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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. Firefighter Brendan McDonough wipes the sweat off his forehead and studies a gray plume of smoke in the distance. It's rising from a jagged line of orange flames, which are marching along a dusty, scrub-covered ridgeline about a half mile away.
It's a wildfire, and from what McDonagh can tell, it now stretches for roughly two miles across the ridge. His mouth is parched, and he's sweating beneath his black hardhat, yellow fireproof shirt, and thick green pants. He consults his thermometer, and he shakes his head. Somehow, the day has gotten even hotter.
McDonough gets on his radio to call his superior officer. Steed, it's Donut. How's the weather? Hotter than Tabasco on asphalt. 105. I believe it. Any spot fires?
McDonough shades his eyes and scans the ridge. He's standing on a granite knoll with the fire burning off to his right. A half mile to his left is his firefighting crew, the Granite Mountain Hot Shots. They're sitting on some boulders, resting after several hours of hard work. They spent the afternoon clearing out juniper trees and scrub oak brush along the ridge, trying to create what's called a fire break.
a gap in vegetation, to keep the fire contained. McDonough is acting as a lookout to make sure any embers drifting on the wind don't start a new fire and threaten his crew. Over the radio, McDonough assures Steed that everything's fine, but he keeps studying the landscape.
Suddenly, a huge gust of wind nearly knocks him off his feet. It must be 30 or 40 miles an hour. He turns back toward the plume of smoke and is startled to see that it's significantly darker. That's a bad sign. It means the fire is getting hotter and more intense as the strong winds feed it more oxygen.
Even worse, McDonough sees that the fire has changed direction. It's been pushing north all day, but those sudden gusts of wind have turned the fire around. It's now headed east, straight towards his lookout point.
He drops to a knee and starts packing his weather instruments. The rest of his crew are safe where they are. They're more to the south, in an area firefighters call "The Black." The Black is anywhere a fire has passed through and left nothing more to burn, but McDonough is in what's called "The Green," surrounded by dense, highly flammable brush.
He quickly hoists his 50-pound bag onto his back. It's taken him only a minute or two to pack up, but when he checks the fire again, it's maybe 300 yards away. He fumbles for his radio. Steve, the fire has turned, and it's moving fast. It just passed my trigger point. Copy. Time to get out of there, Donut.
McDonough jumps down the knoll. There's a clearing a few hundred yards away, surrounding an abandoned road excavator. When he arrived at his lookout point a few hours ago, he identified the clearing as a safe refuge in case of emergency. The scrub brush between his position and the clearing is denser than he expected.
McDonough is 21 years old and in great shape, but soon his arms are weak from pushing back branches, as if he's five rounds into a boxing match. Sweat pours into his eyes, blinding him and slowing him down.
At last, McDonough stumbles into the clearing, but the victory is short-lived. He looks around and realizes the area is smaller than it looked from a distance. The size of a tennis court, far too small to protect him. He can see a ten-foot wall of flames coming right at him. There's no other clearing nearby, and no way he can outrun the fire.
Two words flash through his mind. Words no firefighter ever wants to think. You're trapped. In our fast-paced, screen-filled world, it can be all too easy to lose that sense of imagination and wonder.
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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law. From Wondery, I'm Mike Corey, and this is Against the Odds. On June 28, 2013, lightning sparked a wildfire near Yarnell, a town of 650 people in central Arizona.
The fire started small, but 2013 was one of the driest summers on record in Arizona, and it quickly gained strength. Over the next two days, the fire threatened to overrun both Yarnell and a second town, Peoples Valley.
To save the towns, local officials called in elite crews of firefighters, known as Hotshots, to battle the blaze. These crews included the Granite Mountain Hotshots, a close-knit crew of 20 firefighters who lived in Prescott, a town of 40,000 people an hour away. The Granite Mountain Hotshots were willing to go anywhere to fight any fire, but they'd never faced anything like the Yarnell Hill blaze.
This is Episode 1, The Spark. 14-year-old Brendan McDonough slumps down at his desk and rubs his bloodshot eyes. He can't believe his mother is making him attend school at night. He wishes he'd smoked a joint before coming here. It's going to be a long two hours.
It's 2006, at a local college in Prescott, Arizona. At the front of the classroom, the teacher clears his throat. Okay, let's get started. Welcome to Fire Explorers. I'll be teaching you the art of fighting fires.
