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A listener note. Against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. This episode contains depictions of violence and death that some listeners may find disturbing. Please be advised.
Eric Marsh looks up at the hazy white sky and sees a welcome sight. A big DC-10 tanker plane approaching from the east. He grabs his radio and calls the pilot. That's exactly what we're looking for. That's where we want the retarded. Marsh clicks off his radio and exhales, then orders his crew of hotshots onward.
They can't see the wildfire from down in this ravine, but Marsh can tell by the color of the sky it's not far from them. Dumping fire retardant will buy them some time. It's 4:35 p.m. on June 30th, 2013. For the past 20 minutes, Marsh has been leading his granite mountain hotshots through a V-shaped ravine.
They took this shortcut to get to an area that's safe from the fire. A nearby ranch that's clear of burnable brush. Marsh thought they'd be able to reach the ranch in 10 minutes, tops. But the shortcut has turned into a disaster. The ravine is full of big, mature scrub oaks and other vegetation. Tall, thick, tangled brush that's perfect fuel for a fire.
Marsh and the 18 men behind him are struggling to get through it, and the ravine's granite walls are far steeper than they thought, too steep to climb in case of emergency. Their only option now is to bushwhack their way through the bottom of the ravine as quickly as possible before the fire reaches them.
And Marsh knows the fire is getting close. The dull roar of flames is swelling louder every minute. He's pinning his hopes on the plane circling above. Its belly holds 12,000 gallons of liquid fire retardant. The liquid can't put out the fire, but it can slow it down, and buy his crew a few precious minutes.
Marsh figures that's all they need to get out of this ravine and get to Helm's ranch. In fact, he can see glimpses of the ranch through the tangles of the branches ahead. They're so close. Marsh looks up at the sky again. What's taking the plane so long? He grabs his radio. He's just about to call the pilot again when he freezes. High above his left shoulder, dark gray smoke begins pouring overhead.
With alarming speed, it covers everything above him. It's like a giant jellyfish swallowing the sky. Marsh can no longer see the tanker plane, but he can hear it, and what he hears sends a chill down his spine, despite the oppressive heat. His second-in-command, Jesse Steed, confirms it. "It sounds like they're leaving?"
But I didn't see or hear a retarded drop. It's the smoke. They don't want to do a drop if there's no visibility. Marsh tries to radio air command to beg them for an exception, but he can't get anyone to respond. All the channels are jammed with chatter. From the sound of it, the fire is already entering the town of Yarnell, and things are getting chaotic.
The granite mountain hotshots are on their own. Marsh turns to see 18 men staring at him, fear etched on their faces. He works hard to keep his voice steady. "Get those chainsaws going, now! Everyone else grab your axes! Let's get the hell out of here!" He stands back to let the chainsaws try and cut a path to safety.
Marsh and the other men start hacking with their axes. They probably have 10 minutes maximum before the fire reaches them. The outlook was bad before, but now the hotshots are fighting for their lives.
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Progressive casualty insurance company and affiliates. Comparison rates not available in all states or situations. Prices vary based on how you buy. From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. On the afternoon of June 30th, 2013, the Yarnell Hill fire in central Arizona raged out of control.
Driven by wind gusts of up to 50 mph, the flames sped downhill toward the town of Yarnell. Local fire officials evacuated all residents and firefighting crews in the area. But one firefighting crew remained on the mountain
the Granite Mountain Hotshots from the nearby city of Prescott. To get to Yarnell as quickly as possible, they took a risky shortcut through a ravine full of highly flammable brush. But as the fire changed direction and picked up speed, the Hotshots suddenly found themselves at the front of an out-of-control inferno.
Before that day, Prescott's fire department had never lost a single life in the line of duty. By day's end, that would no longer be true. This is Episode 4, Radio Silence. Brendan McDonough fiddles with a radio knob in the Granite Mountain Hotshot truck. He's hoping to hear an update from the rest of his crew, who are still somewhere out in the field. But
but all he hears through the static is a clamor of other voices. The truck is parked in the wide dirt lot of the Ranch House restaurant outside Yarnell. Firefighters have been gathering here for the past 20 minutes after evacuating from the ridge. Some are lying on the ground, catching their breath. Others are tending to evacuees who need medical care.
McDonough had been serving as a lookout for his crew when he was nearly overrun by the fire. Guys from another crew rescued him and helped him drive Granite Mountain's two trucks to safety in his parking lot. But even with dozens of firefighters milling around, McDonough hasn't received any news about his crew.
