Wind, water and fire - these elements are causing concern this summer around Lake Superior. Fire ignites the fear, while too much wind last year and too little water this year make fire prevention a priority. Shearing, high-speed winds in July 1999 turned several western lake-region areas into potential tinderboxes with millions of downed trees in northern Minnesota and Wisconsin and northwestern Ontario. To that mix has been added a dry winter and not enough water around all of the lake. Lake Superior’s three states and province put wildland firefighters on alert one month earlier than usual, brought in extra equipment and remain on high alert. The question isn’t “if” but “when” a wildland fire will start, say managers of some lake-area forests.

e hear about the fire during lunch. The pilot of a Forest Service seaplane called in “a smoke” on the east shore of Trout Lake. Tossing sandwiches aside, we drive our trucks down a winding, dusty road to the Norway Creek helispot.

A few minutes later, helicopter Five-Five-Juliet (55J) flares to a landing on the ledge rock. Jeff, the pilot, smiles and flashes me a “thumbs up.” Phil and Joe load our gear in back, and I buckle myself into the left front seat. Jeff powers us up and out to the northwest, climbing smoothly, then banks south. I watch the luxuriant forest canopy slide down and away then merge with blue sky as 55J levels off.

Below is the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in Minnesota. A band of relatively dry thunderstorms rolled through earlier, hammering the BWCAW with lightning that ignited several forest fires. Some fires hadn’t surfaced for days, but are now being spotted. I’ve been dispatched to the Echo Trail area as an initial attack incident commander.

Today is August 13 and we are flying to one of those fires.

In the foreground is Oriniack Lake - long, narrow, and shimmering - then a green wedge of woods and beyond the treetops is the island-strewn, five-mile expanse of Trout. The dusty blue haze of giant Lake Vermilion spans the horizon. Three miles off the nose of the ship, a billowing column of dark conifer smoke leans in the wind. This lonely smoke is now the center of the arching sky and the vast, unbroken grandeur of the Superior National Forest. It is a maelstrom, the axis of our existence, capturing attention like a vortex sucks in helpless air.

I see a glinting speck at the base of the column - another helicopter, 56BH, dropping water. Jeff switches to the FireTac-1 radio frequency - a low-range tactical channel - and informs John, the pilot, of our approach. I focus on the smoke. Dispatch expects an update on size, rate of spread, fuels and general fire behavior, plus what additional suppression resources might be required. We also have to locate a sane place to land as near to the fire as possible.

As we close in, 56BH slips beneath us and hovers over the water to refill its bucket. From directly overhead, sparkling rings of waves generated by its rotor wash frame the ship with haloes of rough light. Jeff keys the intercom: “Isn’t that a beautiful sight?”

I think, It’s like a heli-flower, but just reply, “That’s affirm.”

We bank over the fire, Jeff tilting my side of the ship toward the ground so that I have the best view. From 300 feet up, through tree-branch canopy and smoke, I see flashes of a vigorous ground fire and the blackened skeletons of several small firs. The blaze has torched trees at one point, laddering toward the sky, and it could easily rage upward again to induce the searing birth of a howling crown fire. I estimate the size at one-quarter to one-half acre. There appears to be continuous fuel for at least two miles in front of the fire, but, temporarily at least, it has surged out of conifers and into a less volatile regime of aspen and alder.

John’s bucket drops are having significant impact.

“I’ve seen enough, Jeff,” I say, and he peels off orbit to the north, searching for a helispot.

It is time for my cadenza, the first report from the initial attack incident commander to all the eager ears of the forest and beyond. Through the extraneous buzz of routine radio traffic from a dozen channels or more, they are hearkening for news from what is already known as the Trout Lake Fire, the newest game in town.

I key the mike and quickly outline what I know and surmise, finishing with, “… no additional resources at this time.”

But my sanguine analysis depends on brisk action, and we need a landing zone. Jeff points to a sandy spit of land extending from a craggy point just north of the fire. “Let’s take a peek at that.”

It is studded with rocks and appears painfully narrow, but it is close to the fire, with no other landing zones immediately obvious. Jeff has to approach in a crosswind, aiming for the barest patch of sand. The tiny peninsula seems to shrink as we descend, buffeted by gusts. Unforgiving reality diminishes our hopeful from-a-distance judgment.

I open the door and lean out. Dozens of rocks poke through the sand. I glance back at the tail rotor. It is clear - hanging over the water. Jeff eases the ship down foot-by-foot.

“Okay, so far,” I say.

There is room between the biggest stones. Lower, and now within four feet.

“Bump left a little.”

Checking his side, Jeff inches over.

“Good.”

The wind shimmies us, but the ship nestles firmly on a bed of damp sand and small flat rocks. The ends of the skids are less than a foot from the water. Not a textbook helispot, but solid and, in relation to the fire, superb. A 300-yard scamper along the shore will put us in the smoke.

