Red Flag Day

A little foray into fiction inspired by Flagstaff spring winds.

view from the Elden Lookout Trail, photo by me

It’s windy today.

I say that like it’s a surprise. Every day I drive up the rutted forest road up the back side of Mount Elden to my post and each day I note: Oh. It’s windy today. Tired red flags, faded to a blood rust orange, whip in the breeze, tattered edges grasping like fingers. We used to stick these into the fire danger signs only on the worst days of the year. Now they just stay out, most days a red flag day.

A wildfire chewed through the northern flank of this mountain about forty years ago, scalping the peak. Small shivering aspens have finally started to take root again in the thin soil. The ponderosas won’t be back for centuries. Heavy rains washed most of the scorched topsoil away after the blaze and now only the lightest and toughest plants hold on, long, thin fingers grasping in the dust. The fire tower and the radio tower will be the tallest points on this peak for a long time.

With no branches to block it, the wind howls up here. It thrums against the steel. It is never quiet.

I crest the service road and roll to a stop at the base of the watchtower. I kick the door to my truck shut and adjust my pack. It’s just shy of 7:30 a.m. and a few hikers are already catching their breath on the southern edge of the peak. The hike up is a bitch - 2,300 feet of elevation gain in 3 miles. The trail switchbacks through rough high desert scrub, loose rock interspersed with carved stone steps suitable only for giants or mountain goats.

When people trudge to the eastern edge and see the private service road, they tend to get irritated. I’ve cheated by driving up. I keep my head low and shaded by a cap to avoid conversation, like a famous person leaving an airport after a long-haul flight. I’m not famous, just a scout for forest fires. I promise it sounds cooler than it is.

I take the stairs beneath the lookout two at a time, the wind drowning out my panting breaths. Little tendrils of hair whip into my eyes. The roaring wind hushes to an ambient hum when I step inside the tower. It’s a small space, maybe 15 feet by 15 feet. Sagging and cracked office furniture pushes up against one wall holding only slightly newer radio consoles and desktop computers. I use the tech to help communicate and investigate any reports, but my primary tools are biological. Your eyes and your nose will pick up fire faster than anything else. The walls here are all obsessively clean glass, granting me epic views of the ponderosa forest surrounding Mount Elden and into the Painted Desert in the east.

My favorite binoculars hang within easy reach of the wobbly science classroom stool I prefer to perch on. Every morning is the same: brew a short pot of coffee in the clanking and sputtering percolator, check yesterday’s log for anything interesting, and go through my first scan of the day. It’s kind of meditative up here. The constant susurrus of wind is like a white noise machine. I pick a window and begin a slow trace of each ridge and trunk. I like to start far and track close. It’s like looking at a painting and trying to find the first brush stroke.

Sip.

Stare.

Whoosh.

Hum.

Sip.

Stare.

I let my eyes follow the unexpected or out of place. A raven exploding in flight from the canopy, a red-tail hawk riding thermals, a flash of metal from an RV on a dirt forest road. If I walk right up to the window, I can peer down at approaching hikers. Nothing sticks out more in these woods than fluorescent nylon gear. Fanta orange and cosmic blue packs, highlighter yellow Nikes, they all garishly clash with the dusty pine, glistening aspen green, chalky brown earth. The more I look, the more I see. It’s always been this way.

Most of the early hikers have snapped their triumphant selfies and have headed back down the trail. Only a pair of men are left, resting in Lewis and Clark poses: one has his foot up on a boulder and is leaning his forearms on his bent knee, the other has one hand on his hip and is pointing at something on the horizon with his other.

The radio coughs and sputters.

“Phillips? This is Ramirez at base. You copy?”

I lean over and pluck the radio.

“I copy.” I try to follow where the hiker is pointing. What does he see out there?

“Phillips, I’ve got a report here that says that you are free Friday evening around 7:30. Can you confirm that from your location?”

I roll my eyes and shake my head, but can’t stop the grin that moseys its way across my face. I’m still peering out at the horizon. The hikers are standing a few feet shy from a precipitous drop on the southern flank. They are probably looking at a bird.

“That’s a negative from the watchtower, Ramirez.” I pitch my voice above a gust that moans through the metal struts beneath my feet. I involuntarily shiver. That sounded almost human.

“You sure about that, Phillips? My source is pretty reliable.” I can hear the laugh in her voice. She knows the game I’m playing.

Another whistling gust shivers across the window glass. This one sounds like a reedy shriek. I look back toward the hikers as I raise the radio to my lips.

“Check again, Ramirez. All of my dates are with fires and red flags these days, but I might be able to find some time next week.” I lower the radio and lean closer to the window. The hikers are standing now, arms around each other’s shoulders.

“I read you loud and clear, Phillips. Let’s plan for Wednesday then. You wear red, I’ll bring the fire.” Her voice is low and I feel little goosebumps at the nape of my neck, phantom fingers stroking down. Hoping my eagerness gets drowned out by the rushing wind, I lift the radio.

There’s a flash of rust. My trained eyes dart down. Maybe a flag got loose. I start to respond, craning my neck to peer down the pane.

“Copy that, Ramirez. I’ll-” I inhale sharply and start to choke. The red flash is a puddle, quickly turning dark and spreading. It’s partially covered by a prone body. The neck is wrong. I can’t hear the wind that is rustling the hikers’ hair over the tinny sound of the radio whining and the blood rushing in my ears.

“Phillips? I lost you for a second. Do you copy?”

I’m frozen. I don’t see the second hiker. I stumble for the opposite window, fear like a wire around my throat. The radio keeps crackling. I don’t see anything. My eyes wheel, trying to find something out of place.

Truck, parked in the shadow of the tower.

Stunted aspen trees, leaves vibrating.

Blackened corpses of old, burned ponderosas, gone to gray ash and red earth.

Minutes pass. Seconds? I can’t tell. I snatch the handheld radio off the desk and wrench the tower door open. The wind blasts from the southwest and I stumble on the steps. I’m halfway down the stairs before I recognize the scent.

Smoke. Hot, gritty clouds snake around the base of the tower. Through watering eyes, I see two neon yellow flashes. A pair of sneakers. Step, step, step…gone. I cough and risk descending lower. Smoke swirls around the body of the hiker. The pool of blood is black, steam rising from the wet surface and being sucked into the dry orange flames. I swear the fire is laughing, a ripping chuckle that fades into the wind.

The wind. Another gust lashes my face and I can see the gleaming fire snatching at bunches of cured grass yards away from the ridge and racing toward me. I can’t see the body anymore. I run upstairs.

“Base, this is Phillips at the Elden Watchtower. Fire report at 0815 at the base of the tower, requesting immediate evacuation notice for all Elden trails.” I suck in air, trying to calm my racing heart and soothe my searing lungs. Smoke is starting to creep over my windows.

“Phillips, this is Ramirez. Can you repeat? Reports of a fire at the watchtower, at your location?” Ramirez answers. I can tell she isn’t smiling now.

“Copy, Ramirez. Suspected arson and…” I pause. “Possible fatality.” There’s silence. All four windows are hazed with smoke and ash. The light around is starting to glow orange. I raise the radio.

“Gonna need to rain check that dinner, Ramirez.” I know HQ is buzzing like a hive kicked over. I can imagine the blaring sirens, the staccato chatter of radios, the furious clacking of keyboards.

Up here, it’s finally quiet.