Dancer on the Mountain: Seven Firefighters Walk Away from Wyoming Firestorm

Allow me to digress from my normal local story I write for Castle Rock, Colorado. In the midst of California burning every year and all of us across the Northwest getting smoke from the fires, let me tell you about another fire. This one took place over a quarter-century ago. To my knowledge this true story has never been told, until now. For clarity, I quote the Crew Chief, nicknamed "Tuck" as follows, describing this crew, most of whom were American Indian firefighters.

"As memory serves me right, this was the first summer I had worked for the U.S. Forest Service after I was mustered out of the U.S.A.F. This puts me at an age of 25. I was trained through my local district as a crew boss for major project fires.

My fire boss, knowing my temperament for my fellow man and the fact that I did not have a prejudiced bone in my body, is one reason I was chosen as the crew chief of the so-called "misfits" on this one particular project fire. He asked me to crew these men for 'no other crew boss wants anything to do with their kind.' The men that I had been assigned to as a crew boss were five Indians. 'Big Mike,' the cat skinner, and myself were the only white men. Back in those troubled times, Indians were not well thought of.

As far as their real names, I don't really know them. I only remember their nicknames. To this day I don't know if any are still alive or not, but I do know that ours paths were meant to cross at this time in history. I was addressed as Tuck. Mike (the Cat driver) was known as 'Big Mike,' a seasoned firefighter of 50 years. Then there was 'Big John' and 'Little John.' Ironically, 'Big John' was the littlest Indian I had ever known. He was close to midget size. 'Little John' was his brother. As you might have guessed, he was huge. Both these men were Shoshone-Paiute.

Then there was 'Skinwalker', the most handsome Blackfoot Indian I had ever seen. Next was 'Ole Bear', who was of Nez Perce origin, also a seasoned firefighter of at least 20 or more years. He was kinda the unofficial boss of the Indian crew. Once I had gained his respect, which was not an easy task, I had gained the respect of the rest of the Indians.

The last man was a young half-breed Sioux who was named 'Two Toes Labeo,' by which he was named because he was minus the little toe on each foot. I never did nor would I have ever thought to ask how he came by that nickname.

To add flare to the situation, Big Mike hated Indians! He was raised on a reservation in Wyoming where his Dad had been posted after the war in the Indian Agency. Big Mike wanted to 'run them *&#@ redskins down with his Cat.' So you can see how things were before our near brush with death came to be.

We had worked together for more than a week, on and off the fire. Soon we came to trust each other (some still did not like others) but the fact remained, we needed to count on each other to survive. Let it be known that this was the best crew I had ever had the privilege of which to be a part.

The two most experienced men, Ole Bear and Big Mike, knew that I was right when I barked orders to the catskinner and crew. They listened and did as I directed to save our butts."

And so the story unfolds. The winds are kicking up. The six men on the fire line are not concerned. Their Crew Boss, Tuck, keeping a watchful eye upon each man, scrutinizes the raging fire roaring down the rocky gorge. It is heading the other way. An attentive ear to his 2-way radio in continual contact with Base Camp, Tuck barks orders to his crew. He uses the alternate radio channel, a dedicated frequency which only his crew could hear.

The D8 Caterpillar (bulldozer) operator, Big Mike, deftly turning his Cat, clears boulders and brush from the potential path of the blaze should it reverse direction.

The other crew members, using hand tools, are working the brush fires with shovel and plaski (an axe on one end and a hoe on the other), dousing hot spots with nature's fire suppressant, good old-fashioned dirt. They walk through hot spots as though they are walking in a cool park, protected by their fire-retardant clothing and boots. Besides, sweat from their exertions keeps them cool.

The crew has no idea how precious that dirt would soon become. The same moment the Crew Boss hears the radio sputter to life with a dire warning, Tuck looks up to see the wind instantly change direction, blowing fire and smoke directly at them, much like the day he told me this story. Tuck had been smoking his customary occasional cigar as we enjoyed morning coffee on his porch. (Smoking must remind him of the firefights). Like all folk who get past 60, telling about the days of bi-gone glory is a most pleasant pass-time.

I was downwind and the foul odor engulfed me, with never a turn the other direction.

Respectfully, I inquired if we might switch chairs. To my amazement, this real-life enigma agreed. Now posed comfortably to listen to the rest of the story, I focused upon the telling. Was it some omen as he told of the fire alert from Base Camp, at the self-same moment and for the first time since we'd been sitting there all morning, the wind shifted, blowing the foul cigar odor right back in my face?

No, as if to emphasize the telling, the wind obliged him, responding to him like it was one of his crew. I endured it. Now was not the time, and Tuck chuckled as though his Nez Perce ancestors (see below footnote) fanned the breeze which raised the hairs on my neck. Tuck affirms, "My beliefs and heritage were spiritually tied to these men that day."

Then, Tuck recalls, he sees the fire rolling up, over and over, like you roll up a sleeping bag, gaining momentum and force with every roll, sucking in all the available fuel and oxygen. "Just like the training film," he thought. Only seconds remained between certain death and any hope of survival.

