women in wildland fire – One Foot In the Office

My First Forest Service Boss — A Gem of a Man

Back in 2008, as some of you may remember, we had a historic lightning bust in Northern California. In June.

I was acting Chief 1 on the Klamath NF (regular position, Chief 2), and we were getting our asses handed to us. We, as well as most national forests in Northern CA, had numerous fires, lumped into complexes. The lightning storm started on June 20^th and lasted into the next day. Our firefighters did an amazing job catching numerous fires across this very difficult landscape, but they just couldn’t get to all of them. No one could’ve. Before we knew it, we, along with our neighbors on the Shasta-Trinity NF and Six Rivers NF, were ordering Incident Management Teams (IMTs) and Area Command to assist us with the fires that escaped initial attack (IA). Even though IMTs and Area Command come in to help, those of us working on the forest still had a ton of work to do – ongoing IA, in-briefing IMTs, working with our cooperators, holding public meetings, strategizing two and three weeks/months ahead, attending planning meetings, reviewing plans.

Even for those of us not on the fireline, we were working 14-16 hour days. The person who had detailed behind me actually was done with his detail the day after the lightning bust. Doug’s home unit allowed him to stay on a few more days, but with everything going on regarding the fires none of us thought to get another detailer. We just didn’t have the bandwidth. Fortunately, my team was made up of several high-performing bad-asses and we just pulled together. Regardless, I was running myself ragged. Many of the Incident Command Posts were a two- or three-hour drive from my office. And if any of you have driven the roads on the Klamath, you know there is little margin for error. One brief loss of situational awareness could put you right into one of the many rivers.

I was on the phone with the Regional Fire Director just about every day. After about a month, on one of those calls, he asked me, “Riva, do you have any friends?” I laughed and said, “It depends on the day, Ed.” He laughed, too, and said, “What I mean is, do you have someone you can call to come out and be your buddy? To help you with driving while you’re covering all those miles so you can return phone calls, to remind you to eat, to help you track all the meetings. Because my best friend from Arizona is here helping me do just that. Find yourself a friend and just place an order to get them here to help you. Seriously, please do it.”

I knew he was right, and I so appreciated the suggestion. But who could I get? Hell, nearly everyone was out fighting fire. I had to think of someone who would be free and willing to come help me. And then I thought of Andy. My first ever District Ranger who was now a GS-15 Regional Director in Atlanta. I sent him an email but didn’t get an immediate response. I called his cell phone and left a message asking if he could come out and help, my voice shaking with emotion and likely sounding a bit desperate. Finally on Thursday, July 24^th, he called me back. “Hey, I’m in West Virginia at a meeting. No internet and shitty cell coverage. I’m literally standing on a rock which seems to be the only place with cell reception. I’m headed home tonight and can fly out tomorrow.” He didn’t even ask any questions. No “What exactly do you need help with?” or “Isn’t there anyone else you can call?” Nope. He was ready to drive home to Georgia and get on a plane to CA the next day. I was nearly teary-eyed with relief. “No, Andy, go home and spend the weekend with Laura. But if you can fly out on Monday that would be perfect.” “Okay. Send me a resource order and I’ll see you Monday. It will be good to see the old stomping grounds.” Andy had started his career on the Six Rivers, and I knew that would also help me since he knew this country and its long list of challenges.

Two days later, Saturday July 26^th, we had a burn-over fatality on one of our Type 3 fires. I wrote about that previously in one of my other essays. An enormous shit-storm engulfs all who are involved in one of those, and it was the darkest time of my career. But a bright spot named Andy Colaninno showed up just in time that following Monday. When he walked into the office I nearly wept with relief. I’m pretty sure I did cry when I hugged him hello. Nearly nineteen years after I first walked into his office as a young, nervous trainee forester.

In the summer of 1989, I was working as a contractor doing seedling surveys and silviculture exams on the Allegheny National Forest in NW Pennsylvania.

During the fall, while working at Rite Aid, my COR called me and told me they had a new hiring authority and I should apply for a trainee forester position. Back then it was nearly impossible to get hired on permanently with the US Forest Service. Many people worked as temporaries/seasonals for years without ever securing a permanent position. This was a BIG DEAL. I neatly hand-printed my SF 171 and turned it in. A few weeks later I got a call from the HR specialist, Maureen. She offered me the job! Andy was the District Ranger, and he had selected me. I am fully aware that I was a rare cat, at that time, in getting a permanent position with the FS after never having worked as a temp.

I tossed and turned the night before my first day. I was exhausted, nervous, and excited when I showed up. As a trainee forester, Andy decided he would be my supervisor for the first year. Which was rare. I walked into his office, and he got up from his desk to shake my hand. He stood maybe my height (5’ 3” ish), and had a full head of black hair and a black beard streaked with wisps of gray. He spoke quietly and offered to take me around to meet everyone. I would soon learn that although Andy was a man of few words, he had very deep thoughts and an ever-busy mind. After introductions, he said, “Well, let’s go take a ride around the district. You can drive. Consider it your driving test (that forest didn’t issue official driver’s licenses like many did/do).” He put on his mountaineering sunglasses and handed me the keys. I drove him all around the district that day. He gave me the history and also the current challenges. He talked about his vision and goals for the land and the workforce. It was easy with Andy. Never awkward even during silences. However, I was so tired from lack of sleep I was terrified I would close my eyes too long and run us off the road. I envisioned killing us both in a fiery crash. On my first day. Fortunately, we both survived.

I was too ignorant of FS culture or norms to know I was supposed to be intimidated by the District Ranger. But he was my supervisor. And I think a lot of that was just how Andy was. Although an introvert, which did rub some people the wrong way, to me he was always approachable. A lot of people wanted a Ranger who would walk around the office first thing in the morning and ask everyone how their weekend/night was. Who would engage in small talk. But Andy was not that Ranger. He hated mornings, for one thing. He would come in at 7 or 7:30 and sit quietly and work in his dark office for a couple of hours. We all knew not to bother him unless we really had to. He wasn’t grouchy or irritated if we had to bug him, but we just tried to give him his morning space. His door was literally always open. The only time it was closed is if one of the employees was in his office and asked him to shut his door. Once I started to walk in and he said “Stop. Don’t come in here.” I stopped in the doorway. “I have an upset stomach. It’s better for both of us if you don’t come in.” “Oh, okay,” I said and asked my question from the door. I look back now and laugh at that. It’s not many bosses who warn you about their flatulence. Some people just never got past his demeanor and completely missed how much he cared about his employees. I’ll take the genuine introvert any day over the phony extrovert.

Andy was really funny, too. Not in a belly-laugh kind of way. You had to pay attention. His humor was dry and wry. And he would get a little smile on his face when he thought something was funny. If you got him to actually laugh? Man, that was gold.

