forestry technicians – One Foot In the Office

For the People on the Edge of the Night*

Just tied handline in to the dozer line, 1994, WA. Allegheny NF, Crew 1, the 5 firechicks

I had my first panic attack while speeding south on I-75 in Tennessee in 2010. I was heading back home to Asheville after visiting my mom in Northern Indiana, and it was an effort to safely pull over on the shoulder. I sat there in my Subaru, heart racing, sweating, hyper-ventilating, crying, wondering what was going on with me. I didn’t think I was having a heart attack (although it felt like I thought a heart attack would feel like), I was pretty sure it was a panic attack. It had been a rough few years, but this was the first clue, that I couldn’t ignore anyway, that I was a bit fucked up. And it would be a very rough few more years ahead of me as I eventually tried to get myself to a good place. I would do risky, reckless things, hurt people I loved, and make some really stupid decisions along the way. But I would also make some good decisions – like seeking help from professionals who did, in fact, help me a lot. One continues to help me. I’m still a work in progress, a flawed human. But now I’m doing better mentally and physically than I probably ever have.

Last week I asked my therapist if anyone has done a study on whether people who experienced trauma in their childhood are attracted to jobs as first responders. Growing up amid chaos, do we seek careers where we can overcome chaos? Bring order to chaos. We say that a lot in our profession of wildland firefighting. That we are good at bringing order to chaos (and we are). Are many of us striving to finally do as adults what we couldn’t do as kids — exert some control over our often violent and frightening and uncertain and tumultuous childhoods? She didn’t know, but she said it made a lot of sense, so there’s likely something to it. Those of us who grew up in those situations adopt a lot of coping mechanisms that helped us survive. And while those mechanisms are critical in self-protection, self-preservation, when we’re kids, they don’t always serve us well as adults. They mostly do not.

In the summer of 1994, I was on my first Western fire assignment on a type 2 initial attack fire crew. I was working for the FS on the Allegheny National Forest (ALF) in Pennsylvania, and the Western fire season was so bad they starting flying crews in from back East. We ended up in WA state not long after the South Canyon Fire tragedy where 14 firefighters died on Storm King Mountain in CO. My crew quickly gained a good reputation, and so we got moved around a lot to emerging fires. For an Eastern T2IA crew, hell for any T2IA crew, we got a lot of cool assignments – fireline construction (even a little bit of hotline), firing, holding.

After about a week total on two different fires on the Colville National Forest, we ended up on a fire called the Tyee on the Wenatchee National Forest. We got there in the early afternoon. Fire camp was set up at a fish hatchery, and we were told to drop our gear in the gravel next to the empty fish runs. I remember looking at a bunch of tents set up in a lovely shady area where the grass was bright green and looked soft as a pile of old quilts. “Why can’t we set up over there?” I asked. My Squad Boss, Randy, laughed. “That’s for overhead. They always take the best spots.” We dumped our gear, and, surprisingly, they sent us right out to the fire. The bus dropped us off, the Crew Boss and Assistant got their briefing, passed it on to the Squad Bosses, and the 20 of us walked up a paved road behind a row of houses. Randy lined us out and told us to watch for spot fires. We were so spread out we couldn’t even see the other two squads. But we could see the fire up on a ridge in the distance. The wind was blowing, the sky orange. We hadn’t been there long at all before we noticed the fire pushing downhill towards us. Fast. Randy shouted above the wind “Let’s go, time to GO!” motioning with his arms to follow. The sky got darker and the fire got louder. I followed the person in front of me, eyes on his or her back, tucked in close, as we cut through someone’s back yard. We popped out onto a state highway and waited for the rest of our crew. The residents who hadn’t yet evacuated were jumping into their packed vehicles and tearing out of their driveways and up the highway. The two other squads showed up along with the Crew Boss and Assistant. We formed into our line and began hauling ass up the highway.

And then the noise. The nearly deafening noise of a freight train that everyone talked about. I remember thinking “Wow, a fire blowing up really does sound like that.” Vehicles streamed past us – evacuees, overhead in their trucks, agency engines. And then the big structural fire engines, the pavement queens, pulling out of driveways, speeding past us, red lights reflecting off the windows of the homes. The sky darkened, our pace quickened, the fire got closer. Leaves, pine cones, small twigs swirled around us. A pickup truck stopped “Get in!” someone yelled. “There’s 20 of us, go on!” someone from the crew yelled back. I just kept my eyes on the person in front of me. Suddenly someone at the head of the crew stopped. A blond woman in shorts and a t-shirt was screaming at us from her driveway across the road “HELP US! Please, help us save our house!” A rookie started across the road toward her and someone off the crew stopped her. “You need to leave! We can’t help you, you need to go NOW!” the Assistant Crew Boss shouted at the woman. And then we started jogging. I remember catching up with other crews or maybe it was just one crew. It was dark like night, the streetlights were on. I was now next to my friend Diane who was on my squad. She had way more fire experience than I had. She had worked on an engine on the Angeles NF in southern CA and taught me a lot. I knew I’d be okay if I just stuck next to her. Suddenly a large black bear was running from the fire with us and then past us. Diane and I looked at each other, wide-eyed but silent, and just kept going. So did the bear. And there were deer running with us as well. At least we were all going in the same direction. Eventually the sky ahead of us began to lighten, the roar of the fire abated behind us, we slowed to a walk and pushed on to a staging area where other resources were now gathering. I looked at my watch, surprised it was only about 1600. The fire-darkened sky had fooled me into thinking it was nighttime. “Take a break but stay together,” the Crew Boss said as he and the assistant went to tie in with overhead. The immediate danger over, we drank water, we high fived each other and laughed and smiled. “Holy shit, did you guys see that bear?” “Wow, I didn’t think we were gonna get out of there!” “Did you hear the noise of that thing?” “I saw a giant pine cone fly through the air!” “I wonder how many houses burned?” We were high on adrenaline and being alive. What a rush.

