WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A HELICOPTER CREWMEMBER

This was my experience as a helicopter crewmember (HECM) trainee during my 2017 21-day roll. I’m working on a new series where I interview fellow firefighters about their experiences in all the different types of wildland firefighting positions. Keep checking back!

We are masters of our 30x10 foot area. It is spic and span. No stray blades of parched grass rest for long on the trailer door before someone sweeps them off. The cooler is constantly stocked. Helmets and gear are organized into precise rows waiting for a radio call initiating the helicopter’s departure. We are like coiled springs. Always ready, forever waiting for the moment to act. Preparedness and attention to detail are everything in wildland fire, even more so in aviation. If we miscalculate the cargo or passengers, disaster can strike. Everything we do needs to be done right the first time. Gravity is not forgiving.

Some days go by quickly. Crew shuttles, manifesting cargo missions, recon flights, bucket work. The helicopters come and go constantly. The noise and urgency are overwhelming. There is too much to do. Bundling tools, weighing people and gear, briefing passengers, assessing conditions, monitoring the radio, acting as fireguard whenever our helicopter lands at the helipad. Fireguarding means standing in full PPE, with sleeves rolled down, chin strap tight, gloves and sunglasses on, fire extinguisher in hand ready for the rare event the helicopter crashes and its occupants need rescuing. A water tender drives around the perimeter of the helibase in endless loops spraying water in case a fire starts in the dry grass and overtakes the helicopters and fuel trucks parked at each pad. This wet line would ideally slow the fire’s spread and help contain it.

The fire we are on is still growing. We watch the distant plume intensify and bend with the wind. A hotshot crew arrives to be shuttled into a cabin in the fire’s path to help with structure protection and a possible burnout. The hotshots get briefed and we start assigning them to different loads based on flight weight and position on the crew. Lucky for me they are large guys and I’m the only one who can join them and still keep the helicopter within its limits. It’s one benefit of being a 5-foot firefighter. By the time everything’s sorted it’s afternoon and they will need four loads and a refuel to get the whole crew to the cabin, so we move with purpose. Helicopters on fires don’t fly at dark. They have a strict “pumpkin time” when they have to be back on the ground depending on the official sunset.

This is my eighth time flying in a helicopter, and only my second as a crew member and not just a passenger. After we take off I’m relieved of any duty until we land and I’m free to take in the view of steep canyon walls, active firelines, and tiny rafts floating down the scenic river the fire is burning above. The rafters wave hands and paddles up at us in greeting. I love flying. The vantage point is so unlike flying in a commercial airplane and we can all talk to each other through our headsets. The pilot points out some deer gathered on a hillside on our approach to the cabin. They are content to graze and barely lift their heads as we buzz over their ridge line. After a routine landing the helicopter leaves the senior crew member and I to build cargo nets with items that need to be removed from the area while the helicopter finishes its crew shuttle mission.

After three more trips, all the hotshots are reunited at the cabin and we leave for helibase as the sun is low in the sky. This time the pilot flies us back low in the river corridor instead of above it. The setting sun illuminates the canyon walls, soft reds and pinks cover the sky, and the river sparkles a shade of blue I’ve never quite seen before. I want to take pictures, but I’m too nervous to pull my phone out with the front window slid open for airflow. Wildland firefighters are lucky to see such wild and often lonely places. I’m glad I lived the experience and wasn’t distracted trying to capture something that could never have been captured in the first place.

Other days the smoke is too thick to fly or the fire doesn’t need us to do missions. We exist in a state of suspended animation. Hours tick by slowly. We wait and speculate and do what we can to pass the time. Once training exercises are over and we can’t stand practicing our flight briefings anymore, the hours slow down. Crew members are free to work out with dumbbells, play cards, converse deeply, stare into space, or read, among other options.

The book I’m reading is about a group of men who launch their boat in 1810 searching for a place to establish a fur trade outpost in the Pacific Northwest. I can't help but understand and empathize with the men's description of living in such close quarters for months on end. They had their boat. I have a moving patch of shade under a tarp.

Boredom and not having phone service to entertain me transport me to a mindful place. I pay attention to my surroundings in ways I’m not able to in my daily life. There’s a spiderweb in the upper corner of the tarp that I sit underneath for hours. I watch the large yellow and black striped spider wander around its web when suddenly a moth twice its size flies into the middle. The spider darts down and attacks and wraps up the moth within seconds of it landing in the web. It is a miracle to behold so close up. It also seems like a nature version of what we are doing. Planning, preparing and ready to act when the time is right.

By the second day I know the sun’s path and move my chair incrementally from one side to the other over the course of 12 hours to stay in the deepest shadows and escape the blazing white hot heat. The helibase is a long strip of sunburnt grass in a canyon bottom and the radiant heat it absorbs tops out in the late afternoon. Those are the worst hours. The 100 plus degree heat surrounds us, its oppressive hot breath always in our faces. Occasional breezes provide immediate but temporary relief. I live for the first sip of cold water from a new water bottle out of the cooler. For an ice cube melting in my palm and smeared over my collarbone. Body parts spread as far apart as possible in the metal folding chairs. Sweat drips down my back and pools in the creases of my elbows.

The sun mercifully goes down behind a peak in the early evening. As the mountain’s shadow stretches toward us I can feel the breeze getting cooler with each passing minute. We banter about what’s for dinner and what tomorrow may bring. The anticipation of cell phone reception at the main camp and talking to loved ones make us impatient with the last hour of the day.

Finally we get the call from the “box,” the radio trailer that coordinates all helicopter flights. It’s time to pack up and go eat. After dinner and personal phone time we come back to claim our preferred individual sleeping areas. Most of us throw sleeping bags on camping pads and sleep under the stars. Night brings random visitors. Straw colored praying mantises claw over my bag only to disappear into the tall grass on the other side. Large grasshoppers land heavily on my legs, like someone was flicking quarters at me. I fall asleep on my back watching the constellations rotate slowly around Polaris and scanning the sky for shooting stars. In the early morning haze alarms go off. I stretch my arms and legs, enjoying the warmth inside my sleeping bag and the cool morning air on my face for a few minutes before I get up and do it all again.

Will I get to fly today or will I finish my book? We’ll see.