I only need to smell smoke to feel the heat that nearly killed me 30 some years ago.
I was a young photojournalist working for two daily newspapers in Reno, Nevada covering a wildfire named “the Comstock”. A writer can conjure a scene after it’s occurred with descriptive phrases, but a photographer needs to witness it.
As the first (and it turned out only) Reno newspaper rep on the scene I was aware I would be responsible for more than just capturing images of burning brush. Because I had graduated from the University of Nevada, Reno’s Journalism department I was expected to write the story as well as shoot the pictures, even if I couldn’t spell.
The fire was roaring up steep hills and box canyons as it climbed Geiger Grade headed toward historic Virginia City, the original Comstock lode. Firefighters with the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) crewed a brand new, specialized machine dubbed the “Dragon Wagon” for it’s reputed ability to fight fire with invincibility.
The Dragon Wagon was no where in sight so I ran to catch up with an old fashioned hand crew manning a lowly pickup truck. As I rounded a blind curve, ahead of me stood the fire crew its path totally blocked by fire and thick smoke.
Deciding I had taken enough pictures after all, I turned and ran back around the curve, only to find another newspaper’s photographer running toward me, choking on the solid wall of smoke blocking the only way out.
We scrambled aboard the pickup as it inched its way further up the canyon. As the smoke folded us in its smothering shroud, I heard my companion scream he was on fire. One of the firemen doused us all and yelled to stay low. As I pressed my face into the hub of a spare tire in the truck bed I wondered if I could stand the heat much longer.
We were stopped now. The driver blinded, suffocating with us; we could do no more than hold on.
As the cinders burned holes in my wet clothes I gasped greasy air and listened to the tall sagebrush crackle and hiss. The fire pushed us down like a giant hand.
Just before blacking out I was conscious of being doused again, and being able to breathe without choaking. The smoke was lifting, heat abating as the fierce flames had consumed all available fuel.
The fire had burned completely over us, turning us into sooty scarecrows. My stinging-shut eyes opened onto a scene of blacken destruction, 6 foot brush reduced to scrawny tendrils. We inched up the road.
Ahead, off the road and impaled on a still burning clump of sagebrush was the “Dragon Wagon, ” engine still running, it was abandoned, its doors open. The crew was no where in sight. So much for invincibility.
Looking over the cab of our fire truck I noticed the heat which had scorched us had deformed our conical red light, melting it like a gum drop. The view from the truck was of a blacken landscape, still smoldering. In the distance we could see the bedraggled, but uninjured crew from the ill-fated “Dragon Wagon.”
Looking into their sweat-streaked faces as they approach, I recgonized the emotion I was feeling: an overwhelming sense of relief. We had all survived.