Back at fire camp that night we were told to not set up any of our tents but to sleep in our Nomex clothes on top of or inside our sleeping bags with our shelters next to us. There were concerns the fire would get close enough for us to have to evacuate camp. The night was warm, and I unbuttoned my Nomex shirt that was over a cotton t-shirt and untucked it from my pants. I had taken my boots off, and I’d snugged my fire shelter up against my hip. I gazed up at the mountain; the fire had laid down for the night, but the hillside was dotted with flames and embers still burning in tree tops and stumps and downed logs. I fell asleep thinking it was lovely and frightening at the same time.

The next day we headed out to the fire in our bus. We ended up driving up the highway we’d run down the day before. We were all silent as we drove past the burned homes. Well, what was left of them. There were a few still standing, but many had burned down to foundations, their brick chimneys naked amidst the rubble, shells of vehicles in their driveways.

Later that summer, on the Boise National Forest in Idaho, after a burnout gone bad, my crew had to prepare a shelter deployment site. My Crew Boss, Steve, had seen it coming, tried to talk the Division Supe out of lighting it off. They lit it off anyway and it was immediately gone, cutting off the escape route to our safety zone. Our bus was parked to head us out and down the way we came in, and that route, and the bus turnaround, were now cut off as well. Our bus driver, Burt, was a retired Pan Am pilot who flew jumbo jets to Europe. Worried our bus was going to catch fire, the Strike Team Leader and our Crew Boss sent our Assistant Crew Boss to have Burt back the bus up the windy, single-lane forest road as far as he could. We hadn’t been up that way, didn’t know if there was a safe place for Burt, Jim and the bus, but they decided to give it a shot. The rest of the crew’s attention was focused on scraping down to bare soil in a small opening and caching our saws, fuels, and fusees away from this location. I was fucking scared. I remember my legs shaking while I was bent over digging down to dirt. Steve gathered us all up. Man, he was calm and cool. “Okay, here’s how it’s going to go. We’re going to sit here and hopefully not have to use our shelters. But if we do, I’ll say when, and I want everyone to deploy with their squads and I want you packed in together like sardines. Remember, feet towards the fire.” He glanced up and across a small draw where the Park Service crew was doing the same. “And someone go tell that crew to take the fusees out of their packs.” In those days the training was to keep your pack on when you went into your shelter, and a fusee stowed in your pack could ignite from the fire’s heat.

We didn’t have to deploy that day. The fire blew around us, and we had to sit there for hours late into the night until it was safe enough to leave. We listened to the trees crashing around us, loosened rocks and boulders rolling down the slopes. When he felt it was safe enough, Steve called Jim on the radio to come down with the bus and get us. I was so happy to see our yellow school bus and Burt and Jim. As we got on the bus, we all high-fived Burt. I sat close to the front and heard Jim telling Steve about Burt backing the bus up. Jim said there were quite a few switch backs and drop-offs and that Burt backed that bus up like it was nothing. He said they probably backed a couple miles up the road and Burt never broke a sweat or acted like it was any big deal. Compared to a 747 that bus was practically like driving a sports car. Someone wondered aloud if we could request that all our bus drivers were retired jumbo jet pilots.

And I loved it. All of it. Everything.

Those experiences weren’t uncommon just to us. Everyone who does this has stories like mine. Some even more harrowing. It is the job. It is wildland fire.

I would go on to work a season on a hotshot crew, then on engines, and do a little bit of helitack. I moved into fuels, and then got the Chief 2 job on the Klamath NF in Northern CA. During my three plus years on the Klamath we had two non-line of duty deaths from our fire ranks. Woody missed a curve and drove his vehicle off the road and into the Scott River during the winter when he was laid off. A couple years later Mike missed a curve driving his motorcycle home from work. In 2006 and 2007 we had helicopter crashes that killed all three pilots. In 2008 first we had two people from a caterer hired to feed folks on one of our big fires drown in the Klamath River while swimming on their day off. Shortly after that we had a burn-over fatality on one of our Type 3 fires. In 2009 one of our hotshot crews had a buggy rollover after being clipped by a semi, the truck driver having fallen asleep. Later that summer a forestry technician off our other hotshot crew was run over by a water tender in fire camp as she slept in her sleeping bag.

I tell people those three years on the Klamath were the best and worst years of my career. I found my favorite wolf pack, my best boss ever, while learning so much. But after three years of demanding fire seasons, a lot of death, serious injuries, and loss I was Fucked Up. Capital letters. I had gotten sideways with my boss on the Klamath, and back in Indiana my mom’s health continued to decline. When the Forest FMO job opened up on the National Forests in North Carolina (NFsNC) I applied and was hired. I’ve moved around a lot, and moving on is always bittersweet, but leaving the Klamath NF was the most difficult departure from a job I’ve ever made. After everything many of us had been through together, I felt like I was abandoning my best friends.

I was hoping the pace and grind of the job in NC would be slower, easier than on the Klamath. It was different, but it wasn’t slower or easier. The job had been vacant for over a year, and a lot of stuff had fallen through the cracks. One of the largest fire programs in the Southeast, the NFsNC consisted of four national forests, eight ranger districts, stretching from the TN border east all the way to the coast. We had 11 engines, a hotshot crew, three tractor plows, and three dozers. The mountains of the SE US enjoy a split fire season – spring and fall. When we weren’t fighting our own fires and prescribed burning, we were supporting the Western Fire season. Hardly a break at all. And there were some pretty big gaps in the program – lack of adherence to important policies, out of date SOPs, major inconsistencies across the districts. I was frustrated that several managers on the forest weren’t interested in improving the program. I felt like Sisyphus on a daily basis. I found myself angry much of the time. What I didn’t know then, but I’ve since learned, is that constant anger is common expression of grief. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I took it out on a lot of the people around me.

