My name is Ambler Negro. I had turned 20 the summer I decided to fight wildfires. I was driving out from a trailhead that I had hiked for the day. My hikes had become training sessions for the sole purpose of maintaining my fitness level for whatever was to come. I had met a woman named Megan whom I had connected with and we had plans to climb a mountain together as a date in a few days. The next night was my brother’s concert who had driven to Oregon all the way from Chicago. Whilst driving in my 1994 chevy G20 (the car that doubled as my transportation and residence), I received a call. “Hello Ambler, when can you be here?” the voice said. It was the company, and a fire had popped up not far away. I told them I was about a 45 minute drive. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as they went to confer with their supervisor. The voice came back and said, “You should just make it.” Adrenaline shot through my body. I looked out at the purple sunset that cast colors across my entire periphery and smiled. My van rumbled and gasped but kept running. It had broken down not just 2 weeks prior. “God I hope you make it Bluey,” I thought to myself. Bluey is the name I had given it for its bluish carpets that lined the inside. I had left Alaska, my community, a home with 4 walls, and a different woman whom I thought I was falling in love with to live in a van and carry out the duty I had agreed to. I felt that purpose strong in my heart. I was learning more about sacrifice than I had ever before. I spoke into my phone’s microphone to send Megan a message. “I’m so sorry, but I won't make it. I got called out for a fire.”

It’s important to understand what you're stepping into when you sign up to fight fire. The classes were informational, but did not prepare one for reality. How could they? Bootcamp was difficult, but short. Holding a plank at 11pm until your shoulders feel like they’ll give out after a 3 mile pack test in 90 degree weather hurts, of course. But what about your friend breaking down in tears on day 14 of a roll and you’re so tired the bags under your eyes have turned gray. And this, of course, is compounded by the fact that you have only received a maximum of 5 hours of sleep each night. What do you do? Or when your crew mate throws a large log down a hill you're standing on and it passes 2 inches from your head? Or when you watch as another friend rolls down a hill and hits a tree, fracturing a rib? Or what about that time your buddy fell in your arms and you tried to catch him but his shoulder popped out of its socket? These things happened to me while on fire. And the harsh reality is, you just keep going. You address, respond, and continue the work that needs to be done.

Because there is actively land burning that presents a threat to nature, homes, and lives. And you’re one of many who has decided to throw yourself on that front line. And this sits with you.

There were days where all my mind wanted to focus on was the woman in Alaska. Her name is Savannah, and she is now my partner, but was not at the time. But it’s your focus that keeps you safe out there. The company wanted us to “get our ducks in order,” before going out. But life happens. We all deal with the ever changing flow of circumstances. But out there, you compartmentalize. This forces a firefighter to give their job their all. You’re walking around thinking about a party you could have gone to and “whoops!” you step into an ash pit that sinks to knee height. And it’s hot and you feel it against your pants, forcing said heat against your skin. So you let go and keep chugging along. I would often think about Savannah. I had photos of her I would open while in my poison oak covered sleeping bag. The time I took her rock climbing, or the time we went kayaking and stayed in that little cabin by the shore. Or just those simple moments where we would eat together and be silent. I’d look at these, reminisce, and then return to the present reality. Which at the time was a serious spread of itchy poison oak rashes that covered a majority of my body, work in a few hours, and 20 other tired firefighters rustling and snoring in their tents.

I adapted quickly and learned the methods from those who had done this longer than I. On my first day I threw on my nomex (a synthetic fiber that is resistant to heat and flames), strapped on my belt, laced my boots, and grabbed my PPE. I hopped into one of the 4 white trucks and was positioned in between two men. They gave me their names. Their last names. I was not accustomed to this, but responded likewise. Before I knew it we were standing under the stars in the middle of the Oregon countryside as trees torched and lit up the dark. Someone handed me my pack and a tool. And so it began. We worked this small fire for a few days. It was old growth. The trees were huge and the ground steep. We’d walk up the same hill every day. It was sheer and erosion was degrading it more and more. The hills we were mopping up (which is the process of making sure the fire is really put out by gridding and checking with the back of your hand) were steep enough that we could barely stand. At times you would simply slide down. I would use my pulaski like an ice ax, as if I were a mountaineer, to cling on to the earth above me. Around 2pm one day my part of the grid ran through a massive log and brush pile. It looked impenetrable. But these crews and this company are thorough. They have to be. So I walked straight through it, weaving and climbing and getting scratched through this wall of branches and thorns. Sometimes a felling crew would drop one of these trees that are hundreds of feet tall. When they fell, it sounded like thunder, if not a bomb going off. A small group I was in was sitting in the green (a term used to identify the area not burned by fire) eating lunch and watching as the end of one of these gargantuan trees fell not 40 feet away. It hit, crossed our fire line and practically exploded as the branches splintered against the hard dirt. We stared in awe.

