ruling for months. In the meantime, they returned to the fire line, where the tests kept coming. They stopped one fire from scorching a subdivision near Payson, on the notoriously dangerous Mogollon Rim, and another by accepting an assignment that no other crew on scene would take: a thankless and grueling job that required cutting twenty-six hundred feet of line from the rim of Idaho’s Hells Canyon to the Snake River. Despite these accomplishments, it was August 2008 before the crew heard back about the ruling on Granite Mountain’s hotshot status. At that point they were working a fire in Northern California’s Klamath National Forest, a swath of 1.7 million acres of ponderosa pine, Douglas fir, and poison oak forest that drops from nine thousand feet to the Pacific Ocean in less than fifty miles. That morning, the smoke hung in long white strips above the many river valleys cutting through the peaks.
Marsh gathered the men beside his new Dodge 4500 with its customized taillights. Next to the initials was a big
T
, for “training crew,” which Marsh had taped there to ensure other hotshots knew that Granite Mountain wasn’t claiming a title it hadn’t yet earned.
“I got the call,” Marsh told them. He flicked out his knife and scraped the
T
from the back of his truck.
“We’re hotshots,” Marsh said, allowing himself a smile. Granite Mountain was one of the only municipal hotshot crews in the country. “This honor is yours, gentlemen. You earned it. Congratulations.” Then he led his men back out to the fire line.
—
Back in Prescott during the tail end of 2013’s training drill, the single-file line of panting hotshots broke up at the top of the dusty trail in the Prescott National Forest. Renan, still gasping, followed the other hotshots in Alpha squad to their buggies. Somebody put on a Tupac album, and the heavy beats of gangster rap thumped acrossthe campsite. As the men refilled their waters and chainsaw gas, Marsh watched, as he’d done all day, how the hotshots performed. He didn’t camp with the men that night. Not long after sunset, Marsh drove away. It was the last time many of the hotshots would see Marsh until he rejoined the crew near the end of June.
Renan and Grant climbed into the Alpha buggy. Clayton Whitted, Alpha’s squad boss, had ordered the two to keep track of each other throughout the season. They’d help each other run errands in fire camps, keep track of the other guy on the line, and even be there when the other went to the bathroom. Grant, amused by the idea of having a minder, called Renan his “battle buddy.” Cheesy and flippant, the catchphrase made a few of the senior guys laugh, but it irked others.
As rookies, Clayton had given the pair one more lowly job: unloading the other hotshots’ overnight gear. Along the ceiling of each buggy ran a shelf that held the crew’s black duffel bags, each filled with a sleeping kit, a few changes of clothes, a dozen clean socks, and various creature comforts—books, journals, men’s magazines, portable music players—to entertain them during moments of calm on the line.
“Brutal day, huh?” Renan said, tossing a bag to Grant. “Eric was riding me pretty hard back there.”
“Yeah, that sucked,” said Grant, who caught the bag and threw it into the pile outside the truck. “Did you hear Scott tearing me a new one?”
“Hilarious, man. I saw you go down and thought for sure you weren’t coming back up,” Renan said. “I was like, well, looks like I’ll have a new buggy mate. Grant’s knocked out.”
“Rookie!” one of the veterans called into the truck. “Toss me a Gato.”
Renan opened the cooler and underhanded a cold bottle of Gatorade to the veteran, who nodded in thanks.
“Nah, I just got too hot,” Grant said. “I had my yellow buttoned up to my neck.” Renan laughed at the thought of his overdressed friend sweating profusely and overheating from a wholly preventable cause.
“Puking
Marsh gathered the men beside his new Dodge 4500 with its customized taillights. Next to the initials was a big
T
, for “training crew,” which Marsh had taped there to ensure other hotshots knew that Granite Mountain wasn’t claiming a title it hadn’t yet earned.
“I got the call,” Marsh told them. He flicked out his knife and scraped the
T
from the back of his truck.
“We’re hotshots,” Marsh said, allowing himself a smile. Granite Mountain was one of the only municipal hotshot crews in the country. “This honor is yours, gentlemen. You earned it. Congratulations.” Then he led his men back out to the fire line.
—
Back in Prescott during the tail end of 2013’s training drill, the single-file line of panting hotshots broke up at the top of the dusty trail in the Prescott National Forest. Renan, still gasping, followed the other hotshots in Alpha squad to their buggies. Somebody put on a Tupac album, and the heavy beats of gangster rap thumped acrossthe campsite. As the men refilled their waters and chainsaw gas, Marsh watched, as he’d done all day, how the hotshots performed. He didn’t camp with the men that night. Not long after sunset, Marsh drove away. It was the last time many of the hotshots would see Marsh until he rejoined the crew near the end of June.
Renan and Grant climbed into the Alpha buggy. Clayton Whitted, Alpha’s squad boss, had ordered the two to keep track of each other throughout the season. They’d help each other run errands in fire camps, keep track of the other guy on the line, and even be there when the other went to the bathroom. Grant, amused by the idea of having a minder, called Renan his “battle buddy.” Cheesy and flippant, the catchphrase made a few of the senior guys laugh, but it irked others.
As rookies, Clayton had given the pair one more lowly job: unloading the other hotshots’ overnight gear. Along the ceiling of each buggy ran a shelf that held the crew’s black duffel bags, each filled with a sleeping kit, a few changes of clothes, a dozen clean socks, and various creature comforts—books, journals, men’s magazines, portable music players—to entertain them during moments of calm on the line.
“Brutal day, huh?” Renan said, tossing a bag to Grant. “Eric was riding me pretty hard back there.”
“Yeah, that sucked,” said Grant, who caught the bag and threw it into the pile outside the truck. “Did you hear Scott tearing me a new one?”
“Hilarious, man. I saw you go down and thought for sure you weren’t coming back up,” Renan said. “I was like, well, looks like I’ll have a new buggy mate. Grant’s knocked out.”
“Rookie!” one of the veterans called into the truck. “Toss me a Gato.”
Renan opened the cooler and underhanded a cold bottle of Gatorade to the veteran, who nodded in thanks.
“Nah, I just got too hot,” Grant said. “I had my yellow buttoned up to my neck.” Renan laughed at the thought of his overdressed friend sweating profusely and overheating from a wholly preventable cause.
“Puking
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