Glacier Burning - 3 - the Screaming Silence of Waiting

No alarms needed. I awakened early. It was barely light outside. I had stayed up after midnight waiting and hoping for rain as I watched the ridge to our north east for the errie red glow of fire. There had been only one scare during the late evening. It was after 10 pm when there was a knock at the door. It was a good friend who also happens to be a Law Enforcement Ranger. My first reaction was that she was here to give us the evacuation order. No. She had a pizza box in her hand. Her story was that she had been given pizza to share with "folks working hard in the park." It was definitely an emotional boost. I had the feeling, when she said that she had other pizza in her squad car to deliver, that this was really our LE friend's doing. No matter who, it made a tremendous impact. Someone out there was sensitive to our plight.

As I was putting on my boots this morning to do rounds I saw our boss parked nearby. She lives near Flatlead Lake, south of here, and was in the park early. The normal fall staff attrition leaves her with one VUA ranger who was already getting things together for a trip to the east side of the park. She had no more news. We talked about weather and hopes, hope and weather. All we could do was wait. Each of us would, from time to time look up at the grey sky and the tall, silent lodgepole pines. The silence screamed. It was an almost hysterical scream of fear and anticipation, where the mouth is open but there is no sound. Like us the trees were waiting. But they were so still, so silent, creating a sense of tension that made the three observers nervous and concerned. What was going on up on the mountain that we didn't know? The trees knew but weren't telling.

Inside each of us we really knew for what they waited. We knew what they feared. It was the calm before the storm. But what kind of storm? Rainstorm or firestorm?

We have two loops containing 99 campsites open. Twenty-one sites had been occupied last night. I walked the deserted loops to pull tags. That's the early morning process of removing all of the registration tags that had expired. There were only two tents and one RV remaining, and all three of them were right next to us. I couldn't help think of the forest young drawing close to their mothers for comfort and protection. That is, indeed, part of our job. Campers asking us repeatedly if we were going to be sure to warn them. It must take some courage to trust us, total strangers, with their safety. As I walked I imagined, or maybe I fantasized, that it was beginning to rain. I would stop. All of my senses were on high alert, but there was nothing. There was no rain. When I would do this I would glance over my shoulder at the mountain barely visible through the trees and haze. Just beyond that ridge was the fire. Was it coming? Who would get here first, the fire or the rain? I looked again down the empty campground road. At least, if the worst comes, we don't have hundreds of people as we did before.

But I don't want to give in! My defiant screams, like those of the trees around me, are silent. To have this happen twice in ten days is almost intolerable. Nevertheless I know the truth. I am helpless in face of a burning inferno. My only hope is the rain and the skills of the brave women and men who have placed themselves between the fire and me.

Pamela checks the weather every few minutes. Like all of us, she is desperate for hope. The radio cracks. It is dispatch with the morning report. From the sounds of it the fire didn't get as much wind as we expected last night so there was not as much growth as anticipated. That was good news. We have a stand off. The fire hides behind the ridge above us. We know it's there. We wait, but perhaps not patiently, for every nerve, every emotion, screams for relief. We wait to learn our fate. We await our fate. We wait.