In June, I was given the opportunity to head to Alaska for a wildfire assignment, something that doesn’t come around every year like many other western details. Over the winter, a friend of mine who works up there had invited former Piedmont Region Firewise/Prevention Coordinator Chris Revels and me to come work fire. After Chris passed on, I made it my mission to go. He had always wanted to experience Alaska, and I felt like I needed to carry that dream forward for the both of us.
Mid-June, the calls started rolling in. I did some good old-fashioned fire shopping, holding out for the right assignment. Alaska Coastal Dispatch called June 27 with a solid offer – remote, rugged, and just the kind of work I was looking for. I was on a plane the next day. After four flights, two vehicle rides, a UTV shuttle and 19 hours of travel, I landed in a little dot on the map that most folks will never even know exists.
The Nelchina Glacier Fire had started June 19 after a round of storms sparked 148 fires across the state. Thirty-four of them were being worked under full suppression. This one had a crew of 80, mostly native people from villages, and just two overhead personnel, the incident commander and the operations chief. I showed up as the incoming logistics section chief, and it didn’t take me long to realize I had my work cut out for me.
Alaska does fire differently. There are hardly any roads. Everything – and I mean everything – gets flown in: people, gear, food, tools, you name it. Meals for the crews get flown out to the line every three days. Each food box feeds three people for three days. And they’re not your standard meals ready to eat (MREs)… we’re talking fresh steaks and vegetables, fruit, milk, eggs, snacks and even bags of candy bars. There’s no ice chest or cooler either. Instead, we dug down to the permafrost and stored food in burlap sacks, “bush coolers,” as they call them.
Camp sanitation is serious. Bears are a constant concern, so trash gets flown out daily. The gear? It doesn’t come from the National Fire Equipment System. Instead, we ordered from Alaska’s own cache catalog. That means you’re checking off things like Starlinks, radio repeater systems, shotguns, ammo and PIC coils (mosquito repellent) right alongside your normal items like hoses and tools.
The fire itself was burning through tundra, terrain I actually recognized, oddly enough. We used to call it Fuel Model Q here, Alaskan Black Spruce. It’s the same stuff we see in the bays of South Carolina’s Lowcountry and Pee Dee. These fires like to smolder in the deep organic layers until they hit permafrost. Since the trees can’t grow deep roots, they often topple as the soil underneath burns away.
The assignment was challenging, no doubt, but the landscape made it unforgettable. Every “morning” (which looked more like 2 p.m. in the Lower 48), I got to see the glacier glowing in the distance. As a tribute to Chris, I left something of his at the base of the Nelchina Glacier. This winter, it’ll be buried in snow and ice and it’ll stay there, resting in that frozen wilderness, until the glacier itself is gone.
So many folks spend their entire careers within the Southern Area and never take an assignment out of region. They don’t know what they’re missing. I encourage anyone who gets the chance: GO! Travel somewhere you’d never think to go. See how others live, take in the wild beauty of this country, and bring home knowledge that no amount of money can buy. You’ll come back better for it.