McDonough Brendan - My lost brothers : the untold story by the Yarnell Hill Fires lone survivor

It was about nine thirty a.m. when we tramped into the station, back from a six-mile run in the hills. The desert was starting to cook and the run had been grueling. We grabbed our water bottles and pulled the gunmetal-gray chairs into a semicircle and just sat there, dazed, chugging water, saying nothing at all.

This was a time when the crew ragged on each other and tried to get someone going. Workingmans theater. The basic horribleness of us all as rookies was a popular subject. Today was my turn.

Donut, Chris said, looking at me, sweat running down his face, you remember your first week? You ran like old people fuck. Sloooooooooowly.

Laughter rang off the corrugated roof of the station. I smiled. Hell, it was true.

Looks like a gazelle, runs like Chris Farley, thats me, I shot back. Never let them know it hurts.

Just then I heard Jesse call out something. Smoke.

That got all our attention. Smoke? Here in Prescott? We walked outside.

Jesse pointed to Granite Mountain, northwest of us. There it was, on the left-hand shoulder. Light gray, not moving.

Jesus, not now, someone mumbled. We were drained. A six-mile run in the desert heat will wear you out.

We started getting ready, putting on our yellow long-sleeve Nomex shirts and our Nomex pants and our handmade leather boots. We were willing the smoke to turn white, which would mean the fire was losing power. But it kept getting darker, bit by bit. It was moving, too, to the east, by the looks of it. Which meant the fire was getting bigger and stronger and it was coming toward us.

We all knew the names of wildfires that hadnt ended well: the Great Hinckley Fire in Minnesota, where a fire tornado burned so hot barrels of nails melted, train wheels fused with the steel rails, and 418 people died. Or the 1990 Dude Fire, which turned from a nothing blaze to a thirty-foot wall of flame moving at sixty miles per hour before it chased down and killed a crew of five inmate firefighters and their guard. The Oakland Firestorm, driven by a dry Diablo wind, jumped an eight-lane freeway, burned a house every eleven seconds, and killed twenty-five people. It came close to burning down Oakland itself. Mann Gulch, where a blowup cost thirteen smokejumpers their lives. In Esperanza, it was five firefighters, dead trying to protect a house.

Each one had different causes, different conditions, different terrains. But they all shared one factor: tinderbox dryness in the brush and wood that fueled them. And that sure as hell was true for Prescott, Arizona. It was drought conditions here.

Wed been in towns after the inferno had gone through. They were sad, bitter places, places that had been erased, just like the memories and keepsakes that the fire had claimed. I thought of my two-year-old daughter at home with her mom. What game was she playing right this minute? Was she gazing out the window, watching the smoke approach? I thought of the pictures of her taped to our fridge.

In my two years with Granite Mountain, Id walked past many homes just like mine, but gutted and seared. The people traumatized, searching for scraps of their former lives. You never get back everything you lose in a fire. Its a bad time. It hurts.

But as much as Id dreaded this moment, Id been waiting for it, too. Now I could show my family what Id been doing for two years, show them I was putting my life on the line to keep them and Prescott safe. One final proof that I wasnt the old Brendan anymore.

The radio began heating up. The whole towncops, structure firemen, Forestrywas watching the fireline and waiting to see which way the smoke moved. It was turning darker and creeping eastward, ever so slightly. The flames even had a name: the Doce Fire, after a local landmark.

Lets get ready, Jesse said. And listen up. Eat now. If were working Prescott, we sure as shit wont have time to eat lunch.

Peak burning time in the Southwest is from noon to five p.m. Temperatures rise, relative humidity drops, winds pick up. Those five hours are the ones you live for.

We refilled our water canisters, then found our chairs again and sat simmering in the ninety-five-degree heat. We waited and watched the smoke plume.

Dark gray now. We couldnt go until we were called in. And the darker the smoke got, the greater the chance that call would come.

It went to black against the dome of blue sky. Then it started moving to the northeast, faster. The radio crackled. Crew Seven.

That was us. We started the buggies, big white Ford F-450 trucks with equipment lockers above our heads that held our packs, bins on the side of the trucks that held all our other gear, and captains chairs for us to sit on during the drive to the fire line. The drivers revved the engines and tore out of the stations driveway.

The adrenaline was just about lifting me out of my seat. Gonna get some! I yelled out as we sped off down Sixth Street. Woooohoooo! Air gusting through the windows, wheels squealing around the corners, headed right at Granite Mountain. It was about twenty minutes to the fire line.

The smoke was moving all the time. We swiveled our heads to keep it in sight as the buggy took corners.

We were driving down a two-lane highway now. As we got close, the houses on the other side of the mountain were being evacuated. They sat abandoned, some with the doors left wide open. Not a soul to be seen. The place was under mandatory evacuation. But that didnt mean everyone was out.