We touch down in Baie Comeau and there is a warm breeze coming off the St. Lawrence. A bus arrives to drive us to our fire, taking us away from ocean breeze and back into the forests.
Our destination this time is more like the firefighting conditions we’re used to in Quebec - crummy old logging camp, god awful food, battle axe cooks. On my first night the cook scoops me a meal of white bread chicken sandwich paired with fries, two liters of gravy and canned peas. I eat the whole thing, a move of acceptance. We were given similar food on a previous trip and we'd see how long it would take the gravy to harden all the food to the plate, then we'd try flipping it upside down without losing anything - like a DQ blizzard.
The mood around this camp is different from the last, management is worried about this fire, they're anxious to get us out working, which makes it surprising when we're flown out to a dead fire and tasked with patrolling the edge of it.
After the excitement of yesterday’s travel day it’s tough to be back on the ground patrolling, especially because the ground we’re covering is such a tangly shitstorm of garbage forest. You could put prisoners into the middle of this and they wouldn’t escape, - unless the black flies drove them insane. They’re biting me up and down the ears, making them hot and itchy as I fight through the brush. It takes us an hour and a half to walk less than two kilometers to our helipad at the end of the day.
The following day we patrol the same ground and morale is dropping. It gets quiet at lunch time, the ground we’re covering is tearing at people’s clothes and skin. It hasn’t been physically taxing, but the wake up times and bad food seep in and people slow down. At the end of the day we are pulled off the fire because parts of it are blowing up. Usually when a fire blows up and we’re patrolling the dead-ass end of it we’re given a new task the next day.
Morning comes and we're faced with a Real Day. We land on a sand beach on a river bank and everybody gets at their tasks like a pride of lions tearing apart a kill - hose trail is cut and cleared, hose is strung out, water is put on fire, helicopter buckets are directed, lines are located. Everyone is sweating, going at max speed, excited to be doing the work. A day like this is a first for us when working in the East and it’s how we’ll finish out the tour.
In the afternoon I’m hiking gear up a hill, breathing hard, moving slow. I can feel my legs working and I can see myself from above, a tiny spot trying to stop this big fire creeping through the black spruce. My legs slip on the thin layer of moss covering the huge masses of ancient rock. My legs are small carrying only a few lengths of hose up a hill. My efforts are a drop in the ocean. But if things go to plan for our crew - if the weather holds and we're efficient enough - my legs might be part of something that eventually slows this thing down. It’s a dance.