Last he heard, they were sitting on a bunch of granite boulders, safely in the black of a burned-out area, awaiting further instructions. They're probably fine, but he wants confirmation. At long last, McDonough hears Eric Marsh's voice cut through the radio chatter.
This is Granite Mountain Hotshots. We are in front of the Flaming Front. McDonagh frowns. What does Marsh mean in front of the Flaming Front? He thought they were safe in the black. Where are they now? McDonagh hears something else too. In the background of Marsh's transmission, there's the unmistakable whir of chainsaws.
They wouldn't be using chainsaws if they were in a safe area clear of brush. He's not the only one who's confused. Outside the truck, he overhears two other firefighters who are listening to Marsh on their radios. Is Granite Mountain still out there? I don't think so. They're in a safety zone, in the black. Then McDonough hears Marsh's voice again. Air attack! Air attack! This is Granite Mountain. Do you read me? Ah!
McDonough feels his chest tighten. He's worked with Eric Marsh for three years and he has never once seen him panic, but he hears panic in Marsh's voice now. McDonough turns and looks out the window of the truck at the raging flames on the ridge. Suddenly, horribly, it comes together for him.
His crew must be in a green, unburned area somewhere up in the hills, which means the fire is headed right for them. Chris McKenzie pushes forward into the brush, branches snapping at his arms and legs. He gets lashed in the face and winces, but he doesn't slow down, not for a second. He has to get clear of the ravine. They all do.
He hears the 18 other hotshots in his crew working just as hard, using axes, chainsaws, and their bare hands to clear a path.
The Granite Mountain hotshots have finally escaped the thickest brush in the ravine, but they're not out of danger yet. Mackenzie knows the fire is drawing near. Every time he inhales, he tastes ash. The heat around him feels like a thick blanket. Up ahead, through the branches, he sees Eric Marsh in his red helmet turn around and wave his arms.
There's the Helms Ranch. We're just a quarter mile away. Mackenzie looks up and sees the big barns with their fireproof metal roofs. They're going to make it. Jesus Christ. A fierce wind blasts through the ravine. Mackenzie grabs his black helmet to keep it from flying off his head. Sand strikes his face, pelting him like little bullets.
A few grains slip past his sunglasses and get into his eyes. He's momentarily blinded. All around him he hears shouts and swearing. He turns his back to the wind, waiting for it to die down. He rubs his eyes and blinks the sand out. But when his vision returns, Mackenzie is horrified. He can't see the ranch anymore. The view in front of him has been blotted out with smoke.
That can only mean one thing. The fire is getting close and blocking her only way out. Mackenzie's eyes dart up and to his left. The sight makes his knees go weak with fear. There, at the top of the ravine, is a 60-foot wall of flames.
Bob Hart rushes into his home's attached garage, then turns to help his wife Ruth down the single step. They're still wearing their pajamas and slippers from an afternoon of watching game shows. They didn't have time to change after discovering their roof was on fire. They need to get in their pickup truck and flee before the whole house goes up in flames.
But when Bob hits the garage door opener, nothing happens. The fire must have damaged the opener. He grabs his wife's hand. "Help me lift the door!" They move as quickly as they can to the door and grab the handle together. "One, two, lift!" Pain shoots through Bob's back and knees. The door is far too heavy for his old joints. But he keeps straining and they lift the door afoot.
He sees Ruth is heaving from the effort. After a brief rest, Bob counts down again and they manage another foot. But with the garage door cracked open, smoke pours in. They both start coughing.
Bob tells Ruth to stay put, then hurries into the house for two scarves. He wraps one around her mouth, then covers his own. They return to the door. "Ready? One, two, lift!" Finally, they raise the door enough to get the pickup through. Bob opens the passenger door for Ruth and helps her in. Then he gets in on the driver's side.
Bob always backs into the garage, so he's able to pull out fast. But his heart is racing, and his hands are unsteady. He scrapes the truck against the bushes on the side of the driveway. At the end of the driveway, he turns right. Ruth grabs his arm. "What are you doing? We go left to get out of town!" Bob realizes she's right. In his hurry to leave, he went the wrong way. He has to make a U-turn.
But he rushes it and steers the truck into a drainage ditch alongside the road. The front end drops two feet and a tire pops.
