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  Praise for Daniel Robinson and After the Fire

  “Literate and moving, [After the Fire] is as rich in character as it is in place. . . . Robinson’s writing engages you with a kind of terrible beauty. . . . [T]he courage in Robinson’s writing will lead him forward. This is a solid debut and clearly there are more to come.”

  —Bloomsbury Review

  “A touching debut. . . . [A] poignant story about the ‘pull of the past,’ affectingly warm and compassionate.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A powerful, emotional story, one that will instill in readers a renewed appreciation for the heroic young people fighting wildfires.”

  —Rocky Mountain Post

  “The fire line scenes are so rich that you can smell the smoke, hear the clink of tools, and find yourself a part of the action. . . . Some of the fire line passages are priceless; some of the best stuff ever written about [fire] crews. . . . After the Fire is a very good first novel.”

  —Wildland Firefighter

  “Here’s one of those remarkably mature first novels. The author has put together a story that’s dramatic, exciting, affecting, and memorable. . . . Robinson mixes memories of fire fighting with some intense psychological and philosophical ruminations. Robinson clearly has a storytelling gift, and that helps him keep the story grounded in everyday reality. A fine debut.”

  —Booklist

  “A brilliant, complex, engaging novel about a fire fighter, a Vietnam veteran, and a woman whose pasts intertwine with and impact their personal lives. Barnes has lost comrades to a violent fire; Call also saw a fellow soldier die in Vietnam; and Ruth is experiencing a failing marriage. By skillfully using flashbacks and meaningful interactions, Robinson has created an intensely believable study of love, loss, and recovery in the face of life’s extreme tragedies. The final scene with Ruth’s daughter is moving and unforgettable. After the Fire is a memorable first novel by an impressive writer.”

  —John Clark Pratt, author of Vietnam Voices

  “Daniel Robinson has written a fine book. It is peopled with vital characters engaged in a life of action. And, as in all fine books, the actions have universal consequences that the reader must listen to. Read it and understand more about the New American West, fire fighting, and life.”

  —Dan O’Brien, author of Wild Ideas

  Copyright © 2003 by Daniel Robinson

  First Skyhorse edition 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Rain Saukas

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-312-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-969-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all of the men and women who fight wildfires

  &

  To Paul Gleason, who showed so many the way

  “after the fire, a still small voice”

  —1 Kings 19:12

  Of the many people whom I would like to thank:

  My first hot shot crew boss—George Marcott.

  Kyle Torke and Josh McKinney, who read the very first draft of this novel and told me that it was good enough to keep at it.

  John Pratt, Rikki Ducornet, and Bill Wiser, who taught me more than I can ever acknowledge.

  Lilly Golden again for being such a wonderful editor.

  Sarah Warner, my agent, for all she does.

  Sandra Lea and Caitlyn.

  Chapter One

  MONDAY

  That night’s visitation had pulled all the sleep from Barnes. He woke well before sunrise and remained awake. He listened to the rainwater slap against the concrete sidewalk and felt the roughness of his unshaven face with his hand. He once loved spring—regeneration and renewal in everything from nature to baseball to love. He used to feel that way a lot, almost swollen with the anticipation of spring. Then he would wake early to greet the morning, his coffee cup full while he stood on the back deck as the sun tossed early streamers of light through the branches of trees and the day opened to the heat that would eventually arrive. That morning, though, while listening to the remnants of the last rain or the predictions of the next, he felt no sensation for spring, no anticipation, no want.

  Barnes allowed the telephone to ring. It stopped after the fourth ring and an empty moment later the answering machine recorded Ruth’s voice. “Barnes? Are you there? Are you going to work today?” A moment later she added less solemnly, singing even, “Get out of bed you sleepyhead, and shake a leg or two. The sun is up, pour some coffee in the cup.”

  The machine hummed in silence before clicking off.

  Barnes smiled and rolled from bed. He rubbed his feet on the morning coolness of the wood floor. He pushed the play button on his answering machine as he walked past and let it repeat Ruth’s message.

  Showered and shaved and dressed in clean Levi’s and a T-shirt, Barnes retrieved the newspaper from his front porch. The morning air carried a sachet of smells—lilacs and wet dirt and the scent of a fire from a distant fireplace.

  Light falling through the waved glass of the dining room’s windows drew altered images across the room and table. In a line, shoulders and arms touching, the twelve who died sat silently on the heating radiators beneath those old windows—Chandler first, for he was the foreman at the bottom of the line when they were burned over, then Dago, Sully, Budd, Hassler, Earl, Freeze, Lopez (who should not have even been with Chandler’s squad), Horndyke, Stress, Doobie, and Warner.

  “Again this morning?” Barnes asked to the ghosts.

  They stared at him in silence.