McDonough stares out the window at the hills surrounding Prescott. He could be out there with his friends right now, drinking and smoking, but his mother's worried about his failing grades and wants to keep him occupied. So she's forcing him to take this class. He plans to go for a month to get her off his back and then quit.
When roll call finishes, the teacher hands out textbooks with green covers. McDonough groans when the teacher thumps one down on his desk. He flips to the back. 716 pages. He might not even make it a month.
But then, he glances at the photos. There are men with axes and chainsaws in the woods. They look tough and muscular, and have faces caked with soot. Some are standing shockingly close to the fires they're fighting. They look like badasses. The teacher speaks. Everyone have a book? Great. Then let's read the introduction together. You, Mr. McDonough. Read the first paragraph.
McDonough rolls his eyes and flips to the intro. This manual is dedicated to men and women who hold integrity, service, and duty above comfort and convenience, who strive unceasingly to protect the lives and homes of others from the ravages of fire. The words ring in his ears as he speaks them. Integrity. Service. Duty.
McDonough's father ran out on the family years ago, so his grandfather has always been the man in his life. And whenever he visits his grandfather in Los Angeles, they volunteer down on Skid Row, giving homeless people food and medicine. The trips used to scare McDonough, but he soon grew to like them. Serving people made him feel good about himself for once.
Integrity, service, and duty are exactly what his grandfather preaches. He says we're here on earth to help others. When McDonough finishes reading, the teacher thanks him and writes some things down on the board. McDonough nudges the guy next to him and asks to borrow some paper and a pen. Maybe this firefighting class won't be so bad.
A 30-something woman with short brown hair and tired eyes slips into the back of a church hall near Prescott, Arizona. She grabs a magic marker and prints Amanda on a name tag. It's an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and she doesn't include her last name. She grabs a jelly donut and slides into a folding chair near the back.
It's December 2009, and today is Amanda's 206th day sober. She's proud of how she's turned her life around in that time. She shoes and trains horses for a living, and her business is thriving.
She has some rock climbing trips coming up too, and those should be fun. But as a recovering alcoholic, December always makes her anxious. What with all the Christmas and New Year's celebrations, she doesn't want to relapse. The room hushes as a guest speaker with an inspirational story rises to talk. He's got a handlebar mustache and salt and pepper hair. He speaks with a slight southern twang. Hello, I'm Eric.
Amanda leans forward and listens. It's a good story. Eric says the Granite Mountain Hot Shots started as a lowly crew that was only qualified to do so-called fuel management...
clearing burnable brush from around people's homes. But then he decided to take it further and started training his men to gain official hotshot certification, which meant they'd be able to fight wildfires in the field.
Eric Chuckles
Everyone laughs, including Amanda. Eric then explains that the adversity brought the crew together, which was important because they all came from different backgrounds.
There were science nerds and rodeo jockeys, high school dropouts and college grads, but they stuck together and moved into a new headquarters last year as an official hotshot crew. Amanda finishes her donut. This Eric guy is intriguing. She finds herself getting emotional as he wraps up.
Without thinking, Amanda's eyes stray to his hands. He mentioned his failed marriages, and he's not wearing a ring now.
As Eric descends the stage, Amanda makes a decision. She's always feared rejection. Her drinking was partly to soothe her social anxiety. But anxiety be damned, she's going to introduce herself to Eric and hear more about these hot shots. Brendan McDonough parks his run-down Ford Explorer and takes a deep breath.
He spent the past ten minutes nervously circling the headquarters of the Granite Mountain Hot Shots, but now he forces himself to open the door and get out. It's May of 2011, but even at this time of year, the black top of the parking lot is scorching hot. As he approaches the blue sheet metal building, he mutters an affirmation under his breath. You belong here.
But he doesn't really believe it. It's been a rough couple of years for McDonough. His drug abuse got worse, and he barely graduated high school last year. His grades were so bad he couldn't even get hired at Walmart. And then his girlfriend got pregnant and had a daughter, which has made money even scarcer.
The only bright spot has been his firefighting classes. He heard the Granite Mountain crew had a job opening. At first, he was excited to come here to apply, but now he wonders what he was thinking. Why would they hire a strung-out loser like him? At the door, he hesitates and looks himself over. He winces at his dirty jeans and dirty tank top.
