Dedicated to America’s First Responders fighting the danger in our own backyards.
I was ten years old when I first understood how devastating fire can actually be.
It was July 2015. My family had just moved to Medford, Oregon from Aurora, Colorado. My parents, brother, and little dog Chief had left the house on an outing to Petco under blue skies. By the time we came back out, the skies had turned a hazy dark grey, smoke-like dark rain clouds that fogged even the nearby mountains from sight. There were white ashes falling like a gentle hot snow, and the sun had turned a blood-orange red. Chief was the only sensible one in our group, and he turned around immediately to dart back inside the building. We had to drag him back to the car. I knew vaguely what a wildfire was and what it could bring, but I had never seen it with my own eyes. The smoke stayed stuck in the valley for the rest of the summer.
Growing up in such a populated area in the suburbs of Denver, I had never seen or had to worry about an onslaught of a wildfire spreading out of control, but Medford was different. A sizable city in and of itself, it lies situated in a valley surrounded by mountains and hills, each summer a hot, dry tinderbox of dead grass and trees from lack of summer rains. It does not take much to light it, nor has it become a surprise to anyone when it does. The fire does not even have to be near Medford for the smoke to come. With the city placed directly in the hot zone between dry, rural California and northern Oregon, smoke from any wildfire likes to settle into the bowl of the Rogue Valley.
2020 was another year that terrorized all of us in southern Oregon with the Almeda fire. This blaze raged for over a week, burning roughly 3,205 acres and destroying over 3,000 structures in the tiny towns of Talent and Phoenix, Oregon. I still remember seeing the wall of grey smoke filling the sky while driving to volleyball practice. Evacuation orders were sent to people in my neighborhood who lived merely a block away. My family didn’t have to evacuate, but it was the closest we ever got.
While these were experiences I would never wish on anyone, they have made me extremely grateful for the courageous men and women who make up our nation’s firefighter and first-responder teams.
Maybe we’ve all gotten used to the image of firefighters and their fancy trucks rescuing cats from trees and putting out a structure fire in a matter of minutes; but how often do we think about and appreciate the smokejumpers who parachute into active burn areas, the pilots who fly into the flames to drop retardant, or the search and rescue teams who stay vigilant to get everyone home?
As of this year, approximately 50 firefighters have died on duty, many of them while battling the wildfires that raged this summer in Colorado and Oregon.
And yet, if not for a children’s movie, I would not have even known that wildland firefighters existed.
Back in 2014, Disney released the 3-D animated film “Planes: Fire & Rescue,” an offshoot of the world of “Cars,” that explored the world of wildland firefighting. Although technically a movie for kids, the film did not hold back from portraying the fatal danger that accompanies the job.
I never forgot this movie or the respect it gave me for firefighters, and the next year, when I was surrounded by a real inferno, I felt safe.
These are the unsung heroes working on the frontlines of the most immediate threats to our safety and well-being. Social media tries to sexualize them, the government may cut their funding, but they’ve never stopped showing up for us when we need them.
This month, as we observe the 25th anniversary of 9/11, let us keep in mind the brave men and women, those passed and those still serving now, who are ready at a moment’s notice to run toward the danger instead of away from it.