Bob sits there, stunned. The bang of the tire rings in his ears. He feels like a complete idiot. He's going to get them killed. He opens the door, but when his foot touches the blacktop, the heat bakes through his thin house slippers. He gets back in and closes the door. He turns to his wife of 67 years. "I'm sorry, Ruth. I love you. I love you too. Don't worry.
Someone will be along soon. Ruth cranks up the air conditioning. Bob surveys the scene around him. The sky is the color of caramel. A bunch of houses on the block are on fire, including their own. Bob reaches for Ruth's hand. It calms him.
But he can feel a lump of panic rising in his throat. Because if someone doesn't come and help them soon, he's not sure they'll make it out of this alive. Eric Marsh cups his hands around his mouth and screams over the roar of the approaching fire. Chop that bush there. Break those leaves off.
There's no hope of running anymore. The fire has reached the mouth of the ravine, cutting off their path forward and their only means of escape. They can't climb out, and they can't go back the way they came. All Marsh's crew can do is clear enough ground so they can deploy their fire shelters, blankets shaped like sleeping bags, made of aluminum and heat-resistant silica that offer protection from the flames.
Marsh grabs his radio to send one last update. I'm here with the Granite Mountain Hotshots. Our escape route has been cut off. We are preparing a deployment site. I'll give you a call when we're under the shelters. Copy, Granite Mountain. So, you're on the south side of the fire? Affirmative. Copy. We're gonna bring in a retardant drop, okay?
A few minutes ago, that would have been music to Marsha's ears. But he thinks it's too late now. The whole ravine is choked with smoke. There's no way the planes will be able to locate them for the draw. All around him, the hot shots with chainsaws furiously cut everything they can. Others drag away the fallen trees and brush. Still others rake the ground, getting rid of flammable leaves.
Marsh tries to direct the men, but the fire roars like a giant mountain lion. It's so loud his men struggle to hear him. There's no way he can make himself heard on the radio, and he's not sure he can describe their position anyway.
He's having trouble breathing too. The air is searing hot and the fire is sucking up all the oxygen. Marsh hears a crashing sound behind him and looks up to the ridge. The flames must be 80 feet tall now. The fire is so hot that it's cracking granite boulders and sending pieces of rock tumbling down.
After just two minutes of clearing ground, Marsh yells at everyone to stop. They can't delay any longer. "Throw your gear and deploy shelters! Deploy shelters!" The chainsaws stop and hurl their machines as far away from them as they can. Other men toss their portable torches. They don't want them to explode when the fire reaches them.
The flames are less than a hundred yards away. Marsh grabs the red pouch dangling from his belt and rips the shelter free. In their training, they learned how to step into shelters like a sleeping bag. It was easy then without the real-world pressure. But the intense winds in the ravine now lift the shelters like windsocks. Marsh's shelter is nearly torn out of his hands. It takes him a few seconds to get both boots inside.
Hit the dirt! Marsh dives onto the ground, as do all other 18 men. The soil is already roasting hot. Marsh buries his nose in any way. The last thing he sees before pulling the shelter over his head is the air around him, glowing a fierce, fiery orange.
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Hey, have you heard any news from Granite Mountain? Anything at all? When the Chief shakes his head no, McDonough curses. Only three minutes have passed since he last heard Eric Marsh on the radio, but they've been the longest three minutes of McDonough's life. In that last frantic transmission, Marsh said he and his crew were deploying their fire shelters. Since then, silence.
Outside the truck, the parking lot of the Ranch House restaurant is swarming with firefighters and local residents. It's chaos, but McDonough is focused squarely on the radio. Right now, all he hears is air command trying to get in touch with the hotshots. "Granite Mountain, this is Bravo 3-3. Do you copy? We've got several aircraft coming to you. Can you tell us when you hear them approaching? 'Cause it's gonna be tough for us to see you through the smoke."
There's no response. McDonough feels a stabbing pain in his stomach. He still can't understand what happened. How did they end up in front of the fire? He glances up again at the monstrously tall flames on the ridge and feels nauseous. But he keeps telling himself that they must have escaped.
He'll see them any minute now, walking down the road, big grins on their soot-covered faces. A knock on the window makes McDonough jump. He rolls it down to talk with the Wildfire EMT crew.
The lead EMT is a husky redhead with freckles and buzzed hair. He points to the back of McDonough's truck. As soon as the fires burn past, we're going to take an ATV out to look for your crew. I need you to get all of the emergency oxygen bottles you have and all of the medical kits. Have them ready here, okay? We can't carry enough supplies for all 19 of the guys. We'll have to treat some of them back here. Okay, absolutely. Anything else you need?
