Chasing Fire

Listen to the audio version of this story and see the photos through Working Draft Magazine.

As I lay in bed the night after my first fire, I saw thin tendrils of grey smoke twisting through branches every time I closed my eyes. They were burned inside my eyelids after scanning the forest floor for hours, searching for smoke. 

Fighting wildfire was nothing like I expected.

I applied to become a wildland firefighter on a whim. After months of sitting in a college classroom with fluorescent lights and the blue glow from my laptop glaring at me, I knew I needed to be outside. 

My inspiration was a bright-eyed woman named Meagan. I met her on a ski trip in the spring of 2024, and she explained her summer job. It was everything I wanted. 

She worked with her hands out in nature, protecting communities and riding in helicopters. Without knowing many other details, I impulsively applied. I craved an experience that felt concrete, quantifiable, and important.

After I got the job, I spent almost every cent I had on work clothes, boots, and gas to make the seven-hour journey north from my home in Niverville, Manitoba to the Wekusko Falls Initial Attack Base. Driving through miles of monotonous Manitoban highway, I had no second thoughts about my decision. 

Women in Firefighting

Growing up on a grain farm, I was familiar with manual labour and working in a male-dominated field. I didn’t expect the feeling of inferiority that overwhelmed me as I pulled up on base. After the mind-numbing drive, Meagan (the woman I had met skiing) welcomed me, and we walked over to a large shop. As we rounded the corner and stepped through the door, my eyes adjusted to see twenty or so faces staring back at me. 

They may have been smiling; some might have said ‘hello,’ but I didn’t notice. Through my nerves, I saw a group of men, stronger and more experienced than me, who were wishing my diversity-hired self away. I projected my fear onto these strangers, who as far as I knew, didn’t care that I was there.

Two days after I arrived, Meagan left to go fight a fire. I had yet to pass the fitness test (WFX-FIT) and training boot camp, so I stayed back as the only woman on base, aside from the cooks. 

While she was gone, I stayed in the “girls’ cabin” alone and studied the walls. They were covered with mementos — photos, certificates, and patches — of women who had come before me, legacies left by some of the fastest, hardest-working firefighters of the Wekusko firebase. I thought of these women often throughout the summer — if they could do it, I could do it.

In 2024, out of roughly 200 wildland firefighters in Manitoba, only 12 were women and one was non-binary.

This imbalance is in line with the number of female firefighters in Canada as a whole. According to the 2022 Great Canadian Fire Census, from the Canadian Association of Fire Chiefs, only 11 per cent of firefighters in the country are female.

Slowly but steadily, this number is growing.

Once everyone arrived, our base had four women and one non-binary person, more than any other firebase in Manitoba.

The Wekusko firebase had six crews, each with one crew leader and three to four crew members. I was placed on Meagan’s crew, Initial Attack 11 (IA 11), allowing me to train under one of two female crew leaders in the province.

She taught me how to operate the water pump, how to start it if it flooded, how to start it if the recoil broke, and how to start it if the intake hose was missing.

 As we dropped in on my first fire a few weeks later, I felt prepared. Then we landed, and my confidence diminished as I watched the helicopter leave us behind with the looming wildfire.

Fire #WE018, 28km from Snow Lake

July 6-7, 2024

I don’t remember how I got to fire #18. I don’t remember putting on my blue and yellow Nomex uniform, grabbing my radio harness, or loading our crew’s gear into the helicopter. 

My first memory of this fire is when my boots touched the ground and flooded with cold swamp water. My ears rang with the hum of mosquitoes and the resounding whoosh of helicopter blades. My nose filled with smoke.

“Go start setting up the pump,” said Meagan, her tone tinged with urgency as she took off into the bush to lay a line of hose from the swamp to the fire. 

The next few hours were a blur. I had to reconcile everything I’d learned in training with what I now saw in front of me. 

While tripping after Meagan, I realized what it meant to lay a hose line around the wildfire and use a nozzle to dig into the burning roots to contain the edge of a spreading flame. 

I rushed back and forth from the swamp to retrieve 55lb hose packs, trudging through knee-deep bog. When I held the nozzle-capped end of the charged hose over my shoulder for the first time, the immense water pressure nearly ripped it from my grasp.

Before this fire, one of the helitack officers warned me about the bugs. “When it comes to the mosquitos, you just need to tell yourself, ‘I’m not going to die,’” he said.