Andy gave me so many great lessons in my formative years. I don’t recall what precipitated the discussion, but I uttered those famous words that most of us do when feeling wronged. “It’s not fair,” I said. “Riva,” he gently said. “You have to learn that life isn’t fair. And life in the Forest Service really isn’t fair. And the sooner you come to terms with that the easier it will be.” He was right. When I was taking basic fire school, I was struggling with the difference between burning out and conducting a back-fire. So, I asked Andy. He had a lot of fire experience. Although he was a frighteningly intelligent person, he was able to break it down and explain to me the difference. He never made me feel stupid and never once acted like a question was dumb or that he didn’t have time. He always had time for me.

During the first few years of my job, the Forest was so broke that no one could order uniforms, even us new employees. Back then, especially in R9, everyone wore their uniform. Every day. I always felt like I stuck out without one and didn’t look professional. Our wildlife biologist had been working with PA Game Commission to reintroduce otters, my favorite animal. We were doing a big, public release of otters on Tionesta Creek. There would be media as well as many conservation groups and cooperators. I really wanted to go but I didn’t have a uniform. Andy said, “Come over to the house. We’re about the same height. You can have one of my shirts and a pair of pants. Laura can take them in for you.” They lived in Forest Service quarters, and so I went over after work. Laura, a bubbly, sweet, funny, intelligent, talkative woman, had me try them on and then took in the waist of the too-large but just-the-right-length pants. I got to go to the otter release and now had a uniform I could wear for special occasions.

Back then we had a program called “Older Americans” (which was later changed to something else and is now no longer) – we employed senior citizens from lower income brackets part-time. Most of these gems worked in recreation and engineering. Emptying trash at the campgrounds, cleaning toilets, helping the road crew. One such gentleman was named Joe, and he was Native American (I can’t recall what tribe). He asked us to call him Indian Joe. Well, Joe was getting up there in years, and his eyesight was starting to go. After two pretty serious driving mishaps (blowing through a school zone and not securing a boat trailer properly), Andy had to revoke Joe’s driving privileges. Joe was quite upset. It took away a lot of the autonomy he had, and he never really forgave Andy. When Andy got another Ranger job in Florida, we had a nice going away party for him. Joe made a lovely beaded necklace for Andy. As he presented it to Andy, he spoke only in his native tongue. We had no idea what he said. As he placed it around his neck, Andy looked visibly uncomfortable. I assumed it was because he just didn’t like the attention. Later, as I was helping Andy load up his gifts, he took off the necklace and matter-of-factly said “I’m pretty sure Joe put some kind of curse on this. He’s never forgiven me for taking away his driving privileges.” He smiled, and I laughed and laughed.

Not only did Andy believe in diversity but he embodied it. He actively recruited, and supported women and those of different races and ethnicities.

When the forest hired its first black dual career couple in about 1992, they struggled to find a place to rent in lily-white rural NW PA. Andy nearly stepped in to rent a place under his name. He had no tolerance for racism and bigotry. And it wasn’t only people of different races or ethnicities whom he welcomed, but the flat-out misfits, too. We had some real characters on the district.

Andy was a proud dad to two girls, now women. He always told me he had more women friends than men. That he liked being around women, especially smart women. He knew what women faced in the male-dominated, para-militaristic US Forest Service, and he was an ally and supporter of women his entire career.

Andy loved science fiction (he wrote a novel about Mars!). Our district was struggling in the eyes of the Supervisor’s Office. We were the misfit district led by a misfit ranger. He wasn’t Type A. He wasn’t interested in team sports (he was into road cycling and mountain biking, hiking, skiing). He wasn’t tall, his voice didn’t boom. He didn’t have a need to make small talk. He was so smart and his vision was so honed that people just didn’t know how to take him. At meetings it always looked like he wasn’t paying attention – he’d fidget and look out the window and say little. Until it was time to say something important. And then he would, and it became clear he was not only listening intently but thinking of solutions. He knew that his reputation was impacting the district. One day he brought in a video tape and had us watch an original Star Trek episode. It was called “The Corbamite Maneuver.” A diminutive alien, Commander Blalock, tricks the crew of the Enterprise. He initially accuses them of being hostile towards his crew/ship, but it is a ploy to find out if they are indeed hostile or friendly. He’s a lonely one-man crew in a small ship, therefore at a significant disadvantage in space. He’s also desperate for company and conversation. When he determines they are friendly he has them board his ship. He serves them a drink called Tranya as a sign of peace. Andy’s idea was that we use the Corbamite Maneuver to our advantage. When someone or small group do something good (no gesture too small) for our district or one of our employees we would honor them with a Tranya Ceremony. Andy had buttons printed up that said “Corbamite.” Instead of boarding an alien spaceship, our ceremonial party, usually 2 or three district employees, would drive to the office of the honoree, serve them juice in a fancy crystal decanter someone donated. They would present the honoree with their own button and toast to their effort with “Trayna.” It was a pretty big hit, and it became a goal for others to be honored. Of course, it also perpetuated the notion that we were a bunch of weirdos led by a bigger weirdo. We loved it. Well, most of us did.

After Andy left the Allegheny to be District Ranger on the Apalachicola Ranger District in Florida, I got to see him when my hotshot crew went down to do some prescribed burning. A year later he and his Deputy Ranger, Ray, recruited me to come down to the district permanently. I jumped at the chance. To work for him again (!), and to also go from an asbestos forest to one that burned a couple hundred thousand acres a year, was just too good to pass up. Once again, Andy saw the potential in me and provided me another opportunity that would change my life for the better.

Though Andy grew up in South Florida, the panhandle is like a completely different state. It’s rural, and it’s also the Bible Belt. But Andy loved it. He felt more accepted even though he was still a bit of an enigma. He did take some shit for not living in Liberty County where the Ranger Station was. Like a lot of people who worked there, he lived across the river in Blountstown. Though it was just a 10 minute drive, it was in the Central Time Zone and had a lot more amenities. Liberty County was, and still is, the least populated county in Florida. Bristol, the Liberty County Seat and home of the Apalachicola Ranger Station, had one stop light and, at that time, no grocery store (it now hosts a Piggly Wiggly). And it still bothered some people that he didn’t walk around the office every Monday asking folks how their weekends were. Fortunately, his Deputy Ray Haupt, fulfilled that duty. Ray was Andy’s opposite in many ways. Tall and outgoing. Quick to laugh. But also smart and good at seeing the Big Picture. They played beautifully off each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They were a great team.

