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Bulldozer operator Chris Ivey makes his way over a log near Arrowbear in an attempt to keep fire from jumping California 18. (Robert Durell / Los Angeles Times / October 24, 2007) |
Their mission was to save Arrowbear.
And although the winds had flagged Wednesday, the flames that roared out of the backcountry continued their march toward the hamlet in the San Bernardino Mountains, testing the tools, backs and lungs of the Big Bear Hot Shots, a frontline Forest Service crew that fights fires by hand.
When things got desperate, when all the hoeing and shoveling could not stop the fire's advance, the team called in Chris Ivey and his dead buddy's bulldozer.
Ivey's task was to drive the 1960s-vintage, tree-snapping machine into the maw of the blaze, along goat-steep terrain, in blinding smoke and carve out a fire break.
"It's the most dangerous job in the fire service. What's not to love about it?" Ivey said as he prepared to climb into the Caterpillar, below a ridge where the fire was leaping up the trunks of pines and oaks.
Barely two weeks ago, his friend and California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection colleague Matt Will was fatally injured along the Big Sur coast while doing much the same thing. He had filled in for Ivey on a firefighting shift, and he was on Ivey's newer and more comfortable bulldozer when it rolled over. He died Oct. 9.
Ivey was now driving Will's Cat, delivered by 18-wheeler from Monterey County to the Lake Arrowhead area.
"I'm not happy about it," he said. "I'm not generally superstitious, but still. . . . Rolling over, that's what's on my mind."
It was midafternoon and the team had been waiting for the dozer for hours. Since early morning, after hiking through ravines through which fire engines could not pass, they had put shoulder to blade to clear leaves and branches from the rocky ground, denying the flames as much fuel as they could.
"This kind of work takes a special person," said Hot Shots Capt. Paul Cerda, his face streaked with soot and sweat, a chain saw slung across his back.
He and a half dozen of his crew were standing between banks of fire and a vacation house that so far had been spared. A tree exploded, and the eruption of black smoke turned day to night. Flames blew up at the firefighters like curtains lifted by a flung-open door. The Hot Shots stepped back, coughed, righted their axes and pressed on.
Shouts echoed on the mountainside: Watch out -- there are fire whirls here! More water! Just hold those corners! Water coming!
"I got a brother-in-law who's a Navy SEAL, and he just got back from Iraq," Cerda said. "I think he's crazy, but he thinks I'm crazy."
The crew superintendent, Jim Avala, used a jagged-edged hoe to scrape away leaves and embers. He had been worried about the winds changing course. On this roller-coaster landscape, things could get out of hand quickly.
"You've got the community of Arrowbear over there," he said, jabbing a gloved hand in the direction of Green Valley Lake Road, beyond a stand of smoldering pines. "We'd rather fight this out here than over there in the structures."
That's why they needed Ivey.
The large, athletic 37-year-old was awaiting word to unchain the yellow dozer from the flatbed and charge into the fire. Despite its risks -- or maybe because of them -- the job is highly coveted in the firefighting world, Ivey said.
He nodded at two contract bulldozer operators, who were leaning on the flatbed. They would be following Ivey, mopping up.
"These guys would love to have my job," Ivey said. "Wouldn't you?"
And although the winds had flagged Wednesday, the flames that roared out of the backcountry continued their march toward the hamlet in the San Bernardino Mountains, testing the tools, backs and lungs of the Big Bear Hot Shots, a frontline Forest Service crew that fights fires by hand.
When things got desperate, when all the hoeing and shoveling could not stop the fire's advance, the team called in Chris Ivey and his dead buddy's bulldozer.
Ivey's task was to drive the 1960s-vintage, tree-snapping machine into the maw of the blaze, along goat-steep terrain, in blinding smoke and carve out a fire break.
"It's the most dangerous job in the fire service. What's not to love about it?" Ivey said as he prepared to climb into the Caterpillar, below a ridge where the fire was leaping up the trunks of pines and oaks.
Barely two weeks ago, his friend and California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection colleague Matt Will was fatally injured along the Big Sur coast while doing much the same thing. He had filled in for Ivey on a firefighting shift, and he was on Ivey's newer and more comfortable bulldozer when it rolled over. He died Oct. 9.
Ivey was now driving Will's Cat, delivered by 18-wheeler from Monterey County to the Lake Arrowhead area.
"I'm not happy about it," he said. "I'm not generally superstitious, but still. . . . Rolling over, that's what's on my mind."
It was midafternoon and the team had been waiting for the dozer for hours. Since early morning, after hiking through ravines through which fire engines could not pass, they had put shoulder to blade to clear leaves and branches from the rocky ground, denying the flames as much fuel as they could.
"This kind of work takes a special person," said Hot Shots Capt. Paul Cerda, his face streaked with soot and sweat, a chain saw slung across his back.
He and a half dozen of his crew were standing between banks of fire and a vacation house that so far had been spared. A tree exploded, and the eruption of black smoke turned day to night. Flames blew up at the firefighters like curtains lifted by a flung-open door. The Hot Shots stepped back, coughed, righted their axes and pressed on.
Shouts echoed on the mountainside: Watch out -- there are fire whirls here! More water! Just hold those corners! Water coming!
"I got a brother-in-law who's a Navy SEAL, and he just got back from Iraq," Cerda said. "I think he's crazy, but he thinks I'm crazy."
The crew superintendent, Jim Avala, used a jagged-edged hoe to scrape away leaves and embers. He had been worried about the winds changing course. On this roller-coaster landscape, things could get out of hand quickly.
"You've got the community of Arrowbear over there," he said, jabbing a gloved hand in the direction of Green Valley Lake Road, beyond a stand of smoldering pines. "We'd rather fight this out here than over there in the structures."
That's why they needed Ivey.
The large, athletic 37-year-old was awaiting word to unchain the yellow dozer from the flatbed and charge into the fire. Despite its risks -- or maybe because of them -- the job is highly coveted in the firefighting world, Ivey said.
He nodded at two contract bulldozer operators, who were leaning on the flatbed. They would be following Ivey, mopping up.
"These guys would love to have my job," Ivey said. "Wouldn't you?"
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