He tucks in the tank top to look more respectable. Then he takes a deep breath. He reminds himself that he's doing this for his daughter. His heart pounding, he walks inside. He sees firefighter gear lying around and a workbench covered with half-dismantled chainsaws. The walls are decorated with posters. One says, "Your life is more important than any structure."
An older man with a handlebar mustache emerges from an office and sizes him up. Can I help you? Hi, my name's Brendan McDonough. I hear you have an opening. We do. I'm Eric Marsh, the superintendent here. You got any experience? Yeah, I've been taking the advanced fire explorer classes over at the college.
Marsh invites him into his office. It's sparse, with an old brown couch and a metal desk. On the couch, McDonough sits up, as straight as he can. Marsh asks a few basic questions first, making notes on a clipboard. Age, social security number, training, and certifications. Then he throws McDonough a curveball. You ever done any drugs?
McDonough considers lying, but figures Marsh has already pegged him. It's probably best to be honest. "Weed, ecstasy, pills sometimes. Are you still doing drugs?" McDonough hesitates. He smoked heroin last week. Admitting that would kill his chances, so he fudges the truth. "It's hard, but I'm getting clean.
The interview doesn't get much friendlier from there. McDonough admits he failed an EMT class and has a criminal record for petty theft. Marsh crosses his arms. Well, to be honest, your resume isn't exactly promising. Why do you want this job? For the first time, McDonough looks Marsh square in the eye.
Because all I want to do with my life is fight fires. I like the duty and the service aspects. Plus, well, I just had a daughter, Michaela, and I want to do right by her. She and firefighting are pretty much the only things I care about. Marsh leans back in his chair, chewing his lip.
He takes so long to answer that McDonough is sure that he's going to dismiss him. It's a crushing thought. He has no other prospects, but Marsh surprises him. Well, kid, I respect your honesty, and I do believe in second chances. You'll be on probation, but be here at 7 a.m. tomorrow, ready to run.
The look of astonishment on McDonough's face makes Marsh laugh. McDonough leaps up and shakes his hand. "I promise you won't be disappointed." McDonough wanders outside, nearly dizzy. He walks toward his truck with a new sense of determination. For some reason, Marsh just decided to give him one last shot to get his life back on track. He absolutely cannot screw this up.
Eric Marsh quietly removes his boots and creeps into his kitchen. His wife Amanda is chopping vegetables. She always gets so absorbed in what she's doing, whether it's shoeing horses or cooking dinner. He sneaks up behind her and waits until she puts the knife down. Then he darts forward and grabs her sides. She screams and slaps him playfully. "Jesus, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"
He laughs and kisses her. They've been together ever since they met at that AA meeting 18 months ago, and they've been married for a little over a year. While she finishes making dinner, Marsh talks about his day. He's fighting the city again about his crew's budget, which is always too low. On a brighter note, he hired a new hotshot, a 19-year-old named Brendan McDonough. Amanda looks up from her cutting board. 19...
That's pretty young. Does he seem like a good kid? Marsh grimaces. Not really, to be honest. He's kind of a mess. But we're down a guy for the season. We need someone. And when I looked at McDonough... Yeah, yeah, you've said it before. He reminded you of your younger self. You were a mess once, too. Well, then what does that say about you? You married a mess! Amanda rolls her eyes and laughs.
Marsh grabs a Gatorade from the fridge and slumps down at the table. He's been going back and forth all day on McDonough. The kids look bad. Sunken eyes, twitchy, messy hair. And Marsh has hired ex-druggies before, only to see them relapse. He hopes McDonough isn't one of the failures, both for the kid's own sake and for the sake of his crew.
Marsh needs Granite Mountain to be a tight-knit, high-functioning unit with no weak links. On the fire line, all it takes is for one guy to make a mistake and someone can get hurt or even killed. So if McDonough can't prove himself quickly, he'll be out. Because while Marsh does believe in second chances, he doesn't believe in third ones.
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It's his first day on the Granite Mountain Hotshot crew, and he has to complete a seven-mile run along the trails outside Prescott. He's in terrible shape, and by mile four, his asthma is acting up. He has an inhaler in his pocket, but he doesn't dare use it. If anyone found out about his asthma, he'd probably be fired. All he can do is struggle on.
