HELLFIGHTERS

It is 5:00 am, Friday morning.

I'm up.

 

And he knows it.

 

At 5:03 am he sends a text....

 

"Just got home, going to get a few hours sleep then head back out. Fire is contained for now."

 

I don't stay up during the night waiting on him to check in. But he knows I'm anxious for an update. I do not actively worry, but there is always concern and an element of "what if". However, for these "historical fire days" as the news calls it, there is reason to worry.

 

And at 2:45 pm on Thursday afternoon, the fire threat became very real, very dangerous, very quickly. Roger Mills County crews headed out north to a fire in the northwestern part of the county, while another raged wildly on the eastern side as well. With 30-50 mph sustained south winds and a humidity level of less than 10%, we all knew that any fire would be a hard fought victory to extinguish. We all knew it could be disastrous so easily. We all remember last March. And the idea that we could have a repeat of those awful days is hard to swallow.

 

Thirty minutes later another text comes in from him, requesting prayers. Injuries have occurred and the fire is a beast. At this point, I know I will not hear from him again for quite some time. 

 

But I know him. 

And I know his crew. 

And I do not worry. 

Because I know how good they are. They will battle this hell for us all. 

 

I forward his reply to my sisters and parents. He is our only brother. And we know the best and only thing we can do for him is to be patient and pray for him and the other firefighters.

 

Three hours later I speak with my mother on the phone. "Our power just went out" she says, and while she doesn't register immediate concern about it, the nagging feeling builds in the back of my mind. In a wind this high and sustained, whipping power lines can break, snapping power poles off and creating a hazard of mammoth proportions. And in Western Oklahoma, the drought plagued part of the state, brittle branches on century old trees can break off in even moderate winds, bringing down lines and poles as well. And only minutes later, my mother abruptly tells me she has to go, “the pasture is on fire”, and she clicks off. The pasture is on fire. She doesn't say where, or which direction. But there is a strong south wind. So any fire that is not on the north side will be an immediate disaster.

 

I think to myself, there is no one to respond to this fire. All crews went north. 

 

And within minutes the fire was already a massive, smoking, swirling monster. 

It was like hell itself had erupted.

 

I make a few phone calls to my sisters to get them up to speed. And I call a close friend whom I know will go immediately to check on my parents. I guess what I did not anticipate were all the others who would show up. As I worried about our fire crews up north, I did not anticipate the out of town volunteer fire crews who would devote their evening to my home town community.

 

However, we knew this day was coming. Fire departments around the western half of the drought ravaged Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle had prepared for it. They were not just anticipating IF a fire broke out, but rather WHEN and HOW MANY fires would start, and HOW LARGE they would be. And we all know that if you live in Oklahoma there is a realism you must embrace. Tragedy will come. Natural disaster is a given. It WILL impact you at some point. You can be an eternal optimist your entire life, but know that in Oklahoma the reality of disaster exists. 

 

And yet, here we are. Here we stay.

 

We are one week into the worst fire season in 10 years.  The news now tells us that Oklahoma is burning with the third "mega fire" in three years. That is a historical milestone that none of us want to hear or experience, but yet we are still in the dead middle of it. As large grass fires still burn out of control around the state we know that this battle is far from over. We watch news reports of tank batteries exploding, cedar trees going up like roman candles starting new fires that will rage on in yet another degree of difference to cause even more difficult problems. We see homes burning. Major highways are shut down, towns evacuated, and shelters set up, while fire crews work round the clock in equipment that is burning up along with the landscape. We see narrow escapes from death. We watch as local news channel only barely cover the destruction, focusing on more politically and fiscally pivotal events that have nothing to do with emergencies happening in the western half of our state. We see storm chasers giving 24 hour live feeds and offering a frighteningly close view of ground zero near the fire. And we silently thank them and love them for all they do for us and how often they risk their lives for us. We see this, and so much more. 

 

Thursday evening, as the grass and trees and homes went up in flames in Western Oklahoma, I sat and listened to the scanner. Specifically I was listening to anything I recognized, anything to gain some firsthand account and insight to what was happening,  #119, Green, Turley, Swartwood, Coyote Hills, Sanderford, York, Durham, Hitchin’ Post, the list goes on. But as I listened, I heard something else. I heard voices I recognized... men and women that serve my hometown. I heard landmarks, roads, shortcuts, pasture gates, driveways, hay barns, and water fill-ups mentioned, and more. Locations and back roads that only the locals would know. I heard calm voices with southern accents. I heard patience. I heard control. And as I listened more I heard names of men that I knew were not part of the volunteer fire department. I heard as they responded to fires around the community though. I heard as they came in 4-wheelers and graders to battle the fury. I heard names of the boys I grew up with, and the names of boys my parents grew up with, and the names of men that married the girls I grew up with. I heard everyone in the area who could battle the fire respond to the call.

 

I listened for news. And while I knew my parents’ house was safe, I was also listening to find out if, in fact my Grandparents' farmhouse was still standing, feeling a sense of disbelief and grief as I heard that there was no way to save it.  Instantly, I was plunged into childhood memories.... hours of apple picking in the orchard west of the house, our favorite play spots behind the garage, saddling up that old rangy pony every chance we got and falling off every time when the saddle came loose. I remember pasture walks, and the way the old green feed truck always smelled like cubes and Juicy Fruit gum. I remember Grandad Everett treating wasp stings and digging out stickers with his pocket knife and how he used to sit on the front porch with that old ball cap tilted to one side. I remembered it all.

 

I struggle with the impending loss,, the memories all burning away in the dry Oklahoma sky on this day. So many memories and investments my siblings and I shared since we grew up a quarter mile through the trees. I picture it gone. Burned down. A pile of ash and wire and old wood, with our memories afloat on the wind. But what I didn't know at that time, was that a small, volunteer fire department named Willow had responded that day. They came in from another county to the south and worked furiously to save that little farmhouse. Still, it seemed futile.

