Kerouac romanticized it. Kathryn Lindquist has lived it for the past four summers. Life as a Fire Lookout is not for the faint of heart — 30 miles from the nearest trailhead, in a 1930s glass box, scanning the American West horizon for the first ghost-whisper of smoke. A season in her words, below.
“When it’s a smoke, you just know.”
Those were the first words of advice given to me on my first day of training as a Fire Lookout four summers ago. Over the course of that training week, I learned that in the backcountry it is always important to trust your instincts. I learned to read the environment around me as it pertains to wildland fire: how topography, wind, fuels and weather impact fire behavior.
"It changed the way I see the mountains now - I see fuel and not much else."
The National Weather Service sent a meteorologist to train us on what different types of clouds mean in terms of the potential for fire impacts, how lightning ignitions make up almost all of the fires in my area and what precautions we must take to protect ourselves from those lightning strikes as we are stationed on exposed mountaintops and at the mercy of the elements. We were told our goal as Lookouts is simple: detect fires quickly and accurately, and be the eyes in the sky over for personnel working the fires we call in.
Ever since then, I have been tasked with staffing a Lookout in one of the most challenging, wild and isolated places in the Lower 48. Where fire is no stranger and large paper maps tell its story over the decades. My seen area reaches over 60 miles to the North and I share my southern edge with two other Lookouts. I see less than 30 visitors in an entire summer and my only reliable contact with the outside world is by radio. It is a 30 mile one way hike in at the beginning of the Season.
I intended to do it for one summer to gain experience before pursuing other avenues in Wildland Firefighting. Now it’s been four years and I keep coming back. There is something revitalizing about being in pure isolation that draws me back to this place every June through September.
"You have to be comfortable being uncomfortable."
I now tell new Lookouts that in order to do this job successfully you have to be comfortable being uncomfortable. And let the experience strip you down to your most raw self and then allow it to build you back up. It is life changing in a way.
Despite attracting potential Lookouts with backgrounds in fire or the outdoors, each season it seems at least one is hired and very quickly decides it is not for them. Some last a month and others don’t even make it a full week. The fact is, most people are not comfortable in such challenging environments.
"Working as a Fire Lookout is about as raw as life comes."
You choke on smoke for much of the summer, rarely sleep soundly and are at the mercy of the elements and fire itself. But those challenges teach you something about yourself that I have not experienced elsewhere in wildland fire or the outdoors - even in my years as an ultra-runner and climber.
My station is simple. A 14x14 structure that is essentially a glass box and was built in the 1930s, as were many Lookouts following the Big Burn of 1910 and the growth of the United States Forest Service. There were thousands of them in that era, now around 400 are staffed each season. It features 171 individual window panes and heavy wood shutters that cocoon it at the end of the season to protect against violent winter storms. It has no running water and a simple outhouse on my ridge. Inside there is a twin bed, desk, radio, wood stove for heating and a propane powered cookstove.
The center of the Lookout revolves around a device called the Osborne Fire Finder which helps us plot the location of fires in around two minutes. These timeless tools were developed in the early 1900s for fire detection and are so efficient they are utilized by all Lookouts to this day.
All of my supplies are packed in once a month by a Fire Packer who supports fire personnel in the Wilderness. He delivers everything on horseback with a string of surefooted mules. And because of the way my supplies are delivered, I have to go light. Everything is carefully weighed and balanced. Necessities only.
My provisions list is as follows:
One pair of sandals. One pair of closed toed shoes. One pair of hiking boots. Three shorts. Three pants. Five merino wool shirts. A fleece base layer set. One hat. One pair of gloves. Three pairs of socks. One puffy jacket. One rain shell. One set of Nomex firefighting pants and top if things get spicy. A pillow. Sheets. Sleeping bag. One coffee mug. Oh, and of course my dog Gus. He’s been with me here for 4 years. Groceries and water for 3 - 4 weeks at a time between resupplies. My radio. Binoculars. Kestrel fire weather device. Sling psychrometer. Satellite phone. That’s all I really need.
The first week in station is thrilling and marked by a settling stage before the excitement of peak fire conditions arise. Most years I get snow in that timeframe and then as Spring loosens its grasp over the high country, things heat up, fuels dry out and summer storms begin to flow over the mountains.
Storms and lightning are most of the reason why we staff Lookouts in the most remote reaches of the Wilderness. Combined with dry conditions, cloud to ground lightning strikes regularly ignite fires. They start off as small ‘smokes’, burning single trees or into their roots. This is the stage at which we detect them. There are no visible flames yet.
"Just tiny ghost-like whispers of smoke many miles away."
If it weren’t for our constant eyes scanning our area every 15-30 minutes, these smokes could go undetected for days to weeks on end. Before gaining traction under ideal conditions and ‘blowing up.’
Even in the night, if there is lightning, I am working - tracking strikes in the darkness. Sometimes seeing the glow of a burning branch or tree against the black backdrop. Often close lightning strikes pepper my mountaintop and cause all of the metal in the Lookout to glow blue or purple, a phenomena known as St. Elmo’s Fire.
Although the Lookout is grounded by a modern lightning protection system consisting of a
lightning rod and cables running into the ground, I still sit on a device called a lightning stool during storm events. A simple wood object with glass insulators for feet. A relic from the early days of Lookouts, but also still an extra layer of protection against ground currents, which cause the most lightning related injuries in the mountains.
After the storm passes and the calm silence returns, I scan constantly, hunting for smokes. Once I find one, the real work begins.
I map the smoke, call it into Dispatch and wait for their response. Air Attack is requested to size up the fire and a decision is made on how to address it. Firefighters are often inserted by helicopters to the fire’s location or jump in from aircraft with parachutes. And a Lookout’s role shifts to watching out for them and providing radio relay if needed. I keep an eye out for hazards they can’t see or feel on the ground - such as wind shifts and building storms. The job becomes entirely focused on the fire and the conditions that impact it.
I record fire weather hourly: wind speed and direction, relative humidity value, temperature and sky weather and provide that information to crews if requested. It is tedious but I know how important it can be. In fact, a former Lookout at my station was known for his hyper-awareness of the weather here and is credited with saving an entire crew from burn over.
Once the fire is out and crews are off the line, the adrenaline wears off too. And attention returns to the mountains, the sunrises, sunsets and wildlife. Still always scanning, looking for new starts. But grounded once again in the isolation. Once again aware of the simplicity of life.
The summer days turn to fall in the high country by early September. And soon the weather forecast is closely monitored for the arrival of cold weather instead of lightning. When snowfall becomes possible, it is time to pack up and return to ‘normalcy.’ Time to readjust to the world around me. Drive a car, have a hot shower and grocery shop for the first time in four months. It can be briefly refreshing - but oftentimes overwhelming to the senses. The world outside of the backcountry is loud and fast.
As winter settles in, I find myself thinking of the Lookout again. I monitor snow survey stations that provide information such as snow depth, snow water equivalent and temperature. I am always thinking of fire season and how conditions over the cold months will impact the next summer. When early Spring arrives, I eagerly await the call informing me of when I will return to station.
In wildland fire, our years are split between fire season and preparation for fire season. There is no in between.
"It is hard to be in the present, but I try my best."
Though I always find my mind drifting to the simplicity and raw beauty of the Wilderness I watch over. Longing for the purpose driven work. Such is the life of a Fire Lookout.
Photos courtesy of Kathryn Lindquist. Find more from Kathryn at @lookoutlindquist
