Crew’s Really Stuck in Middle of Nowhere : Lifestyles: The shifts at the Mojave’s Hole in the Wall station are tedious. But firefighters say there are compensations--like the pay.

Driving through the barren eastern Mojave has a hypnotic effect, like watching waves crash against the shore: The desert flows to the horizon, interrupted only by mesas that stand like solitary islands in a sea of brown earth.

The sole evidence of human presence appears to be Interstate 40, which slashes across this vast area like an enormous tire track. But as is the ocean, the life that populates the desert is sometimes hard to see.

Ten miles off any paved road, U.S. Bureau of Land Management firefighters wait vigilantly with their fire engines, ready to depart at a moment’s notice. To many smog-choked Angelenos, the small fire station, surrounded by spectacular vistas and clear blue skies, must sound like heaven.

But for the 12 men who spend the six-month fire season here, beautiful scenery cannot always make up for spending half a year without telephones, convenience stores and continuous electricity--comforts many Southern Californians take for granted.

Even by the standards of the rural communities near here, residents of Hole in the Wall live a Spartan lifestyle. With the exception of the cellular phone that the station keeps for emergencies and official business, the nearest phone is more than 20 miles away.

That isolation may soon change because of the much-debated California Desert Act. Should the act fail to be approved by Congress, many desert areas may be laid open to further development. But to these men who protect the Mojave’s rich profusion of plants and animals, maneuverings in Washington have little immediate relevance to their work.

The area the firefighters are assigned to protect is more than 4 million acres, so it is not unusual for them to drive for two hours to reach a fire. And while their primary mission is to fight brush fires, their duties often encompass much more.

The lack of emergency resources in the desert ensures that the firefighters are called upon to assist with dozens of vehicle accidents and medical emergencies, although they are not specifically trained for such incidents.

“People don’t understand the difference between us and other agencies. They just know it’s a fire engine and that they need help,” says Doug Wagner, a BLM official who supervises firefighting efforts.

Officially, the BLM’s responses to medical emergencies and vehicle accidents are classified as “assists” with other fire agencies. But in reality, the firefighters, several of whom are licensed emergency medical technicians, are usually the first at the scene of an emergency and are alone for some time before San Bernardino County fire engines arrive from Needles and other communities.

Capt. Chuck Kemp of the San Bernardino County Fire Department says he has no doubts that the BLM has been a valuable ally.

“The BLM crews help us out a lot,” Kemp says. “Depending on the location, they can sometimes reach the scene of an emergency 20 or 30 minutes before we can. For patients in bad shape, that quicker response can mean the difference between life and death.”

The engines are dispatched to fires and other emergencies by radio, so listening closely to the radio is a skill that firefighters develop quickly.

Just a loud buzz of static is enough to halt even the liveliest conversation in mid-sentence. All work halts as the crew listens attentively for the telltale beep-beep-beep that signals an emergency call.

For those helped by the firefighters, the sudden appearance of the engines can be a surprise.

“When we go to vehicle accidents, people are shocked to see us. They’re always asking us where the heck we came from. They have no idea we are out here,” says Eric Ceremony, one of the engine captains at Hole in the Wall.

After a call that turned out to be a false alarm, the fire engines fly down the rough dirt road leading to their station. The dirt surface is corrugated like a sheet of iron, and with each bump and groove, the firefighters are lifted out of their seats.

Amid the sharp green blades of yucca plants and the wispy yellow grasses that blanket the desert floor, mice and other small animals emerge from the protective shade, only to dart back in as the engines roar past.

From the station, all that can be seen of the engines’ approach is a huge, rapidly moving plume of dust. But as the cloud turns the corner to the station, the yellow engines quickly emerge.

As one of the engines rolls to a stop beside the prefabricated building that serves as both office and home to the firefighters, three men scramble from the truck’s open-air seats. Doffing the helmets and bandannas that protect them during the dusty ride, they good-naturedly chide the driver for the rough ride he has given them.

For these firefighters, the excitement and rewards of their work are worth the hardships of living at this remote station, where the nearest town is more than 70 miles away and the most regular form of contact with the outside world is the television. Having a satellite dish eases the monotony of regular network shows, the men say.

“It’s one of the prettiest areas in the desert, but it takes a certain sort of person to stay out here,” says station manager Ken Smihula, who has worked at Hole in the Wall since 1987.

“It’s not bad now,” Smihula adds with a smile as he looks at the shiny new walls of his office. “When I first came out here, all we had were two run-down single-wides (mobile homes). The first time I got into the bathtub, it fell right through the floor of the trailer.”

But although the new station is equipped with a satellite television and cellular phone, the daily comforts of life are not guaranteed. The station’s water, supplied by a nearby well, is shared with a public campground as well as water troughs for cattle. At times, there is not enough for everyone.

“We have last priority on the water,” says Tom McGhee, a retired South Pasadena firefighter who drives Hole in the Wall’s water tanker. “If there isn’t enough to go around, the cows get the water and we go without showers.”

Still, as problematic as life at the station can be, dealing with separation from spouses and children can be even worse. Smihula, who has been married for six years, says he has spent four of his wedding anniversaries out on fires.

“My wife was pretty angry when I missed our first anniversary,” he says. “We had it all planned out, and the night before I got called to a fire. She was so mad that when I finally did come home, she didn’t talk to me for a week.”

“Dealing with him being gone all the time was very difficult in the beginning,” says Smihula’s wife, Debbie, who lives in nearby Needles. “I got used to it, but you have to have a lot of trust and communication to get through it.”

“My wife didn’t like me being gone at first,” agrees first-year Firefighter Rodney Horn, whose wife and child also live in Needles. “But when she saw my paycheck, she told me I had her permission to work out here next year.”

And while many of the firefighters miss their family and friends, the long hours spent with one another have helped forge a spirit of camaraderie.

“We buy all of our food together and then take turns cooking and doing the dishes,” Firefighter Luke Gremlins says. “I eat better here than I do at home.”

Says Hansen: “We like to do things together. Sometimes we’ll go gambling or just go out and have a couple of beers”--long drives notwithstanding.

But with fire season due to close in early November, that camaraderie will soon end, at least for this year.

“I made 11 new friends this summer,” says Hansen. “I’m going to miss them.”