Basically, occasional fires from lightning strikes are part of the ecosystem.But then humans came along and fucked it up, by building houses in fire-prone places, and also by starting way,waymore fires than there are supposed to be.
Right now, about ten percent of wildfires are started by lightning.Those are the fires that the ecosystem can handle.The other ninety percent are people leaving campfires burning, or shooting off fireworks, or dropping cigarettes, or just doing dumb, dangerous shit.
“But itmightcatch, and if it does, it’s gonna flare up those steep slopes faster than a cat with its tail on fire?”I say.
Talking to Randy makes all my colorful phrases come out.
“You got it,” he says, chair creaking.“We can’t risk sending anyone in on foot because of that, and we can’t call in the cavalry for a lightning strike that’s almost definitely gonna burn itself out in twenty-four hours.”
“Which is why I’m staying here and keeping an eye on it,” I say.
I look at the column of smoke again, but then I look down at Hunter, almost at the top of the boulders.
Staying here another night iscompletelyfine with me.
“You got it,” Randy says.“If you’re feeling up to it, there’s a nice hike to a waterfall nearby, up high enough that you should be able to keep an eye on the smoke from there.Good swimming hole on a hot day, never anyone around.Just take the trail out of the lookout meadow and head north a ways...”
He gives me directions to the waterfall, and I trace the route on my map.The lookout cabin is already getting stuffy and hot inside, even though I’ve got the windows open as far as they’ll go.
Randy rambles a little more before finally signing off the radio.I put it down on top of the spinning firefinder map and take a deep breath, reveling in the silence for a moment, because that man cantalk.
I look down at the spot on my map where the lightning strike is: twenty-five miles away, basically inaccessible.I want to believe Randy that it’ll burn itself out, because he’s been doing this for thirty-five years, so he’s probably right.The Spires are mostly rock, and lightning strikes rarely turn into raging fires anyway.
But I still have a weird, bad, gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t know why.It’s not as if I know more about fires than anyone else, and none ofthemare worried.
It’s your first time spotting a fire, I tell myself.It’s normal to be nervous.
I shake my head, slug down the rest of my cold instant coffee, put on my boots, and head down to suggest a waterfall hike to Hunter.
ChapterEighteen
Hunter
“I thoughtRandy said this was aneasyhike,” I say.
I look up at a long stretch of boulders, leading to a plateau.I can hear the waterfall, and there’s a creek winding down the other side of the rise, but it’s too choked with underbrush to even consider getting up that way.
“Randy’s got a different definition ofeasythan...well, humans,” Clementine says, her hazel eyes flicking over the gray rocks.“Why, are you tired already?”
She glances at me, her eyes dancing.I cross my arms.
“I eat climbs like this for breakfast,” I say.“But I’m not the one with a half-busted ankle.”
“It’s not half-busted,” she says.“I’ve been totally fine this whole way.”
She hops up and down a couple of times on her right foot, like that’s gonna prove that she’s fine to scramble up a bunch of boulders.
I don’t like letting her do this, but I’m fully aware that I don’tletClementine do anything.I can have opinions, but the minute I suggest that I might notlether do something, look the fuck out.
“Can I talk you out of this?”I ask.
She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me.
“I’ll be fine,” she says.“I’m not made of glass.”
I want to point out that shedidturn her ankle yesterday while all she was just walking, but she’s not gonna change her mind, so I don’t.Instead I climb about ten feet behind her, close enough that if she slips, I can catch her.
I can also watch her ass, which looks surprisingly good in her hiking pants, which aren’t generally very flattering.