So. Panic attack on I-75. I remember lying in bed with my husband that night, breaking down crying, telling him about my panic attack. And out it came. Why won’t they listen to me about what they need to do here? Why is everything a fucking fight? What if someone dies again on my watch? After 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots died on the Yarnell Hill Fire in 2013, a good friend of mine who was on the fire told me that when he went home he just could not deal with the day to day petty bullshit at work. He was incredulous. He’d just been a part of 19 firefighters dying, and people at work were bitching about who didn’t wash out a fucking coffee cup in the break room. Of course, they had no idea what he’d been through. They were just going about their normal lives, yet he was profoundly changed by what he’d been through. Looking back, that was what was going on with me. In NC I didn’t talk about what I’d been through in CA. Only my close friends knew, and they didn’t know the details, and didn’t know how much I was struggling. So, of course, no one could know how desperate I was that none of the folks under me would go through anything bad. I wanted them to just take my word for things, to respect my experience and knowledge. I didn’t want to play the Klamath card, and I really didn’t. But I also didn’t want to escort another body home or face the wife of another dead firefighter. I wanted to spare everyone that, but I didn’t want to tell them what I’d been through because I was afraid they would think me risk averse at best, not up to the job at worst. For a while I lived in constant dread of the “next bad thing” happening. In the meantime, my mom died suddenly, and five beloved pets crossed the Rainbow Bridge. More loss, more sorrow.

I felt desperate and crazy. But what finally drove me to find a therapist wasn’t panic attacks, nightmares, my anger, or my reckless actions. What finally got me to make the call was I couldn’t pass the damn pack test (wildland firefighter fitness test). I’d wrecked my knee really bad when I crashed my little Yamaha in my driveway at the end of summer 2008. It was a long two-year recovery, and when it was time to take the pack test I kept getting hurt. I jacked up my Achilles tendon. Then I broke a bone in my foot taking it. Just walking with the pack. I had to surgery to have a permanent screw inserted. In 2014 I started to have severe pain in my legs and back. I couldn’t walk more than 50 yards without having to stop, my lower legs so tight they felt like concrete. A friend said, “Maybe your body is trying to tell you you’re done fighting fire.” I was actually worried it was my mind telling me that. And that my mind was recruiting my body to make sure. I went from doctor to doctor. I tried acupuncture, medical massage therapy, stretching. I had a cardiac stress test and ultrasound to rule-out blockage in my femoral arteries. I was despondent to think this was all “in my head.” That my mind had roped my body into betraying me. I would try to take the pack test, and not even get a quarter mile in when I’d have to stop. I was embarrassed. And scared. What if this was it? What if I couldn’t fight fire anymore? Sure, I was an FMO, but I was also a firefighter. I wasn’t ready to leave the fireline.

I did what any 21st century human being would do and started Googling. I came across Somatic Sensing, which is a body-oriented approach to the healing of trauma and other stress disorders. It talked about how unresolved trauma is often manifested into physical ailments, but that Somatic Sensing could also use the body to heal trauma. Sounded right up my alley, and there was a therapist who specialized in it in the same building as my primary doctor. Well, it wasn’t. Up my alley, I mean. It did not work for me. I tried it several times, I wanted it to work, I was desperate for it to work. But it was not my jam. Meanwhile I continued to do stupid shit, mostly in my personal life.

It was the back doctor who finally figured it out. He thought I may have spinal stenosis, which is not a good thing to have, and sent me to get an MRI. When he told me I didn’t have it, I broke down crying. I should’ve been elated I didn’t have spinal stenosis, but I thought I was still without answers. This man was so kind, so compassionate. And then he said, “I think you might have compartment syndrome in your legs.” Wait. What? “Rhabdo?” I said. “No, they’re often both called that, but I think you have the chronic kind, not the critical kind. It’s pretty unusual. We have a doctor on staff who specializes in it. I’m going to get you an appointment with him. In the meantime, go home and look it up.” Huh, a doctor actually telling me to GTS (Google that shit). “What about my back pain?” “Well, you do have arthritis in your L4 and L5, which is causing some of your pain, but I think the problems with your legs is affecting your back by throwing off your gait.”

I did exactly what he told me to do, and I went home and looked it up. Chronic Exertional Compartment Syndrome wasn’t even on WebMD. I found it on the Mayo Clinic website. While not classified as rare, it is an uncommon condition, and one that typically strikes people in their 20s and 30s (score one for the old chick). They didn’t know what caused it. The only sure cure was surgery. The website said try to find a doctor who performed 2-3 surgeries a year. That’s how unusual. And it sounded like that’s exactly what I had. The test was to do physical activity and then have the doc insert a probe into the calf muscle to measure the pressure. Ouch. When I went for my appointment the doctor asked me about all my symptoms, what brought it on, what it felt like, etc. And then he said, “I don’t need to give you the test, you have it.” Whew. I was elated. I nearly wept with relief. Finally, I knew what was physically wrong with me. “Surgery is the only cure for you. I’ll have to slice open the fascia in both legs.” “At the same time?” I asked “Yes.” “How many of these do you do?” “Oh, two to three a year.” Bingo! Hired. I had surgery in December of 2014, over eight months into the ordeal. It was a success, and I was back working out in no time.

Now I had to try to work on my mental demons again. *sigh* I’d had two more panic attacks, but I didn’t tell anyone, not even my husband. I actually drove myself to the hospital late one night when he was out of town, because I began to wonder maybe I really was having a heart attack. Nope, the ticker was fine.

I decided to once again try to find a therapist. I wanted to find one who worked with first responders, but I came up empty. I was fortunate that I was living in Asheville, NC, a decent sized city with numerous therapists from which to choose. I wanted a woman, a PhD, and someone who specialized in trauma. I looked through several profiles on the Psychology Today website over the course of many days and kept going back to the same one. I looked at her web page and liked what she had on it, and I was happy to see she took my insurance. I felt a good vibe. I took the leap and emailed her. And found myself back in therapy. And this time it clicked.