  A few hundred times, Barnes thought, a few hundred times you go to a fire. The weather is always hot and dry, the winds are predictable mostly in that they will change, the fuels are dried, the slopes are steep. Two hundred fires like that and nothing happens, maybe a flare-up, maybe you beat a hasty retreat to a safety zone. But, still, two hundred fires. And then.

  And then every little thing conspires.

  What happened? What did you do? What did you not do? The questions held tight in each dead crewmember’s blackened eyes as they stared at him. Where were you? Barnes heard them ask.

  Bracing himself against the table, Barnes looked at the dozen ghosts silhouetted by the back light from the windows. He shook his head. He knew he had nothing to say that could matter, nothing that he had not already tried to say, so he turned and flicked on the light switch. Before they faded off in the room’s new light, however, his ghosts stood and walked from the room. They walked close enough to Barnes that he could have reached out and touched them had they possessed form.

  Chandler again led the way. The others followed out of the haze of light cast from the sun shining through a window. They walked without noise, no words spoken, their heavy boots touching silently on the wood floor. Each held Barnes’s eyes for a moment before letting the next capture him. Behind the last of Barnes’s crew were Max
Downey and Russell Fleming, the two jumpers who had also died.

  Barnes studied each face as it passed from the dining room into the soft darkness of the front room. Their faces were clear, more clear in his memory than in his sight, but clear just the same as they looked at him. Lopez, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, offered him the same shy smile she gave him every morning of the two fire seasons they had known each other. Stress looked down on Barnes and nodded his head, and Doobie had the chemically distanced look that Barnes knew was not there that afternoon the previous summer but which Barnes had seen plenty of nights when they met each other off-duty at a downtown bar.

  The early sun cast a veiled light into the hallway. Barnes followed them. He listened to the groans and cries of his wood floors, shifting calls like a great weight had been placed then lifted from the floor. He walked with the slowness of age, an old man anticipating an end around the corner.

  The weight and the lightness of death stood before him. The finish. Answers to questions. Dark holes. Deepness. End.

  Barnes drove that Monday afternoon. He had no place to drive, no particular reason to be driving, but he drove anyway. He drove a circle of streets that bordered the older parts of Fort Collins.

  The buildings he passed told him a story of his town. Along Laporte they mixed in eclectic and personal style, a syncopation of designs from old stone houses still strong and sturdy on their sandstone foundations to newer houses, mostly small ranch styles holding college renters. Some of the houses handsome with ivy having grown for sixty years over their brick or stone or stucco and trees planted by a child on her birthday grown to shade the entire yard, some of them folding in upon themselves from too much use and not enough care like an old person giving up hope or a rose nearing its end, some of them with names from their first families, and all with histories to tell for those who cared to listen.

  Farther south, the houses became less individual, more like boxes a slowly passing train had kicked out in preset increments. A pair of railroad tracks snaked along the eastern boundary of his circle anticipating a freight laden with new cars going north or old scrap heading south. Not far from where the railroad tracks split was where the first Fort Collins had stood, a picket-fenced outpost the cavalry had established in the alamo of cottonwoods and willows along the banks of the Poudre River. A park had been built near that small long-gone establishment and its parking lot was where Barnes had lost his virginity in the camper shell of his first pickup truck.

  Claire, her name was. Claire with hair the color of cornsilk, a woman still in her teens with much to teach a young man eager to learn. She liked to talk, but that was not what she liked to do most. He drove near the parking lot and thought about Claire and how he would have told her about the fire and wondered whether she would have cared before or after she opened her legs for him.

  She seemed remote, not just and simply because she was nearly two decades into his past nor because she had long ago married some ski bum in Vail and written a last letter telling him to not write again, but because everything seemed remote to him as he drove alone in the town. His world was far away from her and far away from the person he used to be.

  “No big deal,” Chandler had said above the heavy whop of the helicopter’s main rotor. “We’ll knock this dog’s dick in the dirt.”

  The rotor whirled clockwise above them as they hovered above the fire. Max Downey, the smokejumper in charge of the fire, sat in the front of the helicopter, with Barnes and Chandler in the rear seat. The pilot had dipped the helicopter in a steady turn around the fire’s perimeter so that the three could take a simultaneous look.

  “Ain’t no-thing,” Max Downey had said.

  “If you tie your line into that diamond-shaped area, you may have it,” Barnes had offered.

  “We got it dicked,” Max had said absently.

  Counterclockwise, opposite the helicopter’s rotor or the helicopter’s steady turn, Barnes drove the circle of streets in Fort Collins. He sat high in his 1950 Chevy pickup above the rest of the crowd for his twenty-five-minute circuits.

  Crossing College Avenue, he accelerated to make it through the light. The day had turned hot and dry, a welcomed heat following the rains. He opened the hood vent to force more air into the truck’s cab and leaned into the air coming in his opened window.

  Two Hispanic men continued to work under the hood of their car on West Laporte Avenue. Each time Barnes drove past them they had switched places. First the tall guy with the ponytail had his head under the hood and next the short one in a muscle shirt was buried in the engine compartment.