The Apalachicola Ranger District is a really interesting place. A small part of the culture and tradition there is worm grunting. When Andy decided to raise the cost of permits to grunt for worms, there was a bit of a rebellion. A reporter and photographer showed up from The Atlantic to do a story on it, and Andy was featured in the article. It’s a great article, “Can of Worms,” and you can read it here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3. I think it really captures Andy well. He had an idea, misunderstood the outcome/effects, admitted he was wrong, and then worked with the grunting community on a solution that benefitted them and the US Forest Service. My favorite part was the reporter’s description of Andy. “Colaninno was a scaled-down version of a big, bearish, bearded type that is common in the Forest Service. He stood about five feet seven, more a yearling black bear than an Alaskan brown bear. His close-cropped beard was somewhat more grizzled, perhaps, than one would expect in a man of forty-three.” The reporter was generous with Andy’s height. And I think Andy liked the comparison to a bear. To me, though, he was always more like Gentle Ben than anything.

There was a woman who lived near the Ranger Station, and she suffered from pretty serious mental illness. She would show up unannounced and ask to see Andy. Most people would’ve had the front office folks tell her he was busy or unavailable. But Andy would tell them to send her back, and she would sit in his office and talk and he would just listen. She would vacillate between talking coherently and intelligently about a topic and then veer way off into paranoid conspiracy theories. As long as he had the time, he would just let her talk. Never once was he condescending, impatient, or disrespectful. I asked him once why he would let her come in and talk and he said, “She’s a very smart person with some unfortunate mental illness issues. I don’t mind listening and giving her someone to talk to. Maybe it helps her a little bit.”

I loved working on the Apalach and working for both Andy and Ray. I made life-long friends there, met my future husband there, and learned so much about fire. We did a ton of prescribed burning (100,000 acres/year just on that district – that’s not a typo), and both of them would come out burning with us often. Andy usually just wanted to drag a drip torch. He had no interest in being the burn boss or firing boss. He was just happy to get out of the office and into the woods. And no one rolled their eyes when “the ranger and deputy” came out burning with us. We were glad. They understood what it took to pull off that program. They came out on wildfires, too. Not just as curious-non-producers, but they helped with logistics or burning out or contacting cooperators or running interference with the SO.

When I was working on my Burn Boss 2 qualification, we were conducting a 2,000 acre prescribed burn on a Saturday. A couple of the guys burning off with ATVs got turned around and accidentally lit outside the unit on the other side of a swamp.

As Mike, the DFMO/RXB2, and I drove around the unit a hunter flagged us down and told us we had fire across the swamp. We drove over to the helispot and jumped in the ship to take a recon flight. Sure enough, we had a lot of fire outside the burn unit. Mike and I discussed whether or not we should try to cut the fire off by putting in a dozer line or just go ahead and burn that compartment off (it was through NEPA and had a burn plan completed and approved). We decided to just burn the whole compartment off. “Hey Trainee, you better call Andy and let him know what’s up,” Mike told me. We were fixing to put up a lot more smoke. I called Andy, and he immediately answered, “What’s up?” “You getting smoke over your way?” I asked. “Yes.” “Well, you’re going to get more. We accidentally put fire outside the compartment, and Mike and I decided to just go ahead and burn the next one instead of putting in a new dozer line.” “Sounds good. Need anything from me?” “Nope,” I said. “Okay, thanks for calling. See you Monday.” And that was it.

As good Southerners, we looked for any excuse to have a potluck or fish fry or oyster roast at work. All holidays meant food. Several times a year we’d have an after-work party. Someone would drive down to the coast and buy bags of fresh oysters and shrimp. We’d assemble at a local park, the fish fryers and grills lined up, flames turned up high. Andy and his wife always came. Ray and his wife came. Mike would break out the guitar and most of us would sing along. It was the last place in my career where we did things like that. We all lived local and we all valued camaraderie and each other.

When I started dating my now ex-husband, he was in my chain of command, supervised by someone I supervised, and so we knew we had to go to Andy. We started dating right before Matt got laid off for the summer (field season in Florida is winter, not summer), and he went to Montana as part of the Helena Hotshots. He came back the following winter for his temp job in Florida, and so we knew we needed to let Andy know. We had tried to keep our relationship quiet, which was pretty easy with Matt being in Montana all summer. We walked into Andy’s office, sat down, and announced we were dating. “Yeah, I know,” he said. What? “How’d you know?” we asked? “I could tell. I’ll take care of it.” He assigned Matt a different supervisor outside my chain of command, and it worked for everyone.

Ray left first, getting his dream job as District Ranger on the Klamath NF. Eventually Andy left for a Deputy Forest Supervisor position on the Chattahoochee-Oconee NF in Georgia. Matt and I weren’t far behind and struck out for Utah. We stayed in touch, sharing emails occasionally, sometimes phone calls. We were on each other’s Christmas card lists. I would call Andy for advice, and he always did right by me.

And that’s how I came to ask Andy to come help me that unforgettable summer in 2008.

A lot of things had already been set in motion by the time he got there. Chief Packer’s best friend and two men from his fire department had come down to handle the autopsy and some of the coordination necessary. We had a small team working on the procession from the funeral home to the airport to transport Dan’s body back to his fire department in Washington. The investigation team members began showing up and we were lining up interviews. The OSHA investigator wouldn’t be far behind. All the while we had numerous fires still burning.

Andy sat in with me on nearly every meeting I had (and there were a lot). He would quietly stand or sit in the back. Often people wouldn’t even notice him. But when someone finally did and asked him who he was he’d just say, “I’m Riva’s driver.” They’d look at him quizzically and try to read his name tag. This was a GS-15 Regional Director who could have easily just said that. But his role there was to support me, and that’s what he did, in any way I needed.

We covered a lot of miles in my G-ride, Andy doing most of the driving. We had to go over to the coast one day to in-brief a new IMT with the Six Rivers NF, and Andy drove the Forest Supervisor and me. On the way we made an overnight stop at the incident command post for another of our complexes. Patty was to speak about the fatality at the operational briefing the next morning. I saw a lot of old friends at fire camp that night and next morning. So many people came up to me and gave me a hug and/or a kind word. Some of these friends I hadn’t seen in years. I’ve always loved that most about being in wildland fire.

The next morning we continued West towards Eureka. Patty ended up getting sick, and so after we briefed the Alaska Type 1 IMT, we put her on one of our fixed wing aircraft to get her back home (it was that or a twisty four-hour drive back to Yreka). As Andy and I made our way to Happy Camp so I could speak for Patty at another IMT’s operational briefing, he said to me, “You know, you have a lot of fire season left. It’s only late June. Have you thought about if another fatality or bad accident happen? Because you need to. This is a helluva fire season in rough country.” Damn. I had not thought about it, but he was right. I needed to. We gamed out some scenarios, talked about what had gone well so far, what had not. What we should do differently if we had another shitty day. It was great to have his perspective and experience. When a helicopter went down on the Iron 44 Fire on the Shasta-Trinity NF, for a few brief moments I thought a Klamath NF crew was on board. It turned out that it was part of a contract crew out of Oregon. We didn’t have to put our learning into motion again that summer, but our friends next door did. Tragedy seemed to find its way to Northern California.

