupted as the water hit, the hiss loud enough to cut through the roar. Needles and ash exploded into the air. For a second, the fire staggered.
The flame front buckled. Entire trees vanished beneath the weight of the drop, their scorched trunks smothered in a rush of boiling mist. It felt like we might have turned the tide.
But before we could catch our breath, flames flared back to life along the edges. Pockets of heat buried in the duff and ladder fuels reignited, clawing their way up through singed branches.
“Great drop. Just one more, then you’re free to help the others,” I said into the radio. I knew the rest of the Unit needed him badly, but without a water source nearby, we’d be hooped without another drop.
We charged back into the stand. I grabbed the Shovel of a Thousand Truths and hammered the flames into the wet ground, working in sync with Farley as he sprayed down the bigger flare-ups to hold them back. My piss-pack was already half empty, and I knew I had to save the rest for after the next drop.
Using the flat side of my spade, I struck at small pools of water that had collected in the uneven ground, sending splashes flying toward the flames. Each strike fanned the water in a thin arc, hissing and sizzling as it hit. The flames faltered for a moment before the bone-dry earth drank up every trace of moisture. Each strike was a desperate attempt to buy us a few more seconds, holding the fire back until the next drop arrived.
“My water’s running low,” Farley said, his piss-pack gurgling and popping as the hand pump clawed for the last drops.
Flames crept back into the ladder fuels, spreading fast as they climbed higher.
Thump. Thump. Thump. JKN was almost back. We backed away from the advancing flames, waving our arms to mark the target.
Woosh. The water from the bucket slammed into the flames, snuffing them out on impact. Without wasting a second, we ran back in. I used my epic weapon to spread the fresh groundwater across the remaining heat, while Farley swung his monster Pulaski into hotspots before they could flare up again.
The flames that had once held a stranglehold on the stand were now reduced to steaming shadows of themselves. The heat still lingered, but for now, the stand was safe.
“That was closer than I was hoping for. Good work, buddy,” I said, glancing at my friend.
A plume of dark smoke rose from the southern guard, back where we’d come from. I glanced at my little brother, then nodded toward the smoke.
“Even more IA,” he said with a cheeky smile, sweat streaming down his face and dripping from his beard.
Without missing a beat, we took off toward the smoke.
The day was far from over. Across the burn, every firefighter on the Unit was buried in their own corner of hell, chasing flare-ups, beating back blowouts, and wading through choking heat. Our resolve wasn’t just being tested, it was getting dragged through the ash. We were running on instinct, muscle, and whatever water we could scrounge, doing everything we could to hold the line.