  On his third circle, Barnes saw a tow truck pulled up in front of the car, “Hooking for a Living” scripted in bold red letters across the back of the tow truck’s cab. The two Hispanics were laughing and talking with Nick, the owner of Nick’s Towing and a one-percent biker with MS. Barnes sounded his horn, and Nick turned unsteadily, placing a hand on the bed of his truck. Nick waved at Barnes. Barnes smiled and waved back, happy to again see that Nick did not allow the injustice of life’s hand to keep him down.

  Barnes turned on his radio as he passed the city’s police station. Once, back when the police station was not there and he and Claire would spend hidden hours in parking lots, he had driven home from the old Dirty Sam’s Nightclub while Claire, almost passing out, gave him a blow job. The combination of six inches of new snow, half again as many bottles of Coors, and her making love to him sent the old truck sliding drunkenly into the curb.

  They might talk, he thought, if he could find Claire and bring her back along here where she helped cause him to bend the front axle on his first truck. Initially, they would not talk about the fire or any fire, just about her life in Vail or wherever she now lived. They’d laugh like conspirators as they remembered the road and the snow and the night and the curb. She might ask about the purple scar along the outside of his wrist and he’d just say it was one of those things, “part of the job,” something safe like that.

  With her next to him, her eyes closed and her leaning back to let the sun’s warmth laze on her like a soft quilt, they would circle the city. He would slip a reference to some fire into the conversation.

  “What’s that?” she would ask or “Where was that?” or, better, “Tell me about it.”

  “Something that happened,” he’d say as they turned from Laporte south onto Overland Trail, the foothills beginning their crawl on the truck’s right and the gaping smile of Horsetooth Rock poking above the hills to the southwest.

  “What?” Gently, with the touch of her hand on his thigh, she would lean to him. “Tell me.”

  Slowly he would begin to talk about fires. About the fire near Prescott, Arizona, where, after twenty hours of humping along and digging a line across a parched ridgetop, he stood lookout on a rock watching the fire grow. The fire which had that morning appeared tired and weary, a middle-aged fire readying itself for retirement, erupted to youthful life as it began a ravenous run up the ridge, devouring each new clump of fuel with a vigor and ever-increasing stretch of its grasp. About how he saw first the fire’s smoke column roil in intensity and darken from gray to charcoal and about how he then called to warn his crew boss, for he was then a squad boss on an Alaska crew. How his crew and two other crews working with them filed into a safety zone and watched the fire cross their line like nimble little Jack jumping the candlestick.

  He would tell her about being treed by a protective black bear sow or chased by a cow moose on fires in the Yukon Flats. And about the national park fires that often turned into public-relations fires because an ignorant public knew less about wildfires than about quantum mechanics and wanted something done, something they could watch on the evening news. And about how they dug their firelines down to mineral soil, which could be hip-deep or deeper if the fire was on the Olympic Peninsula, or how the firelines in Alaska turned to mush and mud because there was no mineral soil, only permafrost to expose to the sun. And about the fire above Naches, Washing
ton, where he stepped into a stump hole in the middle of the night and buried his calf nearly to the knee inside an oven of heated ash and sand.

  “Sounds exciting,” she would say. People always said that when he told them what he did for a living, all except that fat banker at the credit union who leaned back in his chair to study the loan application Barnes had filled out to buy the house next to Call’s. The banker who rested the corpulent jowls of his triple chin on his chest and said, “When are you going to get a real job?” Barnes offered to show the banker a dose of reality across the street in the government parking lot. Both the loan and his offer were turned down.

  When she would say, “Sounds exciting,” he would smile. He would look at her and her hair the color of cornsilk blowing in the truck’s wind and then past her at the fallow fields stretching the half-mile to the rocky beginnings of the foothills.

  “Sometimes,” he would say. “Sometimes it was exciting. Those were the best times, being close to death and feeling the hot winds of its breath on you and then being alive. But,” he would add quickly, not yet ready to talk about what was obviously coming. “But mostly it was just long hours with your head in the dirt. Sometimes the most flame you’d see for days on end would be some cigarette smoker’s match. Sometimes you’d be walking around all day long with the rain coming down in buckets and you’re hunched inside your raincoat just hoping to find a hot spot to open up and stand in because your feet are too damn cold.”

  “Were you ever scared?” she would ask, pausing briefly as her voice slid into sadness and concern. “Were you ever scared for your life?”

  And he would tell her about the time near Fairbanks when Leonard, his crew boss then, turned to Barnes and said, “I don’t like this.” Together they were leading the crew up a muddy fireline when the world turned silent and dark. Just as Barnes answered, “I don’t like it either,” the scrubby forest of black spruce turned into orange flags of flame. They ran, quite literally for their lives, through the mud of the fireline to a safety zone a hundred yards back.