The EMT ducks his eyes. Do you have the manifest? McDonough blinks in confusion. The manifest is a list of all the crew members, plus their heights and weights. He's about to ask why the EMTs need it. Then it hits him. They'll need it to identify bodies. McDonough tries to keep his lips from quivering.
He opens the console and pulls out the manifest, a laminated white sheet with 20 names typed on it. He quickly glances over them, his eyes lingering on a few. Eric Marsh, Jesse Steed, Chris McKenzie. He hands the list over. The EMTs leave without another word.
McDonough opens the door and climbs out of the truck to ready the oxygen and medical supplies. If any of his brothers are still alive, he'll do everything he can to help them.
EMT Eric Tarr shields his eyes and studies the scorched landscape below. A helicopter pilot is flying him over the burnt-out ridge west of Yarnell. He's searching for any sign of the 19 Granite Mountain hotshots. He's not optimistic. The fire that swept through here half an hour ago reduced every last bit of vegetation to ash.
Smoke is still rising from the ground, which is charred almost black. But if anyone did survive, Tarr needs to find them quickly. They'll be severely burned and need immediate medical attention. He turns to the pilot. I think they were farther south, but the smoke's still too thick over there. Take us around this area one more time.
The pilot banks and turns. Tarr continues to scour for any sign of the crew. A minute later, against the blackened earth, he sees several splotches of yellow.
Ground crew, I might have a visual on the Granite Mountain crew's backpacks. What's your position? Copy that. What's the location? We'll hover over it. Hurry!
There's no good place for a helicopter to land on the smoldering hilly terrain, so Tarr has to wait for the ground crew. But to his frustration, it takes the EMTs 40 minutes to reach the site. Finally, around 5.50 p.m., he sees the four men trudging up to the yellow blotches. The EMTs kneel down, pick up the yellow material, and let it drop.
Then Tar hears the chief EMT over the radio. It's a false alarm. These aren't backpacks, they're bladders. Firefighters sometimes carry yellow bladders full of water to help put out spot fires for members. And apparently some crew abandoned theirs during the evacuation. But they're not typical hotshot gear. It's unlikely these belonged to Granite Mountain. Tar tells the EMTs that he'll keep looking.
Then he tells the pilot to head south. The smoke has finally cleared in that direction. It's now been more than an hour since Eric Marsh's last transmission. Tarr knows that if he has any hope of finding the Granite Mountain hotshots alive, he can't afford to waste another minute. County Fire Chief Gary Cordes eases his pickup truck around a corner in Yarnell, scanning for signs of danger.
or for signs of life. He's taking a risk driving through town, but he wants to make one last sweep in case anyone is still stuck here. He could never live with himself if he didn't do all he could. Orange embers flip past his windshield and he turns his wipers on to clear falling ash. He can barely see 40 feet in front of him with all the smoke.
He passes partly burned homes where the windows have melted from the heat. Some houses didn't get so lucky, already burned to the ground. His head jerks at a noise, probably another propane tank bursting. He's been hearing them pop one after another.
As he drives slowly along, Cordis sees movement to his right. Someone is entering a blue, low-slung ranch home. A young man with long hair and cut-off jeans. Cordis rolls down his window. You've got to evacuate! I know, I want to make a sandwich first! Cordis' mouth drops open, dumbfounded.
A sandwich? Here he is, risking his life to help people escape, and this idiot hippie is making sandwiches? Cordis is suddenly furious. Get in your goddamn car! You'll die otherwise! Go! Go! The man hesitates, but he listens. Cordis watches the hippie drive off, then resumes his patrol.
After another minute, he's near the edge of town, where the blacktop road stops. That's got to be everyone. Cordis is about to hit the gas and leave town when he sees something he can't believe. Like ghosts, two old folks emerge from the smoke, walking hand in hand, their faces wrapped in scarves. They've got to be 90 years old.
My name is Ruth Hart. Our truck broke down.
May we have a ride? Yeah, lady. Get in. Let's go. Cordes helps them into the cab of the truck. After being outside for less than a minute, he finds it hard to breathe. He can't imagine what these two old folks are feeling. He slams the door and hops back into the driver's seat. It's time to get out of Yarnell.