But as bad as his body feels, the hazing is worse. The veterans on the crew keep harassing him. One guy has been particularly vicious: Chris McKenzie. As McDonough rounds a cactus on the trail, he sees McKenzie dropping back to jog alongside him. "Why don't you just quit, rookie?" "No way." "You realize that this is just day one, right? Imagine how bad you're gonna feel next week."
For a half mile, Mackenzie taunts him, telling him he sounds like a dog with all that panting. Then he leans over and hisses in McDonough's face. "Hey, listen, rookie. I've just been meaning to tell you, I don't think this job's for you. There's no way you'll ever be able to keep up with us in the field anyway, so why don't you just do us all a favor and go home now?"
He bumps McDonough and sprints off. McDonough stumbles and nearly falls. He stops running until he sees Eric Marsh up ahead. Marsh is doubling back to pick up stragglers. He falls in next to McDonough and runs quietly alongside him. McDonough is amazed at how effortlessly Marsh moves for an old guy. For a long time, they run together in silence. Then Marsh leans over and speaks.
If you give up on this run, you're gonna give up on everything else in your life. Including your daughter. Is that what you want? McDonough shakes his sweat-covered head. No, that's the last thing he wants.
Marsh sticks with him the rest of the way, coaxing him to the top of the trail. When they finish, McDonough bends over, hands on his knees, sucking in air. His entire body feels like jelly, but he's proud of himself. He's survived his first day.
Brendan McDonough grabs the chain-link fence in the parking lot of the Granite Mountain Hot Shot station. Without the support of the fence, he feels like he'll keel over. He's just finished another hellish training run. This one took place in town, so it was flat, but that jerk Chris McKenzie made him carry a 40-pound jug of water for the whole run.
He's only one week into training, and every day his muscles ache worse than the day before. This morning, he could barely pull on his socks. He felt like a 90-year-old.
After the training run, all the other guys went back inside the station to grab some food and cool off. But McDonough slipped off to sneak a hit from his inhaler. His asthma is making his lungs feel like he inhaled razor blades. He pulls out the inhaler and takes a deep puff. He can finally get enough air. One more puff and he should be able to face whatever torture is waiting next for him.
But as he raises the inhaler to his lips, he hears a shout. It's Jesse Steed, a tall ex-marine with a shaved head, and Marsh's second-in-command. "McDonough? What the hell?" McDonough whips his hands behind his back, like a child hiding a cookie. Steed grabs McDonough's arm and wrenches it in front of him. "An inhaler. Do you have asthma?"
McDonough flushes red. He's sure he'll be fired now. You say the word "steed" and I'll crush it under my boot heel. I won't ever use it again. Steed looks baffled. I'm not mad about the inhaler, you idiot. I'm mad that you kept it a secret from us. Now, do you have asthma? I guess, yeah. Yes. Alright, let me explain something. You know Travis?
McDonough nods. Travis is another ex-marine, probably the baddest dude in the whole crew. Tall, tattooed, doesn't even break a sweat on runs. But Steed explains that because of an old head injury, Travis gets vertigo. If we go anywhere near a cliffside, he gets dizzy and could fall over. So, you know what we do? What?
We compensate. We always put someone between him and the cliff, to protect him. The point is, McDonough, we all have weaknesses, even Travis. But we need to know what the weaknesses are. I don't give a crap that you have asthma. I'm pissed off that you tried to hide it from us. McDonough nearly chokes up. He feels a quiver in his throat, but he swallows his feelings and promises not to hide anything in the future.
Steed leaves him and heads to his truck. McDonough grabs the 40-pound jug of water. His body's still sore, but after his talk with Steed, he feels a renewed sense of strength.
Chris McKenzie drops his backpack and takes a long swig of water from his canteen. His face is gritty with soot, and his clothes reek of sweat. He and the other Granite Mountain Hotshots are battling a forest fire in Arizona. It's a pretty typical fire for midsummer, but it's still been a long, grueling week.
There are no roads into this forest, so they had to helicopter in and walk for miles. Mackenzie hasn't been this sore since he was a rookie, and he's not alone. Everyone looks beat up and ready to get home. He finishes his water, but he's still thirsty. He hollers to a group of guys huddled around a cooler. "Donut! Bring me a Gatorade!"
He's talking to the rookie, Brendan McDonough. He calls him Donut now, a riff on his last name. McDonough fishes out a Gatorade and brings it over. Donut, I don't like orange. Get me a blue one. McDonough looks annoyed, but does as he's told. He returns a moment later. Blue for you, your majesty. What did you say?