A PTSD diagnosis that I reluctantly accepted. You see, I hadn’t thought I’d earned it. I wasn’t under the helicopters when they crashed. I wasn’t one of the employees who found Mike’s body the day after he went missing. I wasn’t on the fire when the firefighter died inside his shelter. I didn’t witness the hotshot buggy rollover. I wasn’t on the ground when one of our LEOs and his K-9 Officer were murdered during a manhunt on the forest in NC. It looked like many of my fellow co-workers weren’t struggling like I was. Maybe they were and were just good at hiding it. And maybe they weren’t. One of my best friends was with her team in Washington DC after 9/11 and it messed her up. She finally sought help and just needed a session or two to put her back on track. Dr. B was able to explain to me that it doesn’t always have to be a big, “Capital T” trauma to mess us up. She said a lot of little traumas could cumulatively build up, overwhelming our abilities to process and handle these events. Chronic or complex trauma. And she said I needed to stop comparing myself to others, we all have our own journeys. I’d had some pretty big Capital T traumas as a child. And then over the course of my career, like so many of us, endured numerous smaller, yet not insignificant, traumas. Not saying that the fatalities and accidents on the Klamath were necessarily little “ts.” They were not. Dr B and I did talk therapy, and she also guided me through Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), which I’d heard about from some of my friends who’d found relief with it. It all helped a lot. I started to feel more myself, less angry, less afraid of the next bad thing happening. More in control. Less self-destructive. Don’t get me wrong, EMDR and talk therapy were not a quick fix nor a miracle cure. It took a lot of hard work. Therapy was uncomfortable and difficult. Dr B often gave me homework to do. There were days I didn’t want to go to my appointment. But I always went, because the discomfort, the raw emotions, the terrible memories were worth it. Worth me getting myself back.

That summer, 2015, I passed the pack test for the first time in years. Between my leg surgery and therapy, I finally got into shape and stopped sabotaging myself. I had to start over as a Division Supervisor Trainee because my qual had lapsed, but I made it out to Idaho and got signed off. Again. And I was prouder of that than the first time.

Therapy couldn’t save my marriage. And as Dr B said, her job wasn’t to “save” marriages but to help couples figure out what they wanted to do, and then help them through that. Out of respect to my ex I won’t go into details here, but the best thing for me was to leave my marriage. It will always be the greatest sadness of my life.

I am certainly not one to judge, but there are a lot of fucked up people in our profession — many of my close friends belong in this group. Some are doing better, some are not. Some have gotten help, some have not. As I asked my current therapist recently, are those of us who experienced childhood trauma drawn to this profession, already bringing the little “t” event with us? Who knows? And you know what? It doesn’t really matter. The job is a meat grinder and can wear you all the way down even if you had the perfect Brady Bunch childhood.

You don’t have to be exposed to trauma to struggle in this profession. As I referenced in a previous essay, the demands are extremely challenging. I have several dear friends and colleagues who struggle with depression. The Black Dog visits them periodically. EVERYONE struggles at some point, and there should be no shame in that. No shame in reaching out, asking for help. I think it takes great strength to do so. My message here is if you’re struggling, then try really hard to get yourself some help. Self-diagnosing yourself with PTSD without seeking professional help won’t heal you. Crawling into a bottle every night won’t permanently keep your demons at bay. Asking your friend to hold onto your firearm until the Black Dog leaves is only a band-aid. You can’t wait for the agency to help you, either. Look, I know it’s fucking hard; not just the work you have to do in therapy but finding a therapist. I’ve lived in small, rural towns where there weren’t a lot, if any, options. The EAP doesn’t have a lot of clinicians on the rolls, especially in small towns., but give it a try. And sometimes you have to go through a couple to find the right one for you. If the EAP doesn’t work for you, and you have health insurance, find someone who takes your provider. Many therapists will work on a sliding scale. ASK.

Damn, this essay is LONG. And writing it was not easy. I’m an extremely private person. And while I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to talk about it, it’s highly personal. I just don’t talk about these things. In my younger days, especially as a woman in fire who had to constantly prove I’d earned my spot, I would’ve been afraid to talk about this. Afraid it would show me as weak, not tough enough for the work. But my proving days are over, and now I’m on a quest to normalize talking about mental health and well-being. And if I can’t share my own experiences then it’s just lip-service. I need to walk the talk. One of my favorite bosses, who himself just went through some pretty tough stuff at work, recently said that leaders need to talk about their own struggles in the hope that it makes it okay for others to also do so. To ask for help. To seek getting better. To heal.

Too long after I moved to OR I realized I still needed to put in some work, so I found myself a new therapist. I worked with her regularly for a full year and then didn’t need sessions as often. Just an occasional “tune up” as I call them. Then during the fire activity after the big wind event — when I was neck deep in evacuations, when there were moments I had to sit in my truck and cry, when I couldn’t sleep — she checked in on me via email. She’s over an hour away, but I take sick leave for my visits. She doesn’t take my insurance, but she adjusted her fee for me. I turn in the expenses to my Health Savings Account and pay the rest out of pocket, which I’m able to afford at my GS level. And it’s worth it. I am worth it. YOU ARE WORTH IT.

Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can’t we give love that one more chance?
Why can’t we give love, give love, give love, give love,
Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love.
‘Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word,
and love dares you to care for the people on the
edge of the night, and love dares you to
change our way of caring about ourselves.
This is our last dance.
This is ourselves. This is ourselves.

 *From “Under Pressure” by David Bowie and Queen

We Don’t Need Another Forestry Technician Hero (Part 2)

Forestry Technicians prepare a burnout operation to secure structures at Steamboat Work Center, photo courtesy of Marissa Duarte, USFS — Archie Creek Fire. Photo by Marissa Duarte, USFS

Okay, what’s the deal with Forestry Technicians? Why am I not calling them Firefighters? Well, because technically federal employees are not classified as Wildland Firefighters (there is a tiny segment of the federal workforce who are structural firefighters). They’re Forestry Technicians, Range Technicians (mostly with the Bureau of Land Management), Equipment Operators, and Administrative Specialists. (In the federal government EVERY position falls within a “series” that determines a lot of things including qualification requirements and pay.) Yep. Now, the federal firefighting agencies (US Forest Service, Bureau of Land Management, National Park Service, US Fish and Wildlife Service, Bureau of Indian Affairs) will blame the Office of Personnel Management (OPM). Sure. Okay, let’s go with that for now.