EMT Eric Tarr looks down through the lingering smoke over a burnt out area west of the Helms Ranch. He tells the pilot to go slow. After a few minutes, he grabs the pilot's shoulder and points. "There, see that? A glint of metal. Go that way." The pilot dips and heads where Tarr is pointing. As they get closer, Tarr confirms what he thought he saw.
the metallic reflections of fire shelters, the aluminum foil blankets used for dire emergencies. He picks up his radio to call the EMTs on the ground. - Ground crew, I have a confirmed visual on several fire shelters. We're over a ravine about a quarter mile west of the ranch. How long before you can get here? - Probably another 40 minutes. It's steep terrain. We'll have to ditch the ATV and continue on foot.
Tarr grimaces. Every minute of delay decreases the chances of someone surviving if they're injured or incapacitated. He turns to the pilot. Is there any way to land? I'll do my best, but then I've got to leave. We're almost out of fuel. The pilot circles for a minute before finding a relatively flat area about 400 yards from the ravine. He turns to the pilot.
He touches down just long enough for Tar to grab his medical pack and hop out. Tar covers his nose and mouth against the whirling ash as the helicopter rises and flies off to get more fuel. With the helicopter gone, the charred landscape sounds eerily quiet. Every plant is blackened and dead. There aren't even insects buzzing.
The only noise is his boots crunching on the ground. The scorched earth feels like crusty snow under his feet as he trudges forward toward the mouth of the ravine. The air is still so hot that his throat burns when he breathes.
Suddenly, he hears voices. His heart leaps. Survivors. He breaks into a run, passing two melted chainsaws on the way. A minute later, he reaches a small clearing and sees the shelters. He calls out, "Hello? I'm a medic. Does anyone need help?" Nobody answers. Tarr calls out again, but no one responds. He runs up to the closest aluminum foil blanket and peels it back.
It's a gut-wrenching sight. The man is badly burned from head to toe, and he's clearly dead. Tarr hurries to more fire shelters, peeling the blankets back to search for survivors. But it's the same every time. Nothing but scorched bodies. He stands up and looks around, his emotions churning. What the hell is going on? He heard someone talking. He's sure of it.
There it is again. A voice. He starts walking toward the sound. It's coming from a shelter with a red helmet melted into a pool beside it. This time, he peels the shelter blanket all the way off. He sees a handheld radio. It's scorched and battered, but somehow survived the fire. That's where the voices are coming from. He turns it off. His mouth dry,
And his hands shaking, he reaches for his own radio. I have 19 confirmed fatalities. I repeat, 19 fatalities. Brendan McDonough holds his head in his hands, staring at the radio inside the Granite Mountain Hotshot truck.
He's still in the parking lot of the ranch house restaurant. Sirens are blaring. EMTs rush by with bottles of oxygen for evacuated residents of Yarnell. But McDonough is hearing it all through a fog. He keeps replaying the words that an EMT just radioed in. That all 19 members of McDonough's hotshot crew, his brothers, his closest friends, are dead.
McDonough feels utterly cratered inside. Ten minutes pass, then twenty. He just holds his head, unable to think or even move. He snaps out of it to hear a cell phone ringing. It's coming from the back of the truck, one of the many phones left here while the hotshots were working. It's gotta be a family member calling for one of the guys.
The phone keeps ringing. He starts to reach for it, but then he pulls his arm back. He can't bear to answer. What would he say? Then another phone rings. And another. Soon they're blaring inside the truck. It's the worst noise he's ever heard in his life. McDonough stumbles out of the truck into the heat. He doesn't even bother shutting the door. He takes two hurried steps and then starts jogging.
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Amanda Marsh robs her hand along the flank of her favorite mare, a pink horse named Honey.
She brushes out Honey's mane and the horse whinnies in response. She's always had a soft spot for Honey, who has diabetes and needs extra care. Amanda smiles and feeds her a carrot. While Honey eats in the stable, Amanda checks her phone. It's 6:45 p.m. She hopes Eric will call her soon. And who knows? He might even be back tonight if she's lucky.
Before she can slip her phone back into her pocket, it rings. It's her friend Christy. Christy works as an emergency dispatcher for the county and sometimes gives Amanda updates on the Granite Mountain hotshots when Eric can't call himself. Hi Christy, how's the fire? Something's happened to Eric's crew. They're missing. Amanda freezes. Missing? What does that mean, they're missing?
I don't know exactly. Have you heard anything from Eric? No, not since this morning. I'll call back when I get more details, okay? Amanda hangs up.