 

However, a message comes in late that night.... 

"I am hearing the farmhouse is still standing. That's the latest report." 

And I can't believe it. I don't know how they could have saved it. But they did.

And while Cheyenne crews battled a fire in the northern part of the county through the difficult terrain of the Antelope Hills,  a small out-of-the-way Volunteer Fire Department who didn't know us at all, helped save my grandparents’ farm house.

 

I am humbled. That is an understatement. When I saw this landscape and property in person only a few days later, I was humbled even more. And I know this week that hundreds of Oklahoma families are experiencing something similar. They are experiencing burned land and homes, long standing farmhouses with a century of memories blowing away as only ash now. They are experiencing grief and loss, but yet also victory and hope. And I know we owe any of that hope and safety to our Volunteer Fire Departments. We are deeply indebted to them, and I know we want them to have the credit and the gratitude they deserve.

 

I know that at my hometown department the firefighters all put in an average of 3-5 hours per week minimum working at the firehouse. And then they'll turn around and have periods of time when they put in full days and even nights, just working at the fire department maintaining fire trucks and equipment. I know they do this after their own full time jobs as well. They still juggle family obligations, household chores, and ball games and still make time to serve the community. They are not employed by the fire department. They do not sit at the fire house all day and wait on a call. They work. All day. And they still serve the entire community.

 

Luckily for some departments, tax dollars are utilized to pay for expenses. And for a fire week such as this, one department can easily consume more than $5000.00 in fuel. For the departments that  battle the fires around Vici, Oakwood, Putnam, Seiling, Camargo, Canton, Leedey, and other places, the fuel bill will be much, much higher. I can only hope that their rising costs will be handled through their own tax dollars, but I know that is not the case for many communities. 

 

While these VFDs battle round the clock fires in my hometown and your hometown please remember that these men and women are invested. They are invested in their community in a way that I don't think other salaried departments are invested. And I think part of that is because of the size of the community, but also the nature of it.  Many of the firefighters that serve us grew up in these small towns. And chances are, they know nearly every person they respond to help. Whether that is your grass fire, your car wreck, your child that is stuck too high up in the oak tree out back, your heart attack, or your house fire, your Volunteer Fire Department is likely going to be the one who responds first. Your VFD will most likely know where you live and the short cuts to get there. 

 

In Oklahoma, the size of a volunteer fire department is limited to the population of the town it serves. In my hometown community of Cheyenne that means that the limit of volunteer firefighters is 25. Fortunately, Cheyenne has 21 members, with a total of six departments county wide. All just as crucial as any. All dedicated members. All willing to help at a moment's notice. However, in a fire situation such as this, it is not just the fire department who responds to save a community. 

 

Over just the last few hours I have seen post after post on social media asking for donations to the local Volunteer Fire Departments. They have burned out trucks, trucks that need repairs, trucks that need replaced. They need equipment, masks, snacks, water, hearty meals, wet wipes, eye drops and so much more. The need monetary donations. They need helping hands. They need support and encouragement. They need sleep. They need food. They need to know we stand behind them. They need US. Above all, they need US to serve them the way they are serving us.

 

Days after the initial onset of historical fires, my parents and I drove through the pasture surveying the damage. My brother is with us today. He arrives with a tired face and a cup of coffee, and a very quiet sense about him. He came it at midnight and for the first time since Thursday he has slept more than just 3 hours at a time. We walk the soft, sinking earth and he says "Fires like these nearly liquefy the sand. It was practically boiling the other night." We walk further on as I kick my feet into the ground, picturing it as he speaks again. "The flames were 200 feet high when I came over the hill."  And at that, neither of us says much more. 

 

We keep moving on, and I listen to my Dad talk about the cedar rows planted back in the ‘40s. They were wind breaks. And at the time they served a very important purpose in Oklahoma. But now, they are just fuel. Fuel that sucks crucial moisture from the ground. Fuel that invigorates and feeds a wild fire like gasoline. But we cross through the pasture a bit further and come to a stop. My Dad has brought us to the fire line. While the firefighters worked furiously to put the fire out on the front line, the graders were in the background. They came in quietly as the fire moved north and they dug the fire line out to prevent a back burn. As we anticipated the wind change that was looming ahead of us, the graders dug the fire road as far as you could see, saving homes to the south as the wind changed. My Dad looks out to the east, in respect. "That's a good fire line. And man, those guys are professionals." We nod in agreement and we discuss how fast they must have worked to dig a fire line that wide and that far and that effective.

 

Our hats go off to them.

And today we know exactly how they important they are to us. 

 

In the coming months the people of Oklahoma are going to need help getting back on their feet. They're going to need love and support and donations as they rebuild their lives. But as we start recovering from this devastation please help your local Volunteer Firefighters recover as well. 

 

Your Volunteer Firefighters do not have to do this. They do not have to serve you. They do not get paid to do so. They take time out of their lives to train and prepare well to serve their community. Many times, that's at the end of a long work day when they're already depleted and exhausted.

But they will respond.

They will get up in the dead of night to fight for you.

They will risk their lives for no reward.

And they serve their community with a professionalism and a response time that I would match against any city and salaried department. 

 

Thank your firefighters who save your homes and your land.

 

Thank your county workers who dig fire lines and maintain your roads. 

 

Thank your storm chasers who will ride a storm or a fire down to keep you informed.  

 

Thank the neighbors down the road who quietly spend the night in your pasture putting out hot spots for you, so you don't have to. 

 

Thank the men and women who stay up all night and all day to put down hell for you. 

 

They are your neighbors, your friends, and your brothers and sisters. 

 

They are the Hellfighters.