I said I gotta take a piss. Mackenzie twists open his Gatorade and scowls as Donut disappears into the woods.
He's surprised that McDonough lasted this long. McKenzie has been hazing him non-stop, for one simple reason: because McDonough has a bad reputation as a lazy goof-off who uses drugs. McKenzie cares about the Granite Mountain Hot Shots more than anything else. His dad was a hot shot, and McKenzie has worked his butt off to follow in those footsteps.
He doesn't want misfits in his crew. Misfits make mistakes and get people killed. But he has to admit that McDonough did a great job on this week's fire, especially for a rookie. He got assigned the toughest job, chopping brush by hand to make fire breaks. But he never complained and worked until his hands were blistered.
Still, good worker or not, that little crack about "Your Majesty" annoys McKenzie. He decides to push McDonough's buttons a little more. While McDonough is taking a leak, he picks up the rookie's hard hat and removes the chinstrap. When McDonough returns, he doesn't notice. A minute later, the helicopter approaches to take them all home. While everyone grabs their gear, McKenzie approaches McDonough and taps him on the shoulder.
"Where's your chin strap, Donut?" McDonough looks at his hard hat and his face drops. McKenzie laughs. "Well, you can't get into that hello without a fully strapped helmet, can ya? Those are the regulations. Looks like you're gonna have to hike your way out of here all alone." Other crew members have gathered around now. McDonough's eyes go wide.
He looks from face to face, but everyone nods and confirms that Mackenzie's right. No chinstrap, no ride. McDonough looks panicked. Mackenzie claps a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Donut. I can fix this. Close your eyes." McDonough looks skeptical, but he does what he's told.
Mackenzie reaches into his pack for a roll of duct tape. While McDonough stands there, eyes closed, Mackenzie wraps tape under his chin and around his helmet. He circles his head a dozen times. By the time he's done, everyone is snickering. But to Mackenzie's shock, McDonough laughs right along with them. He shows off his ridiculous-looking helmet for the crowd.
And just when you guys thought that I couldn't look like a bigger idiot. Everyone in the crew cracks up. Even Eric Marsh, who's usually all business in the field. The helicopter lands and they all shuffle forward to board. McKenzie falls in behind McDonough and studies him. During his rookie year, he would have been furious if someone had played him like that. But McDonough took this hazing like a champ.
Maybe he was wrong about Donut. Maybe he's not a misfit after all. Brendan McDonough hears knocking on his apartment door and clenches his fists in rage. He can't believe Natalie came back. He hops off the couch and stomps over to the door. McDonough rented this apartment a few months ago at the start of the 2012 fire season, his second on the Granite Mountain crew.
He invited his on-again, off-again girlfriend Natalie to live with him, along with their one-year-old daughter Michaela. He wants to be a good father, so he's trying his best to make this relationship work. But he and Natalie argue every day. Tonight, they had their biggest fight yet. McDonough even punched a wall. He put his fist right through it. Natalie grabbed Michaela and went to sleep at her parents' house.
Apparently, she's back. But when he flings open the door, red-faced and ready to shout, he sees Chris McKenzie looking startled. "Whoa! Is everything okay, dude?" McDonough exhales and steps aside to let McKenzie enter. For McDonough's entire rookie season, McKenzie was his biggest tormentor. But now they've become friends.
After the fight with Natalie, he forgot Mackenzie was coming over. Mackenzie lives an hour away, so McDonough lets him crash on his couch before early morning training sessions. Mackenzie peels off his black sneakers and digs into his overnight bag. "I got the new Call of Duty. Let's play." McDonough nods and drops onto the couch. They play for 20 minutes. It feels good to be distracted, but eventually Mackenzie turns to him.
McDonough explains the troubles with Natalie. They fight about everything. About how to load the dishwasher, about how often Michaela should nap,
But above all, they fight about him being a hotshot. He's tried to explain to her how important it is, how it keeps him clean. And more than that, he feels passionate about something for the first time in his life. He puts down the controller and looks at Mackenzie. She just doesn't get it.
All she sees is that I'm gone for weeks at a time and that it's dangerous. And I do get it. That stuff is hard on her. But she acts like we're just a bunch of reckless idiots doing it for kicks. We're saving lives. Mackenzie nods. I hear you, dude. I've lost more than a few girlfriends for exactly the same reason. So what are you going to do now? I don't know, man.
