Smoke on the Water

(cue Deep Purple, Machine Head, 1972 - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jp3de50_d8 just for kicks)

The smoke from the wildfires to the north and south has completely blanketed Anchorage & points south. The mountains were faint this morning; this afternoon, they're not visible.

The smell of burning grass (no, not that kind ... the kind you grow on the average lawn) fills the air. People's eyes are beginning to water, but I haven't heard any complaints yet.

The smell takes me back to days on the fire line, chasing brushfires in Missouri. The heat I mentioned in a previous post was fully in force, as we traipsed across blackened fields and smoldering woodlands while wearing Indian-brand pumps on our backs. Those galvanized, metal tanks held 5 gallons of water, and must have weighed around 50 pounds when full.

So a line of men (didn't have any females on the team at that point) would be pumping those things furiously, squirting what seemed a pitifully small amount of water at vegetation that was so dry it practically laughed at us.

The humidity had the effect of soaking us through with our own perspiration before we got to the fire. Once there, the heat would dry us on the side facing the fire, while sweat ran down our backs. Every breath became an effort, as the smoke clogged nostrils and made eyes squint and water. Hot air and smoke scorched our throats, which became too dry to swallow. We prayed for a brush truck and cursed the galvanized water tanks on our backs ... all the while wishing for more water.

There were usually at least two Boy Scout Explorers running a water jug up and down the line, trying to get a cool drink to us. That was a welcome break which never lasted long enough.

Once a pumper got to our positions, we'd be looking for a place - any place - to take off those damnable pumps. The emptier they were, the easier that task became.

Occasionally a man would go down from muscle cramps while on the line; we'd have to pull him away from the heat, calling for drinking water, and administering a salt tablet once water was there. More than once, we'd squirt water from a tank into his cupped hands, so he could wash the tablet down.

Later, we started carrying an iced cooler of Gatorade on the 'new' brush truck - a recycled '72 Chevy pickup bought from the Army Reserve - which had a 150-gallon water tank and a motorized pump in the bed. That helped us a lot.

I lived close to the station house & was usually able to get there first, when a call came. First to arrive meant I got to drive whichever piece of apparatus was required. On structural fires, I wanted to go in and attack the beast; on grass fires, I preferred to be engineer.

I suspect my back would let me know in no uncertain terms what it thinks if I tried to pick up a loaded Indian pump now. For better or for worse, I'm in a different line of work, these days.

Well, I need to go replace a tail light bulb in my wife's car. TTFN!

Oh! and the reference to smoke on the water? Anchorage is a port city, hence its name. : )