The stable suddenly seems claustrophobic, so she heads outside to the gravel driveway. She paces back and forth for several minutes, her mind churning. She keeps thinking about last night with Eric. They argued on the ride to the station. She left him angry. She checks the time again and again. 6.50. 6.55. Why won't Christy call back? Finally, Christy does.
Amanda stares at her phone for several seconds. She takes a deep breath, then she picks up. "Hello?" "Amanda, I'm so sorry." Christy starts to explain what happened, but before she can finish, Amanda screams and slams her phone onto the gravel. She buries her face in her palms and crumples to the ground.
Brendan McDonough unlocks the door to his apartment and stands at the threshold, staring into the dim interior. It's 7 a.m. on July 1st, the day after the tragedy in Yarnell. He spent all night at the local high school in Prescott with the families of his dead crewmates. Their wives, their parents, their little children.
He hugged them and comforted them, did whatever he could to help ease their pain. Every second of the night was agony, but he stayed until the last person went home. Then he drove here to his apartment, his and Chris McKenzie's apartment.
He's lived with Mackenzie for so long that their lives became intertwined. So much so that he stopped noticing signs of him. Now he sees Chris's stuff everywhere. Like it's magnified. His high tops. His video games. His can of chew. It's too much for McDonough. He hurries across the living room to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
He draws the shades and collapses onto the mattress. He covers his head with a pillow. Last night with the families, he didn't have to face his own thoughts, but he can't avoid them now. Thoughts of Mackenzie and Eric Marsh and Jesse Steed and everyone else keep crowding into his mind. Why did he survive and they didn't?
After a long hour in the dark bedroom, he gets up to use the bathroom. He feels like he's a hundred years old, achy and exhausted. When he reaches the bathroom door, it won't open. He looks down and sees his hands shaking, shaking so hard he can't grip the knob.
He takes a breath to calm himself, then tries with both hands, but they won't turn the knob. He's suddenly furious. He rears back and kicks the door open. It bounces hard off the wall, rebounding and nearly closing again.
Kicking the door feels good, really good. So he winds up and kicks it again, and again, and again, pounding it with his boot until it's cracked and hanging off the hinges. He stands there, panting and alone. He feels a lurch in his throat and clutches his head with his hands as hard as he can.
No matter how hard he squeezes, he can't keep the tears from streaming down his face. Brendan McDonough looks out the passenger window of Eric Marsh's superintendent truck at the crowds of people lining Highway 89.
They're driving into downtown Prescott, bringing up the rear of a funeral procession. The chief of the Prescott Fire Department is behind the wheel. McDonough didn't feel up to driving Marsh's truck himself. At the bend in the road, McDonough looks ahead and can see the whole motorcade spread in front of him. Nineteen white hearses, one for each fallen member of the Granite Mountain Hotshot crew.
A plane flies overhead and releases something from a window. McDonough can just make out 19 purple ribbons fluttering down to Earth. It's July 7th, a week after the fire killed his crewmates. Their bodies went to Phoenix for autopsies. Now they're coming home.
After the ribbons fall, the procession drives through downtown Prescott. McDonough figured a lot of folks would be here today, but he's surprised at the size of the crowd. There must be 10,000 people lined up along the funeral route. Children with their hands over their hearts. Ranchers with their 10-gallon hats removed. Biker gangs standing next to their Harleys, silently wiping away tears.
In every store window, there are handmade signs of love and support. At one intersection, McDonough turns his head and peers down toward the Granite Mountain Fire Station. The chain-link fence around it has turned into an impromptu memorial. People have left cards, candles, teddy bears, and cans of Coors Light in Copenhagen Shoe.
McDonough feels a lump rising in his throat and looks away. He's glad he wore sunglasses. The procession stops at the courthouse. There, McDonough helps other firefighters remove his fallen brothers from the hearses. The bodies aren't in coffins yet, just orange body bags with American flags draped over them.
They bring them into the morgue. He cringes at feeling the limbs of each man through the bag, but he does his duty. When all the bodies are inside, McDonagh asks for a moment alone in the freezing cold morgue. Everyone else silently withdraws. Now it's just him and 19 bodies on metal gurneys.
He walks around to each bag and touches the nametag, trying to conjure each face in his mind. He pictures them smiling and laughing, messing around on a training run, drinking a beer late in the evening. He lingers especially long over two: Eric Marsh, the man who gave him a shot when he didn't deserve one, and Chris McKenzie, his tormentor turned best friend.