Mackenzie picks up his controller. McDonough does the same. For a long time, he hated the guy sitting next to him. He still shudders when he remembers all the hazing, but they've grown close over the past year.
In fact, McDonough has grown close with a lot of the Hotshots. He's always thought of Natalie and Michaela as the closest people in his life, but more and more, it's the Granite Mountain Hotshots who've become his true family.
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Brendan McDonough ignites the wick on his drip torch. It's a red metal canister about the size of a fire extinguisher, except it's used to start fires, not stop them. Once the wick is burning, he tips the canister over and starts dripping a burning mixture of diesel oil and gasoline onto the brush near his boots.
McDonough is burning vegetation to create a firebreak. There's a wildfire raging about a half mile away. His job is to make sure that if it reaches this point, it will stop spreading because there's nothing left to burn. McDonough steps back as the brush catches quickly, going up with a whoosh like a gas stove.
It's mid-June 2013, his third fire season, and Arizona is mired with its worst drought in centuries. He calls over to Chris McKenzie, a dozen yards to his left. "You ever seen brush so dry?" "No. Watch out for rattlesnakes too." McDonough chuckles. McKenzie always says that. He hates snakes.
The two men are burning an area filled mostly with scrub oaks - stunted oak trees with tangled branches that extend from the ground up to eye height. They're creating the firebreak here to prevent the flames from reaching a dense thicket of scrub oaks off to their right. If that thicket ignites, it could send up embers that could easily hop the blacktop road beyond it and threaten a nearby town. The rest of the crew is creating more firebreaks elsewhere between the fire and the road.
After three fire seasons together, McDonough and McKenzie make a good team. They've become roommates and best friends. But today, they're struggling. This brush is going up too quickly. McDonough is worried that the small fires they're starting might burn out of control. He's concentrating so hard that he's startled when McKenzie calls out, "Jesus! Where'd that smoke come from?" McDonough looks up and freezes.
40 feet above them, there's a blanket of thick black smoke. It's not coming from their small fires. It's coming from the main one they're trying to stop. And it's streaming almost horizontally, driven by strong winds.
McDonough's eyes dart left, past McKenzie. Through the brush, he can see the fire quickly approaching. It's 200 yards away, or less, and closing fast. He hears McKenzie shout, "Ditch the torches! Run!"
McDonough snuffs his torch and hurls it away from him like a grenade. McKenzie does the same. If the fire overtakes them, the torches will explode. It's something hotshots only do when they're desperate. McDonough plunges into the thicket to his right. The blacktop road is 40 feet away. They have to reach it before the fire catches them.
Unfortunately, the thicket between them and the road is so dense it's almost impenetrable. They can only move through it in single file, pulling apart branches that have woven together like a chain-link fence. McDonough is in front, with McKenzie pushing from behind. Branches slap McDonough's face. One slices his cheek, drawing blood. But he has to keep moving.
By now, he can feel the heat from the approaching fire. A gust of hot air scalds his back. He can hear the fire too. It's like a huge mountain lion roaring, angry and alive. The dry brush behind them pops like firecrackers.
Then, the whistling starts. It sounds like a tea kettle, caused by water shooting out of the small pores in the burning trees. Hot shot veterans say that if you ever hear that noise, you're as good as dead. Mackenzie shoves McDonough's back and starts shouting. Boo! Boo! Boo!
McDonough tries to go faster, but can't move more than an inch at a time. He slips on a beer bottle, his hard hat slides down, blinding him, and he falls. From the ground, McDonough sees that the road is only five feet away. He crawls forward on his hands and knees, thorns scratching his face. He hears the booms of the gasoline torches exploding.
Dimly, he realizes McKenzie isn't behind him anymore, but he has no choice except to keep pushing through the brush. Finally, he reaches the last foot. Twelve inches, and he's safe. But there's a web of branches as thick as ship rigging in his way. His arms are so tired, he can't break through them. Suddenly, McGunna feels two hands grip his shoulders and tug. Someone's reaching through the brush to pull him towards the road.
A moment later, he tumbles onto the blacktop, banging his helmet. He turns to see Mackenzie sprawled next to him. Somehow Mackenzie found his own way out and pulled him to safety. They lie there panting for a long minute. McDonough sits up and looks around. A 30-foot wall of flames is devouring the brush they were just in. He can feel the heat rolling over them, like they're sitting inside an oven.
