GHOST HERD

I led my fire crew up the rocky trail, leaving the helicopter landing site behind. We had flown in that morning from the base camp of the Chicken Fire out of Warren, Idaho. The big mountains around the Breaks of the Salmon River had spawned another gobbling forest fire and we were here from Oregon to fight it.

The Division Supervisor made it clear during his briefing on the rock outcrop where we landed that he did not want this fire crossing the river in the canyon far below. "We'll do our best," I assured him, though I knew we had some rookies on our crew. He let us go with a gesture in the general direction of our proposed fireline.

The country was open grassy meadow with occasional large Ponderosa pines. We always called these trees "punkins" because of the orange tinged, jigsaw patterned bark. The granite backbone of this northern mountain country was exposed in massive shelves. Country like this always made me feel at home, like the mountains of Colorado where I grew up hiking. Now my background was put to use finding a way up through the cliffs where he pointed.

We had to climb one at a time, waiting for the person above to clear the rocky chutes. As I pulled myself, with shovel and full fire pack, up over a ledge I was surprised to see a face engraved in the rock, peering back at me. It was an old crone, a native grandmother's face, and I received her look upon me as a benediction. For within the hour we were in the thick of the action, feeling the onslaught of the afternoon winds bringing the fire front.

A roaring came from the north slope canyon beyond us. I crept to the edge and looked down. Smoke was boiling up and the sound was like a train, charging up that mountain. The crew was busy digging a fire trail, cutting away brush and grass between the rocks, swinging their tools with heads down. They could not hear over the chainsaw. When hot embers began to fall all around us and start spot fires smoldering in the grass, I pulled the crew back to a large, flat rock area for safety. One helicopter came with a bucket of water to drop, but it didn't do much good with so many spots beginning to smoke.

We spent several hours sitting in our safety zone that afternoon while the fire burned over our intensely won line and proceeded on it's drive toward the river. The idea of throwing our bodies in front of it was never seriously considered. When the cool evening finally arrived we were able to pick our way back to the spike camp area. I dreaded the boss's response to the news I had to tell.

There was another Oregon crew in the wilderness with us and they had fared no better. We had all lost acres of ground that day. The boss was stoic. He got us organized to dish out the supper delivered by helicopter sling load. We sat around on the rocks, trading our rations and watching the glow of the fire below. The wind had gone down with the sun and it was a fine, clear night. Stars came out and it began to chill down. It was already late September and the mountain air promised frost before dawn. We cleaned up our supper trash and dug into the boxes for sleeping bags. These were the normal white paper bags which were issued for temporary use, and were surprisingly warm. The only safe place to sleep was on that rock outcrop, so we bedded down right there in the open. A hard rock mattress was preferable to a sleeping bag catching fire from the grass.

It took a while to settle down after the excitement of the day, but soon there were snores all around. I was dozing lightly when I thought I heard a crunching sound. Instantly I was awake and straining to hear. There it was again. More crunching: the sound of many hooves walking lightly over rock. The full moon had come up and bathed our campsite with bluish light. I didn't dare move. Only my eyes were peeking out from the bag, searching for the source of that sound.

Into my view came the legs of the elk. A whole herd was picking their way through the white worms spread out on that rock. My eyes traveled up to the massive bodies, passing by just inches away. "Please don't step on me," I prayed. One movement could have spooked them all and put others in danger if they ran. My breathing was so slow I thought I'd run out of air before they all passed.

When the elk reached the far end of our rock they headed into the forest beyond. I took a deep breath of cold air and lifted my head to see if they were all gone. Then I got up and tiptoed over to the edge of the rock. Across the night air came a single, ringing bugle and my hair stood on end. "Thank you. Thank you!" I whispered as I crawled back into the warmth of my bag. If the elk could move in front of that fire I knew we would be all right too. I took it as a personal blessing to be visited by my own totem spirits in the midst of such chaos. It was, after all, the nature of this land.