Hotshots by Judith Van Gieson Page A

climb. Hogue paused occasionally, waiting for me to catch up. The altitude was turning my heart into an engine running on low-octane gas. I felt that even if I could suck up every bit of oxygen in the South Canyon, it wouldn’t be enough.
    â€œI don’t enjoy this sort of thing much anymore,” Hogue said at one point.
    Did he mean the hiking, I wondered, the fighting, or the firefighters who’d fallen on this hill?
    â€œThe Forest Service isn’t what it used to be.” He’d already said that. “Everybody wants a piece of the forest these days: the loggers, the spotted owl lovers, the ranchers, the environmentalists. I’m looking forward to retirement.”
    â€œRight,” I replied. Women had invaded the old boy network. They shouldered the saws and jumped from the planes and were working their way up in management. If Hogue stuck around long enough he might even get one for a boss, and she could make it harder for him to fire a point woman (or anybody else) in an angry fit. But catching my breath seemed more important than wasting any more of it on him.
    When we reached the helipad Hogue looked at his watch. “Only two-ten,” he said, but we could already hear the helicopter buzzing across the valley.
    He got the pilot on the radio. “There’s a fire burning at Crested Butte. I’m on my way up there,” the pilot squawked. “You guys still need me to pick you up?”
    â€œMike Marshall took off. I’m planning on walking myself, but I’ve got a lady here who seems a little tired.”
    â€œI’m not that tired,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a strenuous hike. You sure you’re up to it?”
    â€œI’m up to it.”
    â€œOkay,” said Hogue, getting back on the radio. “Go on up to Crested Butte. We’re walking.”
    Hogue and I started down the wooded side of the mountain. By now Mike could already be near the parking lot. He’d know the way out; he’d done it before. But there really was only one way—down. Ramona could be waiting for him at the car, or she could be anywhere else on the mountain, leaving her tribute. It would be easy enough to lose a person in the PJ forest. All I could see was the juniper in front of me, the piñon behind, the Gambel oak clustered everywhere—and all of it taller than I was. Hogue had gone on ahead but it didn’t matter; he wasn’t my idea of a great traveling companion. The forest wasn’t as lush as it had appeared from the air. There were places where the fire had spotted, where cinders had jumped the ridge. I didn’t see any fallen trees, but some of the trunks were charred black and the smell of the burn seemed even stronger over here.
    Hogue waited for me at the top of a side ridge, one of the few places on the mountain where you could get a clear view of the canyon. We stopped and took a long drink of water from the bottle in his backpack. The wind seemed to have died down. At least it wasn’t turning me into a big-haired woman or blowing dust in my face.
    â€œHow’d you finally get the fire out?” I asked Hogue.
    â€œBucket drops, slurry,” he said.
    Across the drainage, snuggled among the piñon, juniper, and Gambel oak, was the trophy house I’d seen from the air. It was the size of a destination resort. From here I could also see into the parking lot at the trailhead. Mike’s car was there, but I didn’t see Mike, Ramona, or the Barkers. North of the parking lot a dusty cloud hovered over the drainage area like a smoke signal that had run out of lift. The winds had slowed down enough to hold it in place.
    â€œIs that smoke?” I asked Hogue.
    â€œDust,” he replied. “It’s a false smoke. There’s a road down there. Kicks up a lot of dust this time of year.”
    We kept on trekking. The eastern slope was as precipitous as the western slope had been, and the going was slow. My