According to OPM, the federal firefighter series (0081) excludes wildland firefighters, which are defined as, “Fire control, suppression, and related duties incidental to forestry or range management work.” Pretty much any position that is involved in “natural resources” is in the 400 series. Some require a college degree (i.e., 460 is a Forester, 401 is a General Biologist, 408 is an Ecologist) and some don’t (i.e., 462 is a Forestry Technician, 455 is a Range Technician). For GS-11 and above “fire” positions the series is 300 “General Administrative, Clerical, and Office Services.” Yes, a Fire Staff Officer, a Fire Management Officer, a Division Chief, are all “Administrative Specialists.” Now, some of the boots-on-the-ground who think people like me are simply paper pushers driving a desk may agree with this. However, we are required to have operational fire qualifications.

In my 30+ years with the US Forest Service (USFS) I’ve been a 460 (Forester), a 401 (General Biologist), a 462 (Forestry Technician) and a 301 (Miscellaneous Administrator) all while working in wildland fire as my primary job.

This “battle” with job series has been going on for some time. After the South Canyon Fire tragedy it was decided at the top by the federal fire management agencies (listed above) that “wildland fire” positions needed to have incident qualification requirements associated with each position. They are known as the Interagency Fire Program Management Standards (IFPM), and they were proposed in 2004, ten years after South Canyon. I don’t think most people had issue with this part of IFPM. If you were holding a District Fire Management Officer (DFMO or Division Chief) position on a highly complex district then you should be qualified as a Division Group Supervisor and Type 2 Burn Boss at a minimum. But they also decided that the management positions (at the DFMO/Assistant FMO level and higher) should have a four-year natural resources degree (or equivalent) because these positions would be classified as 401 (General Biologist). In other words, if you wanted to move from an Engine Captain or Hotshot Superintendent position into management you would need a college degree.

I’m not opposed to education. I’m actually a big fan of education. I have a BS in Forestry that I’m pretty proud of. But to make a 40 or 50-year-old person who has proven they are a good firefighter and manager go back and get the equivalent of a college degree to keep their current position seemed ludicrous. The absolute best “Fire Ecologist” I’ve worked with in my 30 year career was a District AFMO whose formal education didn’t go beyond high school. There was talk of “professionalizing” our fire workforce. I don’t think a damn college degree has any bearing on how “professional” a fire organization is. The agencies reached out to a few universities to develop “continuing education” programs specifically aimed at wildland firefighters who needed this requirement. People in current positions that would become 401 had priority, and Uncle Sam foot the bill. For people who aspired to these positions they could get in as well after applying. And as many people that went through these programs it still wasn’t enough to fill the “pipeline” with qualified employees.

The consternation in the Forest Service over appropriate job series for wildland “firefighters” began in 2004 with the plan to implement IFPM. Go here to see the numerous memos, letters, and FAQs regarding series. In a nutshell, the Office of Inspector General (OIG) and OPM did audits in 2008 and 2009. OIG was concerned about the Forest Service’s ability to sustain a viable recruitment pool of fire management candidates for the GS-401 series (I’ve searched high and low for the audit/report and management alert and cannot locate them). It was a valid concern.

As a follow up to a 2008 email instructing the agency to “stand down” in implementing wildland fire positions in the 401 series, Forest Service Chief Gail Kimball penned a letter on May 29, 2009 referring to the OIG audit and providing interim guidance on job series, including suspension of the 401 job series. The letter also stated, “The Forest Service will be working with the Department to evaluate the options of establishing two new job series [emphasis added] to describe wildland fire management work. One series would be a technical wildland fire management series. The technical series would blend the knowledge, skills and abilities required of modern wildland fire suppression and natural resource management. The second series would be a professional wildland fire management series that provides leadership and management for wildland fire management programs in a natural resource organization. These job series would replace the existing 462 and 401 series currently in use for fire positions within the Agency.”

The USFS convened a “summit” consisting of top Fire and Aviation Management employees, Human Resources Management, and the National Federation of Federal Employees (union) to develop a plan to “seek immediate near-term and long-term solutions.”

On July 8, 2011, Forest Service Chief Tom Tidwell rescinded former Chief Kimball’s letter with this letter. It stated, “The outcome of the meeting was a long-term strategy to pursue the creation of a unique occupational series for wildland fire management [emphasis added] that is consistent with the action item in the agency’s Cultural Transformation Plan. However, the creation of a new occupational series is likely to require significant effort and time.” He laid out an interim strategy that designated positions that would remain in the 462 Forestry Technician series (“firefighting and dispatch”) and the 401 series (“IFPM fuels positions”). The letter then stated, “Fire management positions at the GS-09 and above grade levels that are primarily administrative and managerial in nature are in the process of being reclassified in the GS-0301, Miscellaneous Administration and Program Series.”

That letter was the last we formally heard about “a unique occupational series for wildland fire management.” We’ve been told a lot of things informally. The unions has tried to get elected officials in on the fight to develop a new series, but every time it seems there’s a bit of traction gained it goes nowhere.

I do want to acknowledge that the 455 Range Technician series is also an issue, primarily in the BLM, which is in the Department of Interior (DOI). I can’t tell you what the internal discussions have been in the DOI agencies, but it’s frustrating that the federal land management agencies who engage in fire management can’t seem to get in alignment with the US Forest Service, and vice versa. This is just as important of a discussion; I just don’t have the information and experience with the 455 series in DOI.

Why does this matter? Well, for one thing, series are connected to pay. There are some series in the federal government that receive a higher salary rate on the General Schedule scale (professional engineers, for example, because the pay in the private sector is so much higher). It’s Uncle Sam’s way of sweetening the pot in order to better recruit qualified and high performing employees who would make more in the private sector.

