Thursday, July 20, 2017

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

View from the front seat

This is why I stopped moving up, even though many of my former coworkers and even those I trained when they were rookies have gone past me as they climbed the ladder.

This is why I still come to work.


 I could have a nice office.  I could have a higher base salary.  I could have the respect accorded those who have achieved a higher pay grade.  But then I wouldn't have days like today, flying through the mountains in a helicopter to look for fires, looking at lakes still frozen in high alpine cirques and lonely green valleys.

It was the right choice.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Thoughts from a sky house

Whenever I arrive at a fire lookout, I'm momentarily seized by the thought that I need to be doing something.  I rush around, unpacking my backpack, sweeping the floor, checking the firefinder to make sure I still know how to use it.  This usually lasts for awhile, until I realize that I have plenty of time.  That the job of a fire lookout is just to be there.

Current and former lookouts will know this is somewhat of a misleading statement.  There's plenty of work to do at a lookout, if you are the regular occupant.  Many of the buildings are historic, so require a lot of upkeep: painting, roof work, stove maintenance.  There's always trail work, and then daily life chores: hauling water, cleaning, cooking.
Everything you need.
 But if you're a transient lookout like me,  especially if only up for one night like I was recently, starting a project isn't necessary.  And eventually I stop trying to keep busy.  I drag a chair out onto the catwalk, bringing binoculars and a book.

I watch the sun move across the peaks.  It won't set until almost 10.  I can see the trailhead seven miles and nearly 3000 vertical feet below.  Boats crisscross the lake, carrying people out camping for the extended Fourth of July weekend.  Mountain goats cling to the rocks above.  I look for bears in Silver Basin, but don't see any.
There were mountain goats up there
I go to sleep when it's dark.  I can't see any lights, not even a campfire.  In the morning as I pack up, I hear a noise under the tower.  I think bear, but when I go to look, it is an industrious marmot, chewing on something, fat and content.

Lookout time is different than city time.  Up here, time seems to move more slowly, but the hours aren't filled with busy, often meaningless activity.  Standing on the catwalk and looking out at the mountains is a kind of meditation. As I descend toward civilization, I carry the quiet and serenity with me.
The beargrass this year! It's amazing.