We pull our gear out of the cargo compartment and crouch beside a rock shelf as 55J rises, spins into the wind and nose-tips for Norway Creek. Joe and I don our web gear and start boulder-hopping toward the smoke. We carry bladder bags, five-gallon collapsible backpacks with hand-operated pump nozzles … basically, industrial-strength squirt guns. And also a pulaski, a combination axe and grub hoe used for digging and scraping. Phil remains at the helispot to marshal the ship and manage the next off-loading.

I switch my radio to FireTac-1. We need to identify a spot where 55J can safely lower cargo nets to the ground on the end of 100 feet of cable called a longline.

“Five-Six-Bravo-Hotel, Leschak. Do you see a longline site, John?”

His voice, tinged with giddiness, erupts from the speaker:

“Hey, Pete! Oh man, this is a dream fire, buddy, a dream fire! I wish I was on the ground, man. This thing is beautiful.”

I guffaw at John’s spontaneous paean. I, too, am like a dreaming swimmer in a sea of butterflies. This fire does seem to have all of the right elements. It is a small but snappy fire with high spread potential, and we can battle it ourselves, without other crews. I am keenly aware that fire colleagues scattered across northeast Minnesota are enviously monitoring the radio traffic. In our communion with wildfire, we are like feuding lovers - aggressive but tender. Fire historian Stephen Pyne coined the perfect moniker: We are, he wrote, “pyromantics.”

Yes, this is a “beautiful” fire, but my mood is fringed with urgency.

“Yeah, copy that, John. Do you see a longline site?”

“Standby.”

While John searches for a suitable opening in the canopy, Joe and I cut into the woods. The shoreline boulders have given way to sheer vertical ledge rock riven by deep clefts. We can hear the fire now - snapping and rushing. I hear it breathe, gulping air and hissing for more. As we reach the flaming perimeter, John reports a small opening about 50 yards northeast of the left flank. I thank him and survey our new neighborhood.

The fire is still active, roughly 50 feet by 150 feet, and has obviously crept out of an illegal campfire, perhaps days before. Flame lengths are one to three feet. I have Joe begin working up the right flank, spraying from the bladder bag. Assuming no major glitches, we’ll be able to handle this with the usual Mark-III pump and the other resources we’ve readied at Norway Creek. One control problem is a towering white pine snag. The dead tree has welcomed the fire, which is burning deep inside the hollow trunk. It casts embers from its top, which waft away in the wind, threatening to ignite more fires.

I radio Dispatch with all this information.

“I’ll see that you get a chainsaw,” the dispatcher says.

“Negative, I have one.” Even as I utter the words, I realize that I’ve violated BWCAW protocol. Use of motorized equipment is not a given in this protected wilderness, where kinder, gentler means are often awarded priority. I require official sanction to use a chainsaw, and that implies a request to fly in one in the first place.

There is a long silence on the radio, and I rush into the breach.

“Dispatch, Leschak.”

“Dispatch.”

“Request permission to use a chainsaw on this snag.”

“Standby.”

Okay, so they’ll make me sweat a little. Fair enough; I know the rules. I’m just more accustomed to working fires in populated areas, where almost any tactic is cool, and I’d be expected to have a power saw.

“Leschak, Dispatch. Permission granted.”

“Ten-four.”

So all the pieces are in play, all the initial moves planned. The fire is still uncontrolled, but I can relax now - after a fashion. The big decisions are made, and unless some parameter drastically mutates, it is simply a matter of follow-through.

Five-Six-Bravo-Hotel is running low on fuel, so I release him from the fire. He can return if necessary.

“Thanks, John.”

“You bet. Have fun, Pete. That’s a dream fire, man.”

I work the line with Joe until the rest of our crew hikes in from the sand spit, then angle off to the northeast to scout the longline site.

It is a round meadow, about 30 feet across - a “hover hole,” in the trade - but with 100 feet of longline, I figure Jeff will have little trouble slinging our cargo nets to the ground. I chop an aspen sapling near the center of the opening that might snag a net or the hook, then string a length of blaze-orange ribbon across the ground to identify the spot, and to help Jeff with vertical reference.

He is already in-bound with the first load. When I hear his turbine and rotors, I direct him in via radio. He hovers overhead until stabilized in the wind, then settles. I act as a second pair of eyes.

“Load is 50 feet off the ground … 30 … 15 … 5 … load is on the ground.”

With two people working the fire, the rest of us tear down the net and pack the Mark-III pump to the lakeshore. I designate Aaron as our pump operator, and as he threads on the suction hose and primer, we string out a length of 1.5-inch hose to a gated “Y,” then split off two 1-inch attack lines.

We are depending on the Mark-III and, when it starts on the second pull, I’m relieved. A minute later I see the 1.5-inch hose swell with water pressure. Lenny opens a butterfly valve at the Y, and a stream bursts out of a 1-inch nozzle. Phil begins to snuff flames on the right flank. Joe reaches for the other nozzle. We’ll have this knocked down in five minutes.

Then the hose goes limp, and the pump motor revs. I look at Aaron. He shrugs. “Lost prime!” he shouts. Lenny rushes over and begins to troubleshoot.