Entry level Forestry Technicians are at the GS-3 level. Go here for the General Schedule pay table. There is a “base”, and then there are higher rates for localities that meet the criteria (high cost of living and large enough population, for example Portland, OR and the greater Denver, CO area). A first year GS-3 Forestry Technician makes $11.49/hour. The California minimum wage rate, which is a state rate so the Federal Government doesn’t have to comply, is $12.00/hour (set to incrementally increase to $15.00 by 2022). I’m not knocking on the work millions of Californians do for minimum wage. But how many people who make minimum wage in the CA service industry can get killed by a falling tree or a raging wildfire in the scope of their employment? As a comparison an entry level wildland firefighter for the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CALFire) makes 50% more. This holds generally true for all federal Forestry Technician and administrative positions – CALFire employees make double what the feds make. For federal Forestry Technicians there is enormous pressure to get as many fire assignments and as many hours as one can during fire season in order to supplement the often “meager” base salaries. Because a large segment of these Forestry Technicians are “seasonal” employees this means they are only guaranteed work for six or nine months out of the year.

Those of us in “fire” positions are required to meet not just the qualification requirements but physical fitness requirements as well. It’s a condition of our employment. Hotshots, smokejumpers, helitack all have to meet even higher standards of physical fitness and technical proficiencies. And wildland fighting fire is hard on the body.

A unique occupational series for federal wildland firefighting positions could mean a higher rate than the base GS rates (such as engineers).

But it’s not just about the money. It’s about so much more. It’s about acknowledging the inherent risks associated with wildland firefighting. And I’m not only referring to the physical risks like falling trees, rolling boulders, raging fires, chainsaw accidents, and vehicle mishaps. The USFS has gotten better about acknowledging the environmental dangers associated with fighting fire. But this is also about acknowledging the personal, emotional toll this work takes on us and our families. Structural firefighters might sleep at their fire station when they’re on a shift (typically 3-4 nights away from home per week), but federal Forestry Technicians who fight fire can and will be dispatched anywhere in the country (and sometimes to Australia or Canada) for 14 to 21 days, excluding travel. Then a couple days off and right back out (and sometimes those days “off” are done at incident, not at home). In a busy fire season (and they’re getting busier and busier) a Forestry Technician on an engine or hand crew, a smokejumper or helitack, could spend as little as 16 days at home in a four-month period (“peak” fire season in the West). We miss birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, funerals and the simple day-to-day interactions with our families and friends. A lot of spouses get tired of living “alone” and raising children as to what amounts to being a “single” parent for a good part of the year. And while official statistics on divorce rates are lacking, subject matter experts believe the rate for Forestry Technicians who fight fire is considerably higher than the national average.

And let’s talk about mental health. While no one keeps official records, it’s thought by mental health professionals and other subject matter experts that the suicide rate for Forestry Technicians engaged in wildland firefighting is significantly higher than other professions and is an indicator of a mental health crisis. One known research study published in 2018 was done with a small number of participants and showed staggering findings: 55% of wildland firefighters compared to 32% of non-wildland firefighters reported clinically significant suicidal symptoms. The reasons are numerous – challenges of balancing family life with work; being laid off in the dark, often cold months and losing the “family” support unit of one’s engine crew or hand crew (the bonds are strong in fire), called “thwarted belongingness” by psychologists; financial challenges in the off-season; exposure to traumatic events associated with the job. The Employee Assistance Program, EAP, has some great services, however the maximum number of free visits to a mental health professional varies from three to six. And the contractors don’t often have trauma-trained clinicians. It’s hard enough to find someone who works with law enforcement or structural firefighters, but someone who understands wildland firefighting is about as rare as a unicorn. Rural communities, of which a lot of our national forests are part, and where many Forestry Technicians live year-round, often will have no clinicians at all that are contracted with EAP. Go here to read just one story of this struggle.

Again, why does this matter? A unique occupational series for federal wildland firefighting positions means an acknowledgement of the work we do and the sacrifices we (and often our families) make. My agency won’t officially acknowledge us as Wildland Firefighters. Many of us feel they only do so when it’s convenient or cool or sexy to do so: when the agency needs “heroes” and not just Forestry Technicians. As the COVID-19 pandemic hit and we started talking about contracting the disease while in official capacity and how to “prove” that to the Officer of Worker’s Compensation Program (OWCP), the USFS had an opportunity to officially state to the OWCP that Forestry Technicians who fight fire are “first responders.” The agency chose not to. But during the memorial for a Forestry Technician Hotshot who recently died on the fireline, the Chief of the Forest Service referred to him numerous times as a “firefighter.” Managers at the highest levels of the USDA Forest Service are quick to refer to us as “wildland firefighters” when we die in the line of duty. It’s good PR.

As former Chief Tidwell wrote in his 2011 letter that developing a unique series would require “significant effort and time.” It’s been NINE YEARS. To be fair, the OPM oversees an incredibly archaic classification system that will need a congressional mandate to update. And the OPM is one of the few federal agencies that actually makes a profit off other agencies by charging them to do the work no other agency is allowed to do. Meaning, we are required by law to use the OPM (and they charge us money to do the work). But just think what could happen if ALL the federal land management agencies who manage wildland fire got together to work with OPM to develop a unique wildland firefighter series. I just cannot imagine real change would take another nine years to happen.

Morale is extremely low in the wildland fire community. These Forestry and Range Technicians feel ignored, unappreciated, misunderstood, and disregarded. It’s a testament to the fortitude and drive of the people doing this dangerous, yet necessary work that they continue year-in and year-out to labor with an overall positive spirit and high level of determination, despite the shitty pay, lack of recognition, and disrespect. These folks are largely smart, creative, dedicated, critical-thinking problem-solvers who love the land.

The Wildland Fire Leadership Values are Duty, Integrity and Respect. Duty — leaders valuing their jobs; Integrity – leaders valuing themselves; Respect – leaders valuing their coworkers. It’s time the top managers of the USDA Forest Service, and the other agencies, show proper respect of valuing these hard-working women and men by honoring them, us, as Wildland Firefighters:

Establish a unique wildland firefighting job series with appropriate living wage and commensurate benefits.
Provide better mental health services that acknowledge the unique work and sacrifices of wildland firefighters.

