Page 4 of Burning for the Mountain Man

The jaw tightens again. "Five AM departure. Bring your own gear. I'm not carrying your pack."

"Wouldn't dream of asking."

Bobby Garcia appears in the doorway with a donut and a grin. "Morning, kids. We playing nice?"

"Bobby." Nash stands, rolls the topo map. "Get Torres and Remón on the radio. I want a status check on the east ridge burn scar before Autumn and I head into the backcountry Wednesday."

Bobby's eyebrows shoot up at the first name. He glances at me. Back at Nash. The grin widens.

"Wednesday," Bobby confirms. "You two need a chaperone?"

"Get out, Bobby."

Bobby salutes with his donut, winks at me, and disappears. His phone is out before he clears the hallway.

Nash grabs his radio, his reports, and his mug. Stops at the door. "Windshield survey of the district today. Grab your tablet. Truck leaves in twenty."

Then he's gone, boots heavy on the concrete floor, and I'm sitting at the table staring at the spot where his reading glasses sat. He forgot them. They're folded next to his radio charger, one temple slightly bent.

My phone buzzes.

Owen:

you settle in ok?

Me:

Station apartment. Thin walls. Grumpy fire chief. Single digit humidity. Living the dream.

Owen:

grumpy fire chief hot at least?

I stare at the text for three full seconds.

Me:

irrelevant

Owen:

so yes

My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Twenty-seven years old, lives in Sacramento now, calls me every other Tuesday to ask when I'm gonna stop moving. The answer is always the same. When the job says stop.

Six districts in six years. Three western states. Reno, Boise, Flagstaff, Redding, Hawthorne, and now Whisper Vale. Each assignment is a season, sometimes two. Then the rotation notice comes, I pack a duffel, and I drive to the next town that needs someone to tell them their fire prevention program is inadequate.

The duffel is in the apartment. Everything I own fits inside it plus one backpack. No furniture. No kitchen supplies beyond a travel mug. Emergency contact on my state paperwork: Owen Blake.

This is fine. This is the job. Fix the district, file the report, move on.

The windshield survey takes three hours. Nash drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His truck smells like wood smoke. Not overwhelming, just embedded. In the seats, in his jacket behind the bench, in the air itself.

We cover the east ridge burn scar first. Forty acres of charred timber with regrowth at the edges, the blackened campfire ring still visible eight months later. He pulls over, and we hike in to mark fuel loads on my GIS map.

"Tourist from Reno," he says, standing in the middle of the burn scar. Wind pushes his shirt against his chest. "Left the fire going after a weekend camping trip. Called it contained. Wasn't."

"How long before you got the call?"