Five-Five-Juliet has just lifted off Norway Creek with our second net of supplies, and Jeff calls on FireTac-1: “Looks like your smoke is building,” he says. “You guys doing okay?”

“Ten-four, Jeff. Still okay.” (Though I liked the situation a lot better a minute ago.)

Back at the lakeshore Aaron and Lenny re-prime the Mark-III, only to see the stream fizzle again.

Then the radio reports another fire a few miles away. The treads of a “feller-buncher” - heavy logging equipment - scratched rock and accidentally ignited a blaze in a cutover. The fire is spreading quickly. Both helicopters are ordered to the new fire.

At that moment Aaron exclaims, “Look at this…!”

He’s lifted the pump and detected a pinhole leak in the body of a brass adapter - a hole in the metal itself! We’ve never seen that before. We need a new fitting or another pump.

“I’ll try some duct tape,” Aaron says.

“Okay. We’re on our own for now.”

He seals the hole with tape, re-primes and the hose stream doesn’t die away. Phil and Joe begin working each flank with the 1-inch nozzles; Lenny and Aaron pull hose. I snap on a set of chainsaw chaps, stuff plugs into my ears and start the Stihl 038.

The big white pine snag is crowded by a stand of smaller jackpines, and I figure I can drop it to the north, sneaking it between two jacks and keeping the hot trunk mostly in the black. I don’t relish the task. Since the decision has been made to suppress this fire, the pine has to fall, but I always feel a twinge of guilt when my cutters rip into the bark of an old tree. It’s an insult to my elders. Even as a dead snag, that white pine is not only lovely, but useful - a nesting and roosting gallery for eagles and other birds, shelter for squirrels and their kin. Sure, it will still serve the forest community as logs on the ground, but I feel presumptuous to act as the agent, to usurp a wilderness role more properly belonging to wind, lightning and the protracted labor of generations of ants and beetles. The root of my reluctance is that it’s just too quick and easy for me to knock over a being that required a century or more to grow. But if we aren’t going to let this fire burn, then the pine cannot stand.

I aim the undercut and notch it out. I make half the backcut, then slam a plastic wedge behind the saw. I finish the cut, withdraw the saw, then hammer the wedge. The tree tips off the stump and crashes to the ground.

Meanwhile all the running fire is out, and Phil and Joe are hitting hot spots inside the black. With the snag down, initial attack is over. I limb the pine, then buck the trunk into shorter lengths that we can roll over and thoroughly check for latent heat. I radio Dispatch to say that the fire is under control.

We take a break to water up and finish our interrupted lunch. I congratulate the crew. We are all fire-ground freelancers, seasonal wildland firefighters whom the Department of Natural Resources calls “smokechasers.” It’s a category closer to migrant farm labor than anything else. Smokechasers are neither government employees nor true contractors, since there is no formal contract. When there’s fire, we work. When it rains, we go home. Mercenaries. The more it burns, the better life becomes - professionally, financially, emotionally.

Wildland firefighters are a congregation of warriors who share the duty, pain and joy of the fire ground. We’re a cadre of killers, a priesthood of healers. We assault fires and snuff them; we ignite fires and help them to nurture the forest renewal. We are mediators between pervasive fire and pervasive man.

After the break we begin the painstaking work of mop-up and cold-trailing - grubbing around in the dirt with pulaskis and our hands, sometimes on our knees, drowning every spark and ember. We look, feel and sniff for hot spots. We arrange the chunks of the white pine back into a “trunk.” From a distance, at least, the pieced log will appear as a natural deadfall. We smear the stump with dirt and ashes as camouflage.

The wind ebbs, and our fire is all but dead. The helicopter won’t come back for us until tomorrow. We pitch tents and survey our choices of dehydrated meals. We opt for lasagna and blueberry cheesecake, then settle in on the lakeshore to watch the sunset.

The flat slabs of the Canadian Shield are still warm, and we slouch comfortably beside lapping waves, sharing tobacco, tossing sunflower seeds to a bold chipmunk and savoring our benign exhaustion. Our labor has been intense, and it is delicious to be done and securely camped on the shore of a wilderness lake, drenched in orange light by the westering sun. Melodious loon calls, faint but sharp, drift from the north arm of Trout. A turkey vulture, silhouetted against the southwest sky, climbs for altitude in lazy spirals. It seems like a companion.

 I cherish working fire because there’s no escaping the gritty verity of action and life. Fire is brash and in your face. It demands attention. It punishes apathy and ignorance. It’s real. Fire will still burn long after my mind has vaporized.

But I’m also a romantic … a pyromantic. I have an afterlife fantasy: when I die, I haunt the northern forest, not as a human ghost, but as sentient wildfire. Re-birthed by lightning, I explode into flaming action - a fire wraith born to test the firefighters who come after me. For awhile, some of those I’ve taught and led. I will battle them and prove them.

I’ll be their dream fire.

Peter Leschak fights fires in the wild and lights fires on the page as an author. The latest book by the Side Lake, Minnesota, man is Trials by Wildfire, released this year by Pfeifer-Hamilton Publishers.

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