If you want to support this effort please go to the Grassroots Wildland Firefighter Committee to see a lot of ways you can help. Go here to see a new bill H.R. 8170 – Wildland Firefighter Recognition Act. Contact your representative if you support it. We need your help.

DISCLAIMER: In no way here do I officially represent the USDA Forest Service or any other federal agency. I have links to public documents and have attempted to present as many facts as I can. The rest of the essay is my opinion and does not reflect any official stance by any of the federal land management agencies who engage in wildland fire management.

We Don’t Need Another Forestry Technician* Hero (Part 1)

In 2007 I stood at one of the crosses near Stand 5, the Spot Fire/Lunch Spot, of the Rattlesnake Fire Staff Ride on the Mendocino National Forest. The entire permanent fire organization from the Klamath National Forest was participating in the staff ride as part of our first “Fire Week.” The Rattlensake Fire is where 15 members of the New Tribes Missionary Fire Crew were overrun by the flames and died on July 9, 1953. A co-worker and I were looking at the interpretive sign remarking on how far one of the crew members ran before he was overtaken by the fire. For me it was reminiscent of Eric Hipke’s epic charge to the top of the ridge on the South Canyon Fire. Except Hipke survived.

As we talked I heard a sound behind me. When I turned to see what it was I saw a young man, one of our Klamath NF Apprentices, sobbing nearly uncontrollably. One of the Captains from the Klamath Hotshots had his hand on the young man’s shoulder and was consoling him. Through his choking sobs he was saying, “I have always laughed off close calls. We joked about having to run from fires. I never really thought about how close I’ve come to being hurt or killed. And it was cool, and it was exciting, and I thought I was smart and a great fireman. And now I finally see how easily I could’ve made my wife a widow and my kid’s without a dad. And that I don’t want to die a hero.”

I started crying and walked over to this young man and put my arm around him, “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here. This is why we’re all here. To learn. So this doesn’t happen to us.”

It is still happening.

I’VE STARTED THIS ESSAY NUMEROUS TIMES since the helicopter crashed on the Mt Hood NF on August 25^th (the helicopter manager and trainee are from my forest). But I couldn’t land on a topic. I wanted to talk about fire fatalities, I wanted to talk about forestry technicians*, I wanted to talk about mental health of those who fight fire, I wanted to talk about the dark realities of “heroism.” Then after September 8^th I wanted to talk about the fires that roared through Western OR and WA leaving tragedy in their collective wake. Each time I started to dive deep into thinking about on which topic to focus (I do a lot of writing in my head) I would find myself getting overwhelmed and emotional. I had to just stop. I was in full compartmentalization mode for at least the first 14 days after the wind event that started on the 7^th. It’s the only way I could get through the long days of dealing with two large fires. I had to focus on the work and task at hand and push everything else back into a dark corner. In my long journey into taking better care of my mental health I know I will have to eventually light up that dark corner and deal with all of it. I must be getting there since I’m finally sitting down to write this.

Look, I know shit happens. Sometimes healthy-looking green trees fall. Sometimes the wind blows or shifts when no one, let alone meteorologists, expected it to. Sometimes we do everything right, and bad stuff still happens. But when we do know the wind is going to blow, when we’re well aware of snags and other hazards, when we know the inversion is going to lift, when it’s obvious a structure is indefensible, when the “values” aren’t’ worth the risk, why are we still putting our forestry technicians in the way? And by “we” I mean Fire Staff/Chief Officers (like me), Agency Administrators, ICs, Division Supervisors, Module Leaders. “We” all own those decisions. And lastly, we’re humans; we’re fallible.

I was once a gung-ho hotshot with more bravado than experience. But my Supt and the Foreman did have the experience to manage the risks for the rest of us. When I questioned why we needed fresh drivers to come get us after a 36 hour shift the Supt bet me $20 I couldn’t stay awake for the 30 minute drive from the fire to the hotel where we’d bed down. As hard as I fought it I was asleep in less than five minutes.

THE EAST WIND EVENT THAT WAS FORECAST FOR OREGON AND WASHINGTON STARTING ON SEPTEMBER 7, 2020 WAS SPOT ON. When the National Weather Service in Portland put into their forecast that it was a weather phenomenon that only happens two to four times a century and that it was a very dangerous situation, well, that got my attention. While east wind events aren’t unusual in Western OR, this one was forecasted to be historic due to the unusually high winds (gust up to 60 mph) and single digit relative humidity. They warned us a few days ahead. We knew it was coming. My forest didn’t have any active fires, but we knew that was likely to change. Two nights before the forecasted winds I sent an email to the fire folks here asking them to prepare themselves emotionally to walk away from homes that were likely to burn or already burning. Homes in the communities where many of them grew up and still live. Homes of their neighbors, co-workers, friends. I wanted to acknowledge how hard it is to do that, and I wanted them to think about it before they needed to do it so that they would make the decision to withdraw in time.

On the first night of the forecasted winds, Monday, I woke up once. Surprised at the lack of wind, “Maybe they got it wrong,” I thought as I fell back to sleep. My phone ringing at 0521 proved otherwise. It was our primary cooperator. “Tell me about the fire you have up Williams Creek,” he said. “This is the first I’ve heard about it,” I said. “Well, MODIS (satellite imagery) is showing you have a 500 acre fire.” “Shit,” I said, “I need to make some calls.” There was no wind at my house, it was calm as could be. I called the Acting FMO (one of our AFMOs who was covering since the DFMO was out on assignment) and got no answer, so I left a voicemail. Next I called the other AFMO who worked on the district where the reported fire was. He answered. I told him about the fire report. “There is no wind here at my house,” I said. “Let me step outside,” he answered. “I live between Roseburg and Glide (Glide is where the Ranger Station is), and it’s calm here, too.” The AFMO was getting a call from the acting DFMO I’d left a message with earlier, so we hung up. He soon called me back and said the wind was howling up the river. They were going to start calling the forestry technicians to gather up and head to the fire. Before we hung up I said, “There’s no firefighting with this. Just get people out.” “Understood,” he said. I trusted him completely.