As Andy drove along the Klamath River on Highway 96 he looked over at me and said something that I’ve tried to live by ever since. “I watched at fire camp and with the IMT today. You had a lot of friends come up to you and give you big hugs. And you always hugged back. And every person who did that took a little bit of your pain away with those hugs. They were happy to do that for you. They wanted to do that for you. But not everyone gives their pain away. Some people stay closed off and unapproachable and they hold tightly to their pain. And you didn’t. So, keep doing that. Let your friends take some of your pain away.” Ever since that terrible summer I’ve tried to do that for others, and I really hope I have.

Andy’s two weeks flew by in a haze. Some memories are burned into my brain from that summer, and some I can’t recall even now. I remember him picking up Mr Big (the Deputy Regional Forester) and me from the little county airport after we returned on the old DC-3 from escorting Dan’s body back to WA. I remember him sitting quietly in Patty’s office as we talked to the Investigation Team. The dust had settled a bit by the time Andy went home to Georgia. He checked in on me a lot that summer. I thanked him repeatedly for his help, but he always seemed a bit uncomfortable about it. Meaning, he didn’t see it as a big deal. Because those things are what we do for our people. For those in our wolf pack.

In 2009 I moved back to R8 and got to see him and talk to him quite a bit which was great. He and Laura had gotten into yoga and traveled around attending retreats. They were also enjoying spending time with their daughters and grandkids. After I moved to Oregon, he retired from the Forest Service. We lost touch. When I decided to move back to Asheville, I was excited to be able to see Andy again. He and Laura didn’t live too far from me. I’ll reach out soon, I told myself. I had only moved back in May of 2022. There was time. I was busy with fire assignments and travel. Maybe in the winter after things slowed down.

And then this past October 31 I was on Facebook and saw a post on Laura’s page that Andy had died. No. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It couldn’t be.

I went to Laura’s page and scrolled down, desperate for information. Andy had died of pancreatic cancer. It looked like it happened pretty fast. I was in shock, crying. I reached out to several mutual friends and no one else was aware. None in our old work circle knew he had been sick. I then felt overcome with grief and regret. That I’d lost touch. That I hadn’t reached out upon moving back to NC. That I thought I had time. That I didn’t get to tell Andy how very much he meant to me. I reached out to Maureen, the HR specialist who had hired me after Andy selected me. I told her how bad I felt. “Don’t carry that around, Riva. Andy was so proud of you, and he always knew how much he meant to you.”

Knowing Andy, I’ve no doubt he met his diagnosis matter-of-factly with grace, bravery, and humor. But I’m sure he also mourned for the life still left to live with his wife, daughters, and grandkids. The life we all think we have ahead of us.

I take comfort being sure Andy knew how much he meant to me and how much I appreciated him, because I did tell him that over the years. So, reach out to those special people in your life. The ones who believed in you, who saw your potential and gave you opportunities to prove it to others. Even if you haven’t seen or talked to those people in a long time. You’ll make their day, I can assure you. Do it now. Before it’s too late.

It seems to me a crime that we should ageThese fragile times should never slip us byA time you never can or shall eraseAs friends together watch their childhood fly

Making friends for the world to seeLet the people know you got what you needWith a friend at hand you will see the lightIf your friends are there then every thing’s all right

Friends by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

Standing in the Green

As hard as I fought for my firefighter retirement, a “special” retirement provision in the US federal service that requires a mandatory retirement age of 57, I was not ready to retire. As my 57^th birthday loomed I sought alternatives to retirement. I could have moved into a non-fire position, but I really did not want to do anything except fire. I really loved my job, and I honestly felt I had a lot I still wanted to do. And that I still had a lot to offer.

In early 2020 I saw an outreach for a fire position in my regional office that interested me. I responded but was upfront that I would be “hitting mandatory” in less than a year. The person who supervised that position responded to my email. He was very enthusiastic about me applying and said “we can work around your firefighter retirement.” Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. I know this had been done for a handful of others before me, so I knew it was doable. I talked to my current supervisor, and she was supportive as well. “I don’t want you to retire, I still want you in the Forest Service. I will do what needs to be done to help with this.”

Over the new few weeks this person checked in with me a few times, giving me updates on where the process was, encouraging me to be patient, assuring me he really, really wanted me to apply for the position. Finally, the job announcement came out, and I put my application in before the deadline. As much as I knew there are no real promises, I started planning in my head that I was going to get this job. I began looking on-line at apartments in Portland. The time came for interviews, and I thought mine went really well. I was heartened that several people on the panel had worked with me before and were supporters of my career. I could not really imagine anyone out-competing me. I had 30+ years of experience with the US Forest Service (USFS), I had worked on seven different national forests in five USFS regions. I had experience on hand crews, a hotshot crew, engines, helitack, fuels. I served on national cadres for a couple of upper-level fire courses. I worked in management positions on three national forests with very complex fire programs. My supervisor checked in with HR on what steps she would need to make to “get-around” my firefighter retirement. We had a plan.

You probably know where this is going; I did not get the job. I was stunned when I got the phone call telling me I was not selected. It was August, 2020. My 57^th birthday was in December. I had less than five months. I had not been preparing myself mentally for retirement, and I was in semi-panic mode. What the hell was I going to do?

Like most first responders, so much of my identity and my life revolved around my career as a wildland firefighter and manager. I had sacrificed so much for my career. Relationships. My personal life. And, at times, my physical and mental health. And I was proud, as one of few women in wildland fire, how far my career had taken me.

I scoured the outreach databases for jobs, not even knowing what I was looking for. It was highly unlikely that anyone would “work-around” my firefighter retirement, and the clock was ticking anyway. It takes months to fill a job in the USFS. I saw an outreach for a position with the National Park Service and called my Park Service friend, Chad, to ask him about it. “That’s a shitty job, Riva,” Chad said with his gentle Southern accent. “Why are you looking at that kind of job?” I told him the condensed version of my pitiful story, that I felt like the rug got yanked out from underneath me, and that I was panicking at the thought of retirement. “I would retire tomorrow if I could,” he said. Chad is a few years younger than I, and he’d just accepted a new job, a promotion into a national level position. But he told me about missing out on so much of his sons’ lives. He reminded me of everything I had given to this career, the sacrifices I had made. The toll the job takes on us all. “Man, you’ve got that sweet VW Van; go travel! Travel during fire season. Have fun, and enjoy the gift of an early retirement. You have other interests, not like some folks who have no other life outside work.” That conversation with Chad was just what I had needed. It was like a switched got flipped inside my brain. I stopped freaking out over retiring. And I started putting my plan into place.