“I think we’ll find a new lunch spot, ay boys?” my squad boss offered.

Time passed and I fought fire in 3 states. Oregon, Colorado, and California. In the middle of the season, the company identified me and my friend as “high achievers,” and plugged us into a course for becoming an FF1. The next level of firefighting. This would give us the chance to be put into a leadership position. I cared about this. A lot, in fact, and paid close attention to the course material. They had to fit it into the time we had between runs, which was 48 hours, and did a speed run. It felt good to be recognized. And it felt even better to be good at something that is inherently difficult. But I still felt estranged from society and my routine. I missed my loved ones, and I missed feeling grounded. There was the exhilaration of the experience and this helped. But your mind and body are tired out there. You’re inhaling so much smoke, which affects cognitive and physical function drastically. This and some days your calorie intake does not come near what it should be for how hard you’re working. I would have intense heartburn for entire days. I wouldn't be able to touch my face because of poison oak. And other times my back was in a great deal of pain.

Toxicodendron pubescens, also known as poison oak. An upright shrub, which upon contact, causes dermatitis. Northern California has loads of it. We were sent out to a place called “happy camp.” The name itself is an oxymoron. “Don’t touch the poison oak if you don’t have to!” my crew boss would yell. He always looked out for us. Despite this, it was nearly impossible not to come into contact with the stuff. The way poison oak works is through oil, specifically urushiol oil. It’s a tough substance and can last on surfaces for up to 5 years. And we were swimming in it. Brush work requires your hands, arms and legs to be deep in the flora and fauna. Many plants resemble it, and you can only be so sure in given moments. So there we were. It starts on your forearms and calves in this line of work. It may seem harmless, maybe just a bit itchy. But it gets worse the next day. You start to notice it traveling up your extremities towards your trunk. At some point it’s so itchy you just want to slather yourself in a cooling cream and disappear. I was lucky enough to be prescribed prednisone, but it took a few days to have enough time and wifi to have my online doctor appointment. “Are you a firefighter?” the doctor inquired.” “Yes,” I responded hastily as I watched my crew pack up the trucks to go. “And you have a poison oak rash?” “Yes,” I said. He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. I’m prescribing you with a medicine known as prednisone. I think it’ll help. Take care.” And that was it. A note or two on prednisone. The list of side effects includes, but is not limited to, headaches, insomnia, weight loss, dizziness, fatigue, mood changes, appetite changes, and increased sweating. Some of these I experienced. I would take the recommended dose and go to bed in my tent. However, in the middle of the night I would shoot straight up, awoken by an exceptionally vivid nightmare and my skin would be hot, almost burning. It was as if I could feel the medication coursing through my rashes. I would also be sweating and itch my shins aggressively. I would notice throughout the day a sense of fogginess. My situational awareness was taken down a notch. The oils got on every item I had with me including the walls of my tent. But I kept working. There was fire out there and I needed a paycheck.

And so the season ended. I was holed up in an Airbnb with 3 of my crewmates. We waited for another call and never got one. We made dinner for each other. I grilled a salmon filet. An Alaskan special. We slowly got back into our routines and more and more texts came through in the crew group chat saying someone went home. “I’m back in Ohio,” one would read. “I don’t think we’ll get the call,” another would say. And then that was that. We had our money, new friends, and experience. We worked as hard as we could and learned to push through a certain kind of suffering. And we missed certain events and gatherings.

But in the end we knew that we would never trade anything for the pride we had earned.