This wasn’t an exaggeration. The possibility of going “bush crazy” was obvious to me within five minutes of the incessant buzzing and biting. 

“Be comfortable being uncomfortable” became my mantra.

When my heels were covered in blisters, I told myself that each biting step only propelled me forward faster. It wasn’t true, I didn’t have my “bush legs” yet and was painfully slow, but it kept me going.

“Just keep moving,” Meagan said. You’ll be tripping, falling in holes, climbing over branches, it doesn’t matter. Just keep moving. 

This was her fourth year as a wildland firefighter, and it showed in the way she flew through the bush. Her legs seemed to carry her forward without struggle. Branches of spruce trees tugged at her loose braid and curled themselves around her ankles, but she didn’t slow down.

Fire #18 was only two hectares, so we wrapped it up in two days and one night. Lying in my tent the first evening, I noticed my legs were completely covered in bruises, my hair was full of twigs, and my face was streaked with black soot. 

I couldn’t have been happier.

Fire #NO071, 38km from Lynn Lake

July 24-26, 2024

Over 275,000 hectares (ha) of Manitoban land burned during the 2024 fire season (April-October). 

Fire #71 was my largest fire, accounting for around 3000 ha — equal to roughly 5600 American football fields. 

We drove seven hours north of our home base in Wekusko Falls Provincial Park to Lynn Lake, a mining town that is Manitoba’s northernmost community accessible by road.

Immediately after arriving in Lynn Lake, we started working on value protection for the Black Sturgeon Reserve. “Value protection” refers to pro-actively defending homes, cabins or any infrastructure in the path of an out-of-control wildfire.

In this case, it meant climbing on top of all 40 homes in the community and hammering sprinklers into the roofs. Once turned on, they would create a moisture-filled ecosystem around the houses and, hopefully, limit fire damage.

We walked from house to house, carrying our ladder, hoses, hammer, and nails. Trailing behind us was a young girl in a pink dress and a pack of dogs. Her family hadn’t evacuated yet.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just putting up sprinklers,” Meagan said.

“Why?” 

“Just in case.”

Thankfully, these answers satisfied her, and she didn’t seem to notice the ominous column of smoke on the horizon.

She tugged on my radio harness. “What’s that?” she asked. By the time I finished explaining, she had found something else more interesting and skipped away.

Although fire #71 never reached the Black Sturgeon Reserve, this was the first time I felt real fear on the job. I saw the potential for destruction up close.

After we finished value protection, IA 11 went to the fire line. Because of the massive scale of the fire, our job was just to secure the southeast corner by anchoring our hose line between a swamp and a lake. 

We made good progress towards the lake on day one and headed back to the landing site to get our gear and set up camp. The sun was setting as Meagan and I followed the orange trail of flagging tape through the bush to our campsite, chosen by the other two crew members.

On each fire, Meagan would send two of us back to choose a site, set up the tents, and start cooking dinner on our propane-powered Coleman. The first night was usually pasta.

This camp was one of my favourites, tucked between trees, up on a rock ridge, nestled on a patch of moss that sunk a few inches with every step. I had an air mattress, but I didn’t use it. I slept peacefully, hugged by the soft forest floor. It was dead quiet. 

The next day, we reached the lake and started our back pass to the swamp, working deeper into the fire and extinguishing any flame close to our line.

Then I heard a powerful gust of wind, but felt nothing; I whipped my head around, looking left and right and up into the trees — I saw no movement.

“That’s the sound of a torching tree,” said Meagan. 

I learned that torching is when a coniferous tree starts burning from the base, and the fire quickly jumps up each branch until the entire tree is consumed. It sounds like tossing a match on a gasoline-soaked bonfire.

Soon, more trees started torching and moving toward our line. Because they were burning so high, sparks had the potential to float over and land in the unburnt greenery on the other side of our hose.

Meagan told me to wait and monitor the situation, keeping her updated over the radio as she ran to get more lengths of hose from further up the line.

Standing there alone, looking up at the most flame I’d seen all season, I felt a new kind of stress. It was the kind of stress we as humans are designed to feel; I didn’t recognize it. 

Fight, flight or freeze — not for an awkward interaction or dreaded presentation — but for survival.

I envisioned flame surrounding me, burning over our pre-planned escape routes and safe zones.