Fire season of 2020, however, would not let me go gentle into that good night. An historic, and forecasted, wind event struck Western OR and parts of Western WA starting on September 7. High winds from the East raced down the slopes of the Cascades Mountains towards the coast. While my national forest had no existing large fires at the time of the wind event, new fires started and grew large very quickly. For the next several weeks, my co-workers and I, as well as firefighters and managers across Oregon and WA and Northern CA, were heavily engaged in the management and aftermath of large, destructive wildfires. And while this wind event was not unprecedented (these East wind events had been taking place every 70-100 years on the Western slopes of Oregon and Washington), its affects were. It was sobering. Our communities around this fire were horribly affected, and we lost over 100 homes. This was a glimpse of things to come with climate change and persistent droughts and the people who live in, and on the edge, of the wildlands. How could I walk away now?

Time flowed like a river towards December 2020. I lined up some intermittent work for after retirement, work I would enjoy with people I liked. I started planning a three-week trip in my van that would start in January, right after I was done.

Because of COVID-19 there was little retirement fanfare. A lot of people poo-poo having a party, but I wanted a big party. I wanted friends to travel from other places I had worked. I wanted funny stories told. I wanted to laugh so hard my belly would hurt. I wanted to shed tears and feel the love from my sisters and brothers. I wanted to hug these magnificent human beings I had worked with. Instead, my immediate fire co-workers put on a nice lunch for me and gave me thoughtful, wonderful gifts. And it was good. It was enough. These people and I had been through some shit, and I was happy they were the ones who sent me off. I had spent the previous couple of months mentally preparing myself for my last day, and as I walked out of the office, I felt acceptance for where I was and gratitude for where I had been.

I finally stopped clenching my teeth in my sleep a couple of months after I retired. I slept better and longer. I worked out regularly, not having to choose between that and sleep. I started meditating more, something I had been trying to make a regular practice for years. I cleaned out closets and dressers. I set up my own business. The agencies have a program where retired folks can sign up as an “emergency hire” to fight fires and support all-hazard incidents. Some retirees practically do it full time, serving on incident management teams. I did want to sign up, but I did not want to be on a team or spend my retirement as an emergency hire. I wanted to choose when I went out. I completed my paperwork, training, and fitness test by March. I went out on a Critical Incident Stress Management assignment in May of 2021, my first as a retiree. I went to New Mexico on a three-week Duty Officer assignment. I developed fire training webinars for firefighters in the Ukraine.

I also took trips! In my van and not. Visited my family back East for the first time since the pandemic started. Took naps. Went to an outdoor music festival with dear friends. One of those trips took me through Montana and Idaho. Smoke from wildfires was a constant companion. It was somewhat discomfiting driving through fires in these states. Passing fire crews on the highways. Not being part of it.

I knew the true test would come when my “home” forest busted a big fire. And it happened. Pretty early in fire season. And then more fires. Damn. It was hard not being there. Not being in the job. Not helping out my friends and co-workers. I texted a few folks, told them I was thinking of them, wished them well. A couple responded, thanked me for checking in and acknowledged how weird it must be for me. It was. I felt like I was standing alone way out in “the green” while they were all standing next to, or in, “the black.” They were in the middle of what was going on, and I was on the outside. I used to love being in the flow when we were getting fires and I was the Duty Officer. But then I had to remind myself what I was not missing. I wasn’t missing dealing with Incident Management Teams who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, carry out our direction. I wasn’t missing disagreeing with key cooperators on the appropriate course of action. I wasn’t missing the exhausting 14-hour days and then lying awake at night worried about the firefighters on the line. I wasn’t missing my diet going to shit because I barely had time to eat a decent, nutritious meal. I wasn’t missing the constant dread of my phone ringing in the middle of the night.

When the COVID-19 vaccine became a reality in the spring of 2021, my friend Jaime, retired for 10+ years off the Klamath National Forest and former Type 1 Operations Section Chief, asked if I wanted to go to Europe on a hiking adventure in the late summer. At first, I thought, well, no, I can’t go, that’s fire season! Geesh, she knows better! And then I remembered, wait, I could go! I didn’t have to say no. I said yes! We planned it for the beginning of September, and I knew I had that to look forward to. I no longer had to schedule nearly everything around fire season.

With about 10 days before our flight to Zurich, I got an urgent call from a friend off the Lake Tahoe Basin Management Unit (LTBMU) in California asking if I could come down and help. The Caldor Fire had started a few days earlier on the neighboring Eldorado National Forest, and it was pushing steadily towards Lake Tahoe and the LTBMU. I reluctantly declined. My trip was only a few days away, and I still had a lot to do to prepare. The next day I got a text asking me to come for however long I could. A typical fire assignment is 14 days, and it is unusual to accept one for anything shorter. My friend said, “We really need the help. We’ll take you for even just a couple of days if that’s all you can do.” These were good friends of mine, and I knew what they were going through and what was yet to come. I checked with my pet-sitter to see if she was available. She was. I got back in touch with my friend and said “I can give you five days.” I left the next day.

The sun was dimmed by smoke, and ash fell in South Lake Tahoe while the Caldor Fire continued its march East. I cancelled a doctor’s appointment so I could stay an additional day. Some of us made plans for the Caldor Fire to make it to the Basin while others refused to believe that it could. I was so frustrated at the sheer denial of what this fire could do. Many didn’t think the Dixie Fire would cross the Sierra divide from West to East, and yet it did. No one thought the town of Greenville would burn to the ground, and yet it did. And here we were arguing with the naysayers who did not want to accept the “new” reality of wildfires and just kept doing the same tactics, day after day. Tactics that were not working. It was infuriating. And so our small group planned for the inevitable anyway. And then I had to go. I had to leave my friends, and I felt terrible doing so. No one was mad at me; they understood. They knew what I had given up all those years prior. I think it was harder to convince myself that it was okay.

Three days later Jaime and I boarded our plane to Zurich. She knew how I felt, as she’d also been there herself. “It gets easier,” she said. “And you will love this new freedom.” We had an awesome time on our trip. We hiked for seven days through the breathtaking Swiss Alps. We spent several days in the sun on lakes in Northern Italy and even paddle-boarded. We visited the Duomo in bustling Milan. We ate cheesy fondue and sweet pastries. We ate rustic, hand-made pasta, creamy gelato, and the best pizza ever. We drank dark coffee and delicious local wine. We rode fast trains and slow trains and made new friends. It was wonderful.

It’s been over a year and a half since I retired. Now I’m grateful that I was “forced” to retire. I’m so glad I didn’t get that job! I got to take a once-in-a-lifetime, 3-week trip rafting the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. I likely couldn’t have done that if I were still working.

I still miss some things, mostly the people. But I don’t miss a lot of things. And I’m still connected to the wildland fire community in many ways. I’ve been able to go out on some good assignments, but I pretty much only go where I have good friends who need the help. My work with Grassroots Wildland Firefighters provides me connection and satisfaction. I’m aware I have a “shelf life” as an emergency hire, but I also know there are many other things I can do to support our community. I can continue advocate for the boots on the ground. I can advocate for more good fire on the land. I can talk and write about my experience in seeing the effects of climate change on the land, on wildfires, and on the people who fight them. And I can do all of that, happily, from “the green.”