When he's done, McDonough closes his eyes. After a week of tears, he's all cried out. He's only 21 years old, and he wonders how on earth he's going to live with this burden for the rest of his life. The Yarnell Hill fire continued to burn for several days after the Granite Mountain tragedy, and was not fully contained until ten days later.
Overall, 127 homes were lost in Yarnell. Remarkably, thanks to the brave efforts of firefighters, not a single civilian life was lost. Bob and Ruth Hart were among the many lucky survivors. The Harts reported that they would have evacuated earlier, but they never received an emergency call to alert them of the danger. It's not clear why.
Brendan McDonough continued to live in Prescott. For the next few months, whenever he went out for dinner, someone else picked up the tab. But however appreciative of the support, McDonough remained torn up emotionally. He even considered suicide. Only the fear of abandoning his daughter, Michaela, pulled him through.
McDonough ended up doing hundreds of interviews with the media. It was agony to relive the pain again and again. But he did the interviews anyway, because he knew that if he didn't, reporters would hound the families instead. His many interviews helped raise $13 million for the victims' families. Today, he runs a faith-based addiction rehab center in Prescott,
which specializes in working with military veterans and first responders suffering from PTSD. Amanda Marsh, Eric's widow, started a foundation in his name to support injured or dead firefighters and their families. She still lives in Arizona. After his near death, Peoples Valley firefighting captain Bob Brandon spent eight years working on a memorial park to honor the fallen hotshots in the hills above Yarnell.
The state of Arizona launched two investigations into the death of the 19 hotshots. One report declined to blame anyone for the tragedy, attributing it mostly to the violent weather and the unusually fast and ferocious flames.
The other report from Arizona's Occupational Safety and Health Administration did cite human factors that contributed to the deaths. It said that supervisors had been working too many days in a row and acted slowly to corral the fire early on. The report also said they should have pulled the hot shots out of the field sooner.
In the town of Prescott, some criticized Eric Marsh for taking the shortcut and for pushing his men too hard after an exhausting month.
Brendan McDonough denies those allegations against Marsh. He says the crew was ready and eager. He also says that Marsh would never have taken the shortcut through the ravine without the support of all 18 other men. But to this day, McDonough does not understand why they took the shortcut instead of following a safer path to the ranch.
All accounts of the Granite Mountain Hotshot's final minutes, including this one, can only guess at Marsh's motives for leaving the ATV track and cutting across the ravine. With the planet's climate heating up, the American Southwest is only getting hotter and drier. Arizona recently experienced the worst heat wave in its history, with some cities topping 110 degrees for weeks at a time.
As temperatures continue to climb, fires will grow even worse in the future. The number of major fires in the western U.S. has doubled since 1984. The worst fires, called megafires, can destroy an acre of forest every second. Some fires reach 3,000 degrees, hot enough to melt iron and steel.
all of which scares current and former hotshots like Brendan McDonough. In his memoir, Granite Mountain, McDonough wrote, Since 1994, 400 wildland firefighters have died in action, but to most Americans, we're invisible. And that's a problem, because the fires are getting stronger, and that means more wildland firefighters are going to die trying to fight them.
If you or someone you know is struggling with PTSD or other mental health issues, you can call 988, the Free National Suicide and Crisis Hotline. On our next episode, we'll hear from Kyle Dickman, Outside Magazine contributing editor and former hotshot. Dickman chronicled the Granite Mountain Hotshots in his book, On the Burning Edge, A Fateful Fire and the Men Who Fought It.
This is the fourth episode of our four-part series, Granite Mountain Hotshots Disaster. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the books On the Burning Edge by Kyle Dickman, Granite Mountain by Brendan McDonough, and The Fire Line by Fernanda Santos.
I'm your host, Mike Corey. Sam Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Sean Raviv.
Sound design is by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Emily Frost and Alita Rosansky. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producer is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
I'm Dan Taberski. In 2011, something strange began to happen at the high school in Leroy, New York. I was like at my locker and she came up to me and she was like stuttering super bad. I'm like, stop f***ing around. She's like, I can't. A mystery illness, bizarre symptoms, and spreading fast. It's like doubling and tripling and it's all these girls. With a diagnosis, the state tried to keep on the down low. Everybody thought I was holding something back. Well, you were holding something back intentionally. Yeah, yeah, well, yeah.
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