And that’s exactly what it was. Before long I was on calls with one of the Deputy Sheriffs concurring with evacuation areas up the river. Soon another fire started near the forest boundary on BLM and private lands. Even with helicopters that fire fight quickly turned solely to evacuating residents and folks in campgrounds. The forestry technicians and others were honking the engine horns, running sirens, emptying campgrounds, knocking on doors, helping the elderly get to their vehicles. The Umpqua NF Type 4 IC trainee, born and raised just down the road, later said that at times she couldn’t tell where she was because the once-prominent landmarks were either obscured by smoke and ash or already completely burned. They led many residents and recreationists to safety through the smoke and flames.

As devastating as it was to lose over 100 residences, no one died in our fires. Some of that was because ours happened in the light of day. But a lot of that was the result of the actions of the Umpqua NF forestry technicians, the firefighters with our key cooperator, and proactive actions by county and local law enforcement. Before the day was over, in a proactive and gutsy move, our Sheriff put the entire county, over 5,000 square miles, into a Level 1 (Ready!) evacuation.

Later that day we got another fire report, this one in the Mt Thielsen Wilderness near Diamond Lake. We had no resources to spare, and there were no immediate threats to people or homes. I told the AFMO, “We have to let that one go, Brian. We have homes burning down river and on the neighboring forests. We don’t have a choice.” He understood, but I know it was still hard for him. I called the Regional Duty Officer to let him know. He understood, too. We had few, if any, options.

That evening the two fires outside of Glide merged. As I stood in dispatch the Type 3 IC reported over the radio that this combined fire, the Archie Creek Fire, was now 70,000 acres. He later told me he heard me in the background calmly ask “What the fuck did he just say?”

After a very long day and evening I was finally asleep. Until my phone buzzed a bit after midnight. It was at text from Brian, the AFMO at Diamond Lake. “Riva are you still up?” I texted back “yes” and he called me. “We have reports that the fire has pushed out of Thielsen and is about cross Highway 138. I have someone en route, now.” Shit. I should’ve seen that coming, and I didn’t. We had folks in campgrounds, at the Diamond Lake Resort, in the Diamond Lake summer homes. I completely dropped the ball on that one. Just because we didn’t have any resources to put on it I shouldn’t have ignored it. I should’ve been thinking of worst-case scenario(s), and I hadn’t been. “Okay, let me know when he gets on scene.” Shit. I got up and fired up my laptop to look at a map of the area. Brian texted me several minutes later. The fire had indeed crossed Highway 138 and a Level 3 Evacuation (Go!) had been ordered with the Sheriff’s Office. FS folks started notifying people camping and they called the resort. I asked if Crater Lake National Park had been notified and Brian said no. I told him I’d have our Center Manager notify their dispatch center. Brian was trying to have folks assist with evacuation and also try to get as many folks rested as he could because we’d need folks the next day. Well, later in the day since it was already the “next day.” I texted the Forest Supervisor to let her know. And got a couple hours sleep at most.

As the east winds continued to blow into Wednesday both fires continued to march. The Archie Fire pushed towards Glide and a Level 3 Evacuation notice was ordered by the Sheriff that included Glide (and our North Umpqua Ranger Station), up Little River, including the Wolf Creek Job Corp Center. Thankfully no students were there, a COVID-19 silver lining. The Diamond Lake Ranger Station, located at Toketee, is a large compound with several permanent FS homes. It is an old-school remote station where many employees live full time year-round. One of the county Sheriff’s deputies lives there as well as several employees of Pacific Power. Sandwiched between the two fires we decided to err on the side of caution and evacuate everyone (it was not within the evacuation area from the night before) from there, too.

I’d remember hearing about a situation a few days prior where 15 fire personnel had to deploy fire shelters after trying to defend a historic Forest Service structure on a forest in Southern CA. The structure burned to the ground and two people ended up in the burn unit. I did not want the same thing to happen trying to defend either ranger station. Not that we wouldn’t assess to see if we could safety defend them, but I wanted folks to very clearly understand that these buildings weren’t worth anyone getting seriously injured or killed. On the road I called my Deputy and asked her to get fire leadership on a conference call and have that very direct discussion. I wanted it be very clear where we stood on it, and I wanted the information to go all the way down to the module leaders. I asked my boss to call each of those district rangers and ask them to have the same discussion. I wanted them to verbalize it – I wanted their folks to hear it from them. No building was worth anyone getting hurt. Not one. The next day the incident management team that had arrived to manage the Archie Fire used Umpqua NF forestry technicians to implement a burn-out operation around the old Steamboat work center where we had housing for our temps (they had been safely evacuated). They were able to safely and successfully complete the burn-out. I’m so proud of them, but I would be equally as proud if they’d withdrawn because it wasn’t safe enough to implement the burn out.

All-told, over 100 residences were lost in the Archie Fire, none in the Thielsen Fire. No lives were lost, no serious injuries incurred. But these were the homes of our community members, our friends and some of our families. And it hurt. Both ranger stations survived. None of the forestry technicians or firefighters with our cooperator were injured.

I thought I could pack the “forestry technician”discussion into this one essay, but I cannot. It’s just too “big,” too complicated. And I want to get it right, to do right by the folks out there risking their lives. Stay tuned for that, but in the meantime, go here for some great info on what a grassroots group is doing to try to turn the ocean liner. https://anchorpointpodcast.com/grassroots-wildland-firefighters-committee

DISCLAIMER: This is my personal blog. While I am currently an employee of the United States Department of Agriculture, any opinions posted here are my own and should not be construed to represent the official position United States Government, Department of Agriculture, or the U.S. Forest Service.

*Technically federal employees are not classified as Wildland Firefighters (there is a tiny segment of the federal workforce who are structural firefighters).  According to the Office of Personnel management (OPM), the federal firefighter series (0081) excludes wildland firefighters.  “Fire control, suppression, and related duties incidental to forestry or range management work.”