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1
MEADOW
The twelve-by-twelve footprint of the tower's cabin has to serve as both fire lookout and living space for the ranger stationed to the remote location on the seven thousand, nine hundred, eleven-foot summit of Benson Peak.
I push a bin full of personal items under the cot that's not even as wide as a twin-size bed and look around.
Three-hundred, sixty-degree views of raw wilderness spread out around me, visible from the cab's stormproof, acrylic windows that run from ceiling to mid-way down all four walls.
As a forestry ranger, I'll get to cover nearly every square mile of that land on foot, horseback, and snowshoes and Benson Tower is just the first of many remote cabins, towers, and yurts that are scattered through the back-country that I'll be calling home while I'm stationed here.
Landing the job in the Hart Wildland Management Area was a dream come true; I'm back in Moonshine Ridge, close to family, friends, and the hometown that I've already been away from for six years while I completed my degree in forestry service and put in my initial internship and training back east.
A plume of dark gray smoke rises up from the other side of the mountain range through the west windows, billowing in the wind before dissipating into a sky that's usually a much clearer blue than it has been for the last few days.
The Placer Canyon fire got here the same time I did but, fortunately, local crews have it under control.
Grabbing a seat on one of the office chairs, I set up my vigil at the long counter that runs the length of the wall. And watch the smoke.
Lightning struck on the lower end of the canyon a few days before I took over the tower, and the fire's been burning since.
My peace and quiet is broken by the heavy idle of a diesel pick-up on the ground below.
What are the chances that it's just a hiker pulling into the trail-head parking area below the tower?
After the engine dies and the door of the truck slams, heavy footsteps start up the grated metal steps, causing the entire tower to shake under the impact.
Of course I couldn't get lucky enough to have a day of peace.
The biggest downside of being stationed in the fire tower has definitely been having to work with the local Wildland Fire Protection Inspector.
I straighten my back and steel my nerves for what I know is coming.
"Hey Red."
Osprey Lancaster's voice is like someone taking a vegetable peeler to my eardrums.
All my siblings inherited the sleek, black curls of my father's Latino heritage, but not me. No such luck, I managed to get cursed with some recessive gene bullshit that gave me a nightmare of rust-colored frizz.
I've always hated my hair; almost as much as I hate Oz.
"Thought you could use some reading material while you're stuck on the mountain all summer."
The sharp sound of a heavy box being dropped on the floor fills the small cabin and even though I'm doing my best to ignore the intrusion into my solitude-- that sounded really heavy.
"What the fuck is all this," I ask tersely, rummaging through a box crammed full of tattered old romance novels.
From the amount of Fabio pictures on the covers, I'm guessing they're from the eighties.
"Mom's had 'em boxed up in the garage for years, figured maybe they'd keep you warm up here while you're all alone at night."
Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, I head back to my desk and pick up the binoculars.
Is that a sexual innuendo? Can I get the jerk reassigned for sexual harassment?
Technically, we don't work for the same boss. And, technically, I'm the higher authority in this jurisdiction.
The fact that I haven't talked to Ozzie Lancaster since my freshman year of high school is not an accident.
