On a sweltering Sunday in June, I had plans to do absolutely nothing. Josh had left for a fire the day prior so I had the whole house to myself, yet again. The evening sun was beginning to set while I made my rounds pulling curtains closed in each room. It was time to retire for the night.
I wasn’t expecting to hear from Josh since he was likely getting situated at fire camp, some remote helibase or maybe at an airport with a handful of his crew mates. I tried not to give myself a false sense of hope (not an easy task). I imagined him busy with logistics and planning, boots on the ground, heavy pack on his back, working ridiculously hard. There was no room to be selfish, his work and safety takes priority and that’s just the way it is.
I made my way up the carpeted steps and marveled at the renovations we'd accomplished together. We had installed beautiful light hardwood floors and painted the walls a light blue. I shuffled across the room barefoot through the soft blue throw rug from Ikea and made my way to Josh’s closet. Plucking a shirt of choice off the hanger, I swiftly pulled it over my head now adorned with his scent. I had started wearing his t-shirts to bed, it made me feel like he was there somehow.
I pat the bed gently beside me, letting our dogs know it was okay to come up and join. They loved laying on Josh’s pillows, instinctively filling his side of the bed with their large, warm fur-covered bodies. I gave them each a loving scratch. My nightly ritual by now was to kick an old sitcom on the tv while scrolling social media posts on my phone. I enjoyed the familiar background sound and brainlessness of browsing pictures and announcements from friends.
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My heart slammed against my chest and my gut soured instantly. The hairs on the back of my neck stood erect, I could feel warmth radiating into my face, down my arms and into my fingertips. I stared horrified at the words in front of me on Facebook. One of Josh’s fellow crew members had made the comment only moments earlier:
"In a matter of seconds....I lost 18 brothers today in the fire world please pray for them, and their families."
Sweat dampened my armpits as my body temperature continued to soar. Everything around me seemed to stop. A sudden awful stillness like the hissing of a bad radio station filled my ears. Panic spread throughout my body, tingling and hot as my jaw began to quiver. Using all my mental might, I paused to recall that Josh was on a local fire in Utah. Where was this? My hands shook as I searched the comments for any additional details, to no avail.
Oh god, please, no.
The west was dry, our own area hadn’t seen rain in far too long, as indicated by the large brown spots in our lawn. Fires had been popping up for a while now, largely ignited by lightning storms. I found this screenshot on my phone, which I had taken only a couple days prior. It was HOT.
I dialed Josh’s number and raised the phone to my ear. The first ring took forever, followed by a second, a third, then click.
“Hello?”
His voice was like music to my ears, instant relief flooded all of my senses. I asked him if he saw this comment. He hadn't. How do I deliver this news? Holy shit. Should I have even called? I relayed what I knew from the post. His crew mate that had created it was on another fire, in Arizona. I could hear the worry in his voice and immediately felt terrible for even telling him. But how could I not?
The number was sadly wrong. An incredible 19 of the bravest souls, the Granite Mountain Hotshots, had lost their lives earlier that day in the Yarnell Hill fire. Only one survivor remained, a lookout that had been situated in another area and was lucky to escape. Drastic weather conditions had altered the intensity and direction of the blaze, which was spreading at an alarming rate. The hotshot crew was suddenly situated in the path of the quickly approaching flames. With no time to reach a marked safety zone, the firefighters had no choice but to deploy their fire shelters and brace themselves for what was coming. The shelters look like aluminum foil sleeping bags, every wildland firefighter is required to carry one. They unfortunately aren't capable of sustaining direct flames or temperatures past a certain point. Deploying your fire shelter is a last resort, worst case scenario. Fucking scary.
All 19 members of the Granite Mountain Hotshots were trapped, overrun by the 2000 degree flames, far too hot for their shelters. It was the greatest loss of life since the South Canyon fire in 1994. A devastating blow to the wildland firefighting community and their families.
I hung up the phone, I wanted to throw up. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I sobbed loudly and crumpled into a useless heap on the floor of that empty house. All I could think about was the girlfriends, the wives, the moms and the dads, the kids, all those family members, how they must feel right now.
Sitting helpless, the dark roads of depression suddenly opened, beckoning me to follow. Thoughts raced. What would I do if it had been Josh? Who would have called me? How would I tell his mom and dad? Oh my god, what would I DO? My heart knew he and his crew members were safe, he confirmed that, but my mind wouldn’t shut up with all the ‘what if’s’. It had just happened to 19 families, the possibilities of this happening to us felt far too real.
I remember I ran down the steps from our bedroom to the front door, twisted the deadbolt and swung it open to observe the porch light, I wanted to ensure it was on. 'I’m going to leave it on for the next 19 days straight', I thought to myself. I made my way to our kitchen and opened a small drawer containing a bag of unscented tea candles. I counted out 19 on the counter and tried to scoop them up in one go. They wouldn’t all fit in my hands, there were too many. I wept aloud as some fell to the floor.
I had a plan to have my own little vigil and arranged them on our large wooden coffee table. 19 candles, 19 souls. I carefully placed each in the shape of a ribbon, a symbol of awareness and support. Gripping the lighter tightly, I lit them one by one.
Sitting on that living room floor in the dark, quiet house, I stared into the 19 flames. I'm not religious, but for the first time in my life I think I prayed. I felt the need to speak to some form of higher power. It was all I could think to do. 'Please keep Josh safe, please bring him back to me. Please bring these families relief in this time of such darkness.' I was distraught and I was utterly alone. Fire season had only just started and it was getting hotter out there.
Today is 10 years, but I'll always remember like it was yesterday. This post is dedicated to the families of the Granite Mountain Hotshots and to sole survivor, Brendan McDonough. There is not a day that goes by that I don't think of you. I hope you feel surrounded by so much love, always. We will never forget. For more information about the fallen Granite Mountain Hotshots, click Here. To view the accident investigation, click Here.
Josh spoke about attending the Memorial on July 9th that year. His supervisors supported anyone that wanted to go. "It was a humbling experience driving past their station in Prescott, seeing all the flowers and photos", he remembers. His own father and a handful of crew mates had joined the thousands of firefighters that had travelled from all over the country to show their support. Hotels were sold out, so they camped on the front yard of some friendly Prescott residents. "The memorial itself was incredibly touching, a very somber moment".
I asked him if he had any fear for his own safety after that: "I’m sure it was in the back of my mind. Like I never want to be in that situation and how terrifying and shocking it must of been for the firefighters in that moment. We were working this fire in central Utah and what I do remember is a crew member telling me it was an entire shot crew that was wiped out. I also remember at the fire we were working on a Helispot, the winds were erratic and when the helicopter was coming in to land it had to do a go-around. The winds shifted and were coming from the tail, that can create a loss of tail rotor effectiveness (LTE, which can lead to loss of control and often an accident) . That situation eerily happened in the same moment as the Yarnell hill burn over."
"It certainly was a talk of the season . Lots of 'what actually happened?' and briefings about being in a safe spot and having trigger points. I also tried to make an effort to maintain contact with you as much as I could. To provide reassurance that I am safe."
I asked him if he had any closing remarks, a message perhaps for his fellow WFFs. Here is what he said: "Life is fragile. Remember what’s important. Always always speak up. Speak up for your self and for others. It takes courage but it's everyone’s duty."
Until next time,
Erin
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