-end-

Now I see fire
Inside the mountain
And I see fire
Burning the trees
And I see fire
Hollowing souls
And I see fire
Blood in the breeze
And I hope that you remember me

Ed Sheeran, “I See Fire”

The Price of Admission

I had been working just over a year in my first Forest Service job and was the inspector for our aerial fertilization contract. Northwest Pennsylvania, where the Allegheny National Forest is, had a terrible problem with deer. We used a helicopter to spread a granular fertilizer to give the tree seedlings a boost; to try to get them above the deer browse line as soon as possible. I’d been working with the three-man contract crew for several days. The pilot, mechanic, and project manager were all old enough to be my fathers, and they had been great to work with. They were conscientious, wanted to do a good job, and were easy to be around. As with any aviation project there tends to be a lot of hurry-up-and-waiting, and these down times were when we got to know each other. The pilot had flown in Vietnam and had some great stories. I was enjoying working on this project with these men.

Being a small forest in the East back in the early 90s we didn’t have a dispatch center. Every office had a base radio at the front desk, and whomever was working the front desk usually answered. There were other base stations scattered around in case others needed to talk or the front desk person was busy. And no one worked in the office on Saturdays outside of fire/recreation season. Which this was.

It was a sunny but cool spring Saturday, and we were waiting for the weather to cooperate so the pilot could get up in the air and start spreading fertilizer. The guys were standing around the back of their truck shooting the shit while I was sitting in my truck catching up on paper work. I had the windows down and could hear them talking, though I wasn’t paying much attention. Until I distinctly heard the pilot say to the others, “Maybe she’ll give us all blow jobs while we wait.” They all laughed.

So many emotions swept over me at once. Shock. Anger. Sadness. And then the worst one of all — fear. I was alone with these three men deep in the forest. No one was at the other end of my mobile radio. Cell phones didn’t exist. For the first time in my job with the Forest Service I was afraid. And it wasn’t fear of wild animals or being struck by lightning or falling off a rock bluff. I was afraid of these men who just seconds before I liked. And trusted.

I didn’t know what to do. I never once thought of confronting them. It was three against one. I never thought of just driving away, back to the office. What would I say to my male boss? I sat in my truck, my mouth dry, my heart racing, nearly sick to my stomach, fighting the tears. “Do not fucking cry,” I thought to myself. I didn’t think they’d rape me, but I didn’t know these men, not really. So, I did what a lot of women in my shoes have done for decades, if not centuries. I pretended like it hadn’t happened, that I hadn’t heard it. I did stay in my truck until it was time to actually start working, and I’m sure I couldn’t meet any of their eyes. When we finished up for the day I drove back to the office, dropped off my stuff, and went home.

I never told a soul.

Not my significant other. Not my boss. Not the contracting officer or any of the other women I worked with. Because I was fucking embarrassed. Because I didn’t want to come off as a candy ass. Because I didn’t want to be “that girl.” Because I didn’t want to bring up blow jobs with the 50+ year old, male Contracting Officer. Stuff it down, Duncan, and maybe you can actually convince yourself someday that it really never did happen. Thirty years later ,and I haven’t forgotten how afraid they made me.

This is the price of admission women have had to pay since we entered the workforce. Particularly a male-dominated, para-military organization like the US Forest Service. “What’s the matter, it was just a joke, can’t you take a joke?” “Geesh, lighten up, will you?” “We were just kidding!” “You need to grow a thicker skin!” “If you can’t take a little good-natured ribbing, maybe you don’t belong here.” “If you can’t run with the big dogs you best stay on the porch.” And the price fluctuates wildly.

Soon I went off on my first Western wildland fire assignment on a twenty-person Type 2 Initial Attack (T2IA) crew. We had five women on our crew which really wasn’t that unusual in the mid-nineties, and all five of us were Type 2 Firefighters. Meaning we were the lowest in the pecking order. We fire-hopped all across Washington for a 24-day roll. One fire camp was run by the Washington DNR (state) and was located at the fairgrounds outside Chelan. Three of us women headed to the shower after shift, and just as we walked up the woman running the shower unit flipped the cardboard sign around from “women” to “men.” There was only one shower unit as opposed to two separate units, one each for men and women, as in the previous fire camps. “Hey,” said September to the shower lady. “What about us? We need showers.” “Sorry, evening hours are for the men. Women’s hours are during the day.” A lot of women worked in support roles in fire camps (still do) – finance, plans, information – and so could shower during the day while the firefighters were out on the fire. “We’ve been out on the fire, too, with our crew. We’re dirty and we’d like to shower.” The shower lady looked us up and down like she didn’t believe us. “Looks like you’re out of luck,” she said, turning her back on us. “This is bullshit!” said September. “C’mon,” she said to Diane and me, and we walked back to our crew sleeping area. September walked directly up to our Crew Boss, Fred, and told him what happened. “Are you serious?” he asked. He was as surprised as we were. To his great credit he didn’t tell us to get over it or that we were out of luck or that we were being demanding prima donnas. “I’ll take care of it,” he said and walked off toward Logistics. The next evening when we got back to camp there was an additional shower unit. I don’t know if it was Fred going to Logistics to complain or if there had already been an additional one on order, but he stood up for us, and that counted.

At that same fire camp the WA DNR used male inmates as the kitchen crew. They cooked the food, served it, and cleaned up after us. In the chow line one night I reached for a bowl, and an inmate put his hand over mine and held it there on top of the bowls. I looked up, startled, and he smiled and winked at me. I quickly pulled my hand away.

We moved on to a new fire outside of Twisp. After a few days, a couple of us headed over to the showers after shift. They had big blue “tents” set up as the changing rooms. The tents were attached to the side of a semi-truck which had the showers inside. We’d change out of our dirty fire clothes, grab a large paper towel (really, they’re made out of paper), and walk the four steps up into the semi to shower. I don’t know who noticed it, but the guy who ran the shower unit had set up his lawn chair behind the women’s semi-truck. The four steps we had to walk up into the truck had no drape or tarp behind them. He’d moved his lawn chair exactly far enough back so that he could watch the naked women walking up and down the steps. He happily sat there like Jabba the Hutt perving out to all of us in our birthday suits.

The price of admission that roll – shitty hygiene, a stranger’s unwelcome touch, and good hygiene with a view.