Barking orders to the crew to hide in a cleft of the rocks formed by boulders, simultaneously commanding Big Mike, the Cat-skinner, to bring the rig about and scoop mounds of dirt in front of the make-shift cave. "Elevate the blade and place it in front of the boulders," he yells. Without missing a shovel full, Big Mike pushes huge shovels of dirt to the "mouth," placed his blade in front of the cave for added protection, all in what seems like a single movement, bolting for safety of the boulders as he joins the rest of the crew.

The Crew Boss is farthest away. Diving to reach safety of the cave, Tuck's body crashes against a boulder, partially splintering the 2-way and their hopes for rescue. He spots the lone Ponderosa pine on the rocky slope a few yards from them, standing in god-like isolation, its gnarled roots entwined with the massive granite boulders, gripping the hillside tighter than a giant octopus.

The raging inferno uproots the 150-foot tree as though it is a match-stick being tossed in the air. It lands about a quarter of a mile away on the opposite ridge, exploding as it hits the ground into pieces better used as kindling for a small campfire. Its fiery corpse creates a "backfire" which, Tuck says, "burns all the fuel between us and the line my crew and I had created. This is a good thing, for when the two fires met, they burned themselves out." Tuck nonchalantly exclaims, "We just happened to be in the middle of this at the time!"

Barking more orders, he commands the men to pull in the dirt in around them, covering themselves in the earth which might soon become their last resting place. For the foreseeable future, the only oxygen they have is inside the cramped alcove of boulders and dirt. He and the crew are wedged against mounds of dirt hot enough upon which to cook their dinner. Through tiny crevices, they observe the hell-fire rage outside, turning the right side of the Cat blade into molten metal. Without it there, they might not have survived.

Amazingly, the diesel fuel tank on the other side of the Cat, wrapped in its own fire-retardant blanket, survives without exploding. He hears Base Camp calling for the fly-over to spot and rescue the crew. At all times, crew positions are precisely known. Tuck's radio can still receive but can not transmit. He and his crew hear the helicopter crackle out to Base Camp, "There is nothing alive down there. They didn't make it."

When the fires are cooled down enough, the crew emerges from the shelter to find a landscape looking like the inside of a crematory chamber after the burn. Tuck says, "I was the last man into the cave and the first one out." Without radio, the crew begins the long 3-hour hike back to Base Camp. Tuck relates, "I do not remember if the ridge had a name or not. I suppose it did but we just knew it as the Southern escape route for the main fire line."

Tuck's crew, as it is known, can still hear the voices checking out the safety of all the other crews, but Tuck's crew is presumed perished somewhere on the Southern escape. A definitive pall is heard in the communications. All the remaining crews have been located safe and unharmed.

Unbelievably, the helicopter pilot reports a crew, not previously counted, jaunting down the hillside like the Seven Dwarves on their way to work. There are indeed seven of them. All are alive. None are injured, but they are really dirty-looking.

As they reach Base Camp, their only comment is, "We had the 'fear of God' implanted in our hearts today."

Tuck says, "Some of the events are probably hazy to recollect but others are crystal clear. Like I never thought about those men's names until you asked me. They came back like it was yesterday. That near-fatal day, my crew and I were assigned to keep that ridge open and lay down a fire break for an escape route for other crews, in case it was be needed. We all worked very hard. We achieved rather astonishing results on the areas we were assigned to control.

The task is almost completed. The fire-break we laid down in a matter of six hours time later played a very important part for other crews working farther down the mountain. Mother nature threw us the curve. When the fire blew up, my crew and I were unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Many years later, Tuck was given an Indian name by The Order of the Arrow (The Boy Scouts of America's highest honor society). It is "We-Gen-To-Gin Watusa" which translates as "Dancer on the Mountain." It originates from the Leni-Lanpai tribe of the Iroquois. No question about it, Tuck's crew certainly danced that day!

This story is for all the folk who ache for the desire of real people doing a real job in the right way, whom, by doing so correctly, become unintended heroes merely because they did not panic in the face of death. Like most heroes, Tuck says he was only doing what he was trained to do.

If any of those other six men are alive today, I'd imagine they'd beg to differ. I hope they do.

The awesome aspect? That Crew Boss is none other than my older brother.



FOOTNOTE:

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Nez Perce (IPA: /ˌnɛzˈpɝs/) are a tribe of Native Americans who live in the Pacific Northwest region (Columbia River Plateau) of the United States. It is estimated that at the time of the Lewis and Clark Expedition the native people had been in the area for over 10,000 years.[1] The tribe currently govern and inhabit a reservation in Idaho. The Nez Perce's name for themselves is Nimi'ipuu (IPA: [nimiʔipuː]), which means simply "the people", or "we the people".[2]

(Redirected from Nez Percé)

Nez Perce Tribal Flag

Total population

2,700

Regions with significant populations

United States (Idaho)

Languages

English, Nez Perce

Religion

Christianity, other

Related ethnic groups

other Penutian peoples

For the county in Idaho named for this tribe, see Nez Perce County, Idaho.

(2) ^ "Nimi'ipuu". Nez Perce History. Nez Perce Tribe Web Site. Retrieved on 2007-03-11.