As he's gasping for breath, Mackenzie starts laughing. God damn it, Donut! What part of move do you not understand? Pretty soon, they're both laughing so hard that they can barely breathe. They stand up to keep an eye on the fire, to make sure it doesn't jump the road. The cuts and bruises on McDonough's body hurt like hell, but he's never felt so alive in his life.
Russ' shoemate curls his fingers around his second cup of coffee of the evening and takes a big sip. He's in the parking lot of a roadside restaurant called The Ranch House outside of Yarnell, Arizona. A handful of volunteer firefighters crowd around him. They're anxiously watching a small airplane approach the ridge three miles west of town, a ridge with a white plume of smoke rising from it.
It's 7pm on June 28th, 2013 and the sun is just starting to set. About 90 minutes ago, a thunderstorm with dark menacing clouds tore through the area. The air is so dry that no rain reached the ground, but lightning did and it sparked a fire up on the ridge. The plane has been sent up to survey the fire and assess how dangerous it is. Shoemake gets on his radio and calls up to the pilot.
Jerry, can you make anything out up there? Not quite. Let me dip lower. Shoemate is a heavyset guy in his mid-40s. He's a part-time fire manager for the Arizona State Forestry Department, but it's been a full-time job this summer. Today is his 43rd straight day on duty. He's been running all over the state, helping put out blazes. Finally, Shoemate's radio crackles.
From what I can see, Russ, it looks like a small fire. Maybe a half acre? Copy. Any brush around it? No, not much. It's in a ravine with granite walls on both sides. I'd say fire's probably confined within. Shoemade exhales. This is great news. He signs off on the radio and turns to the volunteer crew. Let's head home, fellas. Thanks for coming out.
But as the group is about to break up, a firefighter named Bob Brandon steps forward. He's the fire department captain for People's Valley, the next town over. He takes off his wraparound sunglasses, revealing a look of concern. Say, Russ, I sometimes ride my horse up that ravine. It's mighty dry right now. I don't think the fire is as confined as he thinks it is. Shouldn't we get some direct eyes on it?
I appreciate your concern, Bob, but Jerry's got 20 years of experience tracking fires. I trust him. Yeah, but I'm telling you, I think we should get some people up there tonight. No, no, we can't do that. I don't want anyone approaching or fighting a fire near dusk. It's too dangerous. Brandon protests, but Shoemake cuts him off. Look, Bob, I'll call for some fire engines tomorrow morning. Maybe request a prison crew.
"But there are three dozen fires burning right now in Arizona. We have to be smart about allocating resources. Now go home and rest." Brandon still looks unhappy, but he nods and shuffles off. The fire is burning on state land, which means Shoemate has jurisdiction here. It's his call. Shoemate takes one last look at the plume of smoke rising through the twilight, then heads toward the restaurant to return his coffee cup.
Maybe he'll get some cherry pie to go. After six straight weeks of work, he deserves a treat. Bob Brandon rolls over in bed at his home in People's Valley and checks the clock on his nightstand. 11:30 p.m. He's been lying there for an hour, unable to sleep. He keeps thinking about that fire up on the ridge. He gets out of bed. His wife murmurs from under the covers. "What's the matter?" "It's nothing. I just want some water."
Go back to sleep." Brandon puts on his robe. Instead of walking to the kitchen, he tiptoes down the hallway into the den and approaches the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook his backyard. He pulls back the blinds. He loves Arizona at night. It seems like he can see half the stars in the Milky Way. The big open sky usually lifts his spirits. But not tonight.
He looks up to the ridge west of town. It looks like a craggy hump of black stone, except for one patch near the top, which is glowing in eerie orange. He thinks back to a hike he took this afternoon. He's lived in Arizona for decades, and he's never seen the vegetation so dry. That fire might be in a granite ravine, but every pine needle and leaf on the ravine floor will burn like gunpowder.
He closes the blinds and decides he does need that glass of water. His mouth is suddenly dry. Brandon has known Rush Shoemate for years. He's a great guy and good at his job, but Brandon has a sinking feeling that Shoemate is underestimating this fire. He worries that by tomorrow, the blaze on the ridge is going to be much, much worse.
This is the first 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 Rob Shielaga. 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.
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