I later snagged a spot on the Asheville Hotshots, one of three leadership development hotshot crews. Our Superintendent (Supt), Dick Kastler, had spent his entire career, up until that job, in California on hotshot crews and engines. In his late forties then, he said he hated it when his crews were all men. He actively recruited women. Said we just made things better. Watered-down the testosterone and bravado. He said women were problem-solvers and good with details and worked smarter. He and our other two overhead (male) were great. Once on assignment somewhere in the Southeast I overheard two of the younger guys on the crew complaining about “girls in fire.” “Girls just don’t belong in fire,” one of them was saying to the other. This was a 19-year-old guy who I could out push-up and out pull-up (by a lot) every day in PT. While I had learned to stand up for myself, I was also mature enough to realize that he had no power over me, no say in any decision about women in fire or me on this hotshot crew. I let it go and continued to kick ass in PT.

After pulling a 36-hour shift burning out for four miles on a fire in Texas the Supt sent three of us back to move the rigs and get them ready. We organized them, bagged up the trash, etc. I don’t remember exactly what we were doing or what I had said, but one of the other guys called me bossy. These were two guys who were friends of mine (and still are today). I was so pissed. I grabbed his gloves and threw them as hard as I could into the dark forest (it was night). “Fuck you,” I said.

The price of admission was now not coming from outside but was starting to be charged by my peers, and sadly, my friends.

As I continued to gain more experience and achieve higher fire qualifications I struggled more to be accepted, to be treated like I belonged there. It should’ve been the other way around. It got exhausting trying to prove myself over and over again. When I went out on an assignment as a single resource it was rarely taken at face value that I earned my qual – it always took a few days for people to see I knew what I was doing. But when a guy showed up there was no question he was qualified. I would get so frustrated and angry. It didn’t help that I looked younger than my years. I was Task Force Leader Trainee on a fire in WA. After a few days, the BIA engine boss, a good kid who had become my right-hand guy, asked me how old I was. “Thirty-five,” I said. “Oh, whew, good. We thought you were in your mid-twenties, and we were wondering how you got to be TFLD-Trainee so quickly.” Translation – we thought you were fast-tracked. I soon learned to just do my job, do it well, and let my actions speak. Folks would see that I knew what I was doing, did it well, and that I deserved to be there. But in the meantime, we would lose a few days of trust that often were very important.

When I was the Deputy Fire Chief (Chief 2) on the Klamath National Forest in CA, my vehicle was striped, and I had CH2 on it as my identifier. Most other regions hadn’t done this yet, but it had been a standard in CA for years. On my first fire assignment in CA since moving there I drove my rig, CH2, to the Shasta-Trinity National Forest for a fire assignment. On at least four or five different occasions, I was asked what my job was on the Klamath. This would be from people who would see me getting in and out of CH2. I would often point to my rig. They would just look at me, confused. Then I’d say “Chief 2.” “Oh! Shit, sorry.” It happened over and over. At one point a young man light-heartedly elbowed me, smiling conspiratorially, and said “Does Chief 2 know you’re driving his rig?” “Yeah. She knows,” I smiled back. He looked at me blankly. Like he couldn’t put it together. Finally, I said, “I’m Chief 2.” The look on his face was pretty funny, and he apologized profusely. I never lost my temper, I never got angry, but it was frustrating. Why the automatic assumption that there was no way I was Chief 2? Partly because there were very few women at that level. Partly because of the overwhelming numbers of men vs women in wildland, period.

After the fire on the Shasta-Trinity I was reassigned to the Moonlight Fire on the Plumas and Lassen National Forests. It was a big fire with a lot of resources. I was working on my Division Group Supervisor (DIVS) qualification. Division Supes are typically the highest level position on the actual fireline. Sometimes there are Branch Directors, but the DIVS are each in charge of a chunk of the ground (eg Division F) on the fire or a group of resources as (in a Structure Protection Group). It’s a lot of responsibility, and a DIVS will usually have numerous resources assigned under them – crews, engines, dozers, water tenders, and other overhead.

I was initially assigned to a quieter division under a qualified DIVS as my trainer. We had a mix of federal and state resources including a CALFire Dozer Boss/Dozers. My DIVS trainer asked me to tie in with the Dozer Boss and assign the dozers a task to connect some handline with dozer line. I drove over to meet with the Dozer Boss and pulled my rig up next to him. He came over and stood at my window, and I went into great detail about the task I was assigning him. When I finished and asked if he had any questions he said, “Wow, you have beautiful eyes.” Yeah. This was someone subordinate to me in the chain of command. And all he could do is comment on my appearance. It flustered me because I didn’t expect it. I have never expected this kind of behavior, and so I’m always surprised. I asked him if he understood the assignment and he replied that he did. I drove away, shaking my head and thinking to myself, what the fuck?

Later on that same shift, I had to tie in with that Dozer Boss again. CALFire personnel work 24 hour shifts (24 on, 24 off), and I needed to ask him if they were in the middle of shift or at the end. Drove up to him again, asked if they were working all night or rotating out. He said, “We’re here tonight then off shift in the morning. Why don’t you bring your sleeping bag out and spend the night with me?” For fuck’s sake. “No,” I said. “That’s not going to happen. Let’s just keep it business between us.” He just smiled. Again, I was his fireline supervisor and also outranked him in our day-to-day positions. Yet he felt like this kind of behavior was perfectly okay. Because, obviously for him, it had been.

A few days later I got moved to a different division that was considerably more active so that I could get a thorough and challenging trainee assignment. I found myself with about 10 hotshot crews including one of the crews from my home forest. At a lull in the action, I told the Supt and one of the Captains, both good friends of mine, about the CALFire guy hitting on me. They both shook their heads, but they weren’t really surprised. The Captain offered to go kick the guy’s ass. And while I appreciated the sentiment, I told him it wasn’t worth him getting in trouble over some douche bag. A couple days later the fire had blown out on our division so several of us (DIVSs, hotshot Supts, Branch Directors) were meeting with neighboring division resources and the night shift resources to develop a new strategy. As we gathered at the meeting spot, I saw the asshole Dozer Boss get out of his truck. “Shit,” I said. “What?” asked Johnny, my good friend and Supt of Klamath Hotshots who I’d told about this guy. “There’s that jerk who hit on me.” “Which one is he?” Johnny asked. “Don’t do anything,” I said. “I won’t, I just want to know which one he is.” I pointed him out. A few minutes later Johnny said to me, “Hey, do I need to pick up the dogs at the kennel when I get home?” I looked at him like he was high on meth. “What?” I didn’t know it, but the Dozer Boss had walked up behind me. Johnny said, “You know, since I’m getting de-mobed before you, do I need to pick up the dogs at home?” Now I was tracking! “Oh, no, I didn’t take them to the kennel, I had Joey come over and pet sit,” I said. I couldn’t look at anyone else, because I knew the other hotshot Supts were wondering what the hell we were talking about. They knew Johnny and I were not a couple. But Jonny didn’t stop there. He started laying it on pretty thick. He pulled his Nomex pants away from his waist to show how much weight he’d lost that season and said “I sure can’t wait to eat your home cookin’ this winter.” Oh, hell. I nearly busted out laughing, but instead I said “Well, you know how much I love to cook for you, Honey.” “Yes, you need to fatten me,” he continued. Right about then the Branch Directors showed up so we all gathered to talk about the fire. After that was over, Johnny and I were leaning on another Supt’s truck when that guy said “What the fuck was that about back there? Picking up the dogs?” We all cracked up. Johnny told Jay the story, and Jay said “Was it the blond-haired guy with glasses and a shitty mustache?” I said, “Yeah.” “Holy shit. Remember the old Looney Tunes cartoons? Where the Coyote would imagine the Roadrunner as a cooked bird on a platter? He was looking at you like that.” “Ewwwww, gross.” Then Jonny said, “By the way, Riva, smooth move when you said ‘What?’” We laugh about that to this day.

