STEVE INSKEEP, host:
The person we'll meet next has an intimate understanding of wild fires. Rachel Smith, our commentator this morning, is a former U.S. Forest Service smokejumper who has fought fires around the world. She remembers one fire in the steep hills of northern California's Shasta-Trinity National Forest.
Ms. RACHEL SMITH (Former Smokejumper): My ponytail has fallen loose of my battered plastic hardhat. It slaps rhythmically against my neck as I swing my Pulaski Axe, chopping through roots to clear a fire line. We've been working for five days to contain this wild fire. A grand old cedar leans heavily over us, raining down embers and sparks from its glowing branches. We identified it as the ignition point during our aerial survey. It was probably struck by lighting.
To get here, our crew had to cut off the fire's advance up the ridge. We scraped away all of the vegetation to encircle the burned area with 24 inches of bare soil. Only scattered hotspots remain, but I can still feel heat from the ground through my boots.
As we worked, the forest shadows deepen; the temperature drops; the humidity soars, and gradually the fire is cooling. By the time we reach the cedar, it's past midnight. Our incident commander decides to knock off for a few hours before we try to cut down the dangerous tree. We spend the night spiked out inside the fire line, nestled in a burned-over hollow. I sleep with my boots on, just in case.
Then in the early hours of morning we're awakened by the cedar exploding with a cascade of glowing sparks. It cracks under the immense weight of its upper body and it lands like thunder, right next to us. The tree has fooled us all. It looked healthy from the ground, but it was hollow with age. As it burned on the outside, fire ate its way through the central cavity, weakening the trunk. It smoldered in the dark until it burned right through the roots that held the tree upright.
None of us who stood weak-kneed and shivering could have guessed that the cedar concealed such a treacherous secret. It had come within inches of killing us all. There's no more sleep after that. I kick apart pockets of glowing embers, beginning the mop-up process that won't end until we're certain that fire can't rekindle.
Finally, I can no longer smell smoke in the hot, dry air. We cold trail the burn area by hand, digging through mounded ash and seared earth for hotspots. I dig barehanded and the heat raises new blisters on my scarred fingertips. But I want to be certain that this time the fire is completely out.
INSKEEP: Commentator Rachel Smith is now a doctoral candidate in fire ecology at the University of California, Berkeley.
NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by a contractor for NPR, and accuracy and availability may vary. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Please be aware that the authoritative record of NPR's programming is the audio.