Did I report that asshole? No. I didn’t have any confidence that anything would happen to the guy. Doubted he’d be kicked off the fire, and I really doubted he’d face any repercussions back at his unit. Frankly, I was worried that I would be the one labeled as a “trouble maker” or a chick who couldn’t handle the tough work environment. My brothers looked out for me, and for that I was very grateful.

What wore me down the most over my career wasn’t the blatant harassment (although that certainly sucked) but the nearly constant subtle acts of discrimination and bias (conscious and unconscious) by mostly men but by women as well. That was much more prevalent. One of those instances occurred when I worked on a national forest in Florida. I had met and bought a house with my future husband, an enlightened and supportive partner who also was a firefighter and former hotshot but who had less experience and had lower qualifications than I did. We were out mopping-up a prescribed burn down the road from our work center. He and I were working with a young guy a couple years into his career. We blew out one of the rear dual tires on the engine driving over a palmetto stump. As the guys wondered aloud what we should do I said, “The same thing happened to me a few weeks ago. Since it’s one of the dualies, we can drive it back to the work center. There’s a floor jack and spare tires there. We can change it on the spot.”

It was like I had never spoken.

“Boy, I don’t know if we can drive it like that,” said one of them. “We may have to have it towed into town to Larry’s to get it changed,” said the other. Again, I told them we could drive it slowly back to the work center and change it there. Again, I was ignored. Finally ,the young guy got on the radio and called the Fire Management Officer at the work center. After he explained the situation, the FMO said, “Just drive it back here slowly, we’ve got spares and we can change it with the floor jack.” “I knew Mike would know what to do,” he said to my boyfriend.

I fumed. I was so angry it blurred my vision. But what was even worse, is that my own beloved boyfriend, the one whose support had been unfailing, had completely let me down.

I was mostly silent the rest of the day, and went off to mop-up by myself. When we got home, before we even went in the house, my future husband asked me what was wrong. He knew something was, but he really did not know. So, I told him. I saw the regret and sorrow in his face as he realized what he had done. I actually broke down crying out of sheer frustration as I told him how if the one man who loved me above all others, who encouraged me and was proud of me, could dismiss me and what I said because I was a woman, then I was doomed. I was fucked. There was no hope for me as a woman in fire any longer. I went on and on, blubbering about how it sucked having to prove myself over and over. That when a man steps on the fireline everyone assumes he has earned it, and only if he proves otherwise through his actions is he taken to task. That when a woman shows up on the fireline everyone assumes she was fast-tracked and so she has to prove herself first, through her actions, that she deserves to be there and lead others. Right then and there I seriously thought about quitting. Not quitting the Forest Service, but quitting fire. Which I loved. It was not the first time, nor was it the last, I thought about quitting fire.

Certainly, sexual harassment has, and is, taking its toll on women in fire. But I think it’s these constant and pervasive acts of bias that are driving far more many women out of fire, particularly once they start moving into leadership and supervisory positions. This shit beats us down, gradually but constantly. Most women are “one of the guys” while they’re at the lowest level. But when women start moving up ahead of their male peers, especially on the same module, that’s often when hostilities start. I’ve seen it time and again, and on a nearly monthly basis I have young women reach out to me who are struggling with this exact same thing. Some insecure dude (or dudes) is threatened by their intelligence and work ethic and begins to systematically beat them down. Constantly questioning their ability. Telling everyone she only got the job “because she’s a woman.” Making up lies that she slept her way to the job. It happens everywhere all the time. Still. And I used to say, “Hang in there, sis. Fight it. Don’t let them win.” But I don’t do that any longer. Just a few days ago I was on the phone with a young woman I’ve never met who reached out to me through social media. She was on the verge of quitting, giving up her wildland apprentice position, because of the way she was being treated by her module. She fought back tears as she told me, “I love this job so much. But I don’t think I can handle this abuse much longer. It’s not worth my mental health.”

As an awesome friend of mine said, “And we endure much of it in silence, or through humor, or through being grateful for good men in this field while simultaneously being let down by so many of them. ”

As women try to move into higher management positions, AFMOs/FMOs, I have witnessed and experienced the now “normative” hard core Type A “ops” bias; that mostly only people (men) who’ve been hotshots and/or smokejumpers for several years are of value in AFMO/FMO (and higher) positions. And, of course, this isn’t anything personal or against hotshots and smokejumpers. I repeatedly see men and women in high positions, who appear open-minded and say they support gender and ethnic diversity, continue to hold this attitude, and I think many of them don’t even realize their biases. It’s an insult to those who came up on engines, in fuels, aviation, prevention, dispatch. And for those of us women who do/did embrace and model the more “masculine” leadership traits that are expected in order to move up, we are often “punished” for those same traits. Bossy, harsh, abrasive, aggressive, a bitch, “too much.” Words rarely attributed to men in the same negative ways they are to women. This makes us “unlikeable” which somehow holds more value as a desired trait for women than men. Yet, for women who don’t model those traits, then that means they don’t have good “command presence” or show “strong leadership.” It often feels like a no-win situation because it actually is. And this has a name; it’s called the Double Bind, and it’s been studied extensively in private industry at the executive level.

The price of admission for a woman to be successful and advance in a career in wildland fire (in any male-dominated profession) is steep and doesn’t seem to be coming down any time soon. The numbers of women in federal wildland fire are on a sharp decline and have been now for a few years. I’m probably less optimistic now than I have ever been that things will improve. Implicit bias is extremely difficult to overcome. As a lot of us women have said, we can’t turn the freightliner ourselves. It takes men. And a lot of them to take the lead. To stand up and LOUDLY call BS. To model the right behaviors and be open to self-improvement. To sincerely examine their own biases. To be vocal allies. To want to make a better place for their daughters and nieces to work. I have heard from a lot of great men that they didn’t “get it” until they had daughters themselves. Many have honestly admitted they were once part of the problem. I wish it didn’t take them having a daughter to shift their behavior and mindset. I wish they were able to think of their sisters and moms and women friends on the first day they stepped into the job. I hope my pessimism is inaccurate. But if hopes and wishes were fruit and fishes it would be Christmas every day.