I wasn’t in any true danger; helicopters flew overhead, providing air support and dropping buckets of water from above. Until this point, the fires I had worked on were out quickly. We usually spent most of our time scanning the ashes for hot spots and smoke to make sure it was completely out, haunted by swarms of black flies.

This fire was different. It gave me a small taste of how quickly a wind shift could change the stakes.

At this point, IA 11 had worked 24 days straight, so we were pulled off the fire and replaced with another crew. We had maxed out and were required to take a mandatory two days off to reset.

We stayed one more night in Lynn Lake, slept on the stained carpet of an unfurnished government-owned house, and began our seven-hour drive back to Wekusko the next morning.

Fire #WE051, 36km from Snow Lake

August 1-8, 2024

Fire #51 was my longest fire. We were there for seven nights, along with IA 26 and IA 15. 

We all set up camp together and spent most evenings at each other’s cook tents, making dinner and sharing coveted snacks from our stashes. Beef jerky and Oreos were as good as gold.

These nights made this fire memorable. As much as wildland firefighters may love the work, nature, or adrenaline, I think the community is what keeps them coming back each season.

Many people I met on the job have wild lives outside of firefighting. They fill the other eight months of the year with adventure, funded by the 16-hour workdays they put in over the summer. 

One goes to Brazil to surf, one lives on a sailboat off the coast of British Columbia, and some fly to Australia to fight fire year-round.

These lifestyles broke down my ideas about what “real life” looked like. I struggle with overthinking, barely reaching one milestone before wondering where I’m headed next. 

My anxiety about life after graduation is always top-of-mind and I keep waiting for my “real life” to start. Wildland firefighting was yet another way to deter the inevitable nine-to-five I had slated for my future.

The firefighters I met showed me there is a different way to live. 

Once fire #51 was out, we spent three days walking throughout the nine hectares, combing the ashes for roots still smouldering beneath the surface.

This part of the process is called hot spotting, searching for any tiny trail of smoke escaping through the soil. If you skipped this step, the fire could rekindle, or even continue sneakily burning underneath the forest floor throughout the winter. It could then spark above ground the following spring, emerging as a holdover fire.

While searching for hot spots on fire #51, the towering trees entranced me. I didn’t know Manitoba had trees like that. Stopping in my tracks I craned my neck to look up and take them in. 

I got to stand in places where few, if any, other humans have been, and I felt immensely grateful. I remember thinking that if I were a bear, this is where I’d choose to live, surrounded by wild blueberries and patches of moss bathed in sunlight.

“Be where your hands are,” is a saying my mother has repeated throughout my life. That week in the bush was the first time I had fully accomplished the sentiment for more than a fleeting second. I got it. 

I tend to freeze. “Being where your hands are” eliminates that option. If I am present, I have no choice but to keep moving forward. 

Fire #WE061, 44km from Snow Lake

August 16-21, 2024

I spent my last fire of the season on a different crew. IA 11 was deployed, but I couldn’t go with them. My second year of college was starting in a week, and they were likely going to be gone for much longer.

I was crewless and temporarily joined IA 20.

We flew to fire #61, and within minutes of landing, I saw more flame than I had all season.

I was using the hose to make our first pass around the fire when I heard IA 20’s crew leader, Eman, over the radio.

“11-4 (my callsign), drop the nozzle, you need to come back,” he said.

“Roger.”

I dropped everything and followed the hose line back to where we started. The flame was crawling toward our pump site, on its way to melt the hose and cut off our water supply. I climbed over a burning tree lying across our line and felt the heat radiate from the other end of the trunk.

The wind changed and turned our one-hectare fire into 15.

Smoky skies from fire #61. (Georgia Dyck)

“I’m calling for air support,” he said.

Minutes later, water bombers flew overhead as we watched from a safe distance, droplets of foamy flame retardant raining down on our helmets.

After the planes left, helicopters delivered two more crews to help wrap the fire, which we worked on for five nights.

As hectic as it was, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of fire #61 isn’t the chaotic introduction — it’s Justine — pure joy in human form.

She highlighted why it’s so important to have more women in firefighting. Justine more than held her own as the only woman on IA 20, but said the “girls’ cabin” back on base was a saving grace. She loved her crew, but coming back to Wekusko and having a place where she could relax and be around other women was essential.

Working as a structural firefighter in Quebec, she’s faced prejudice as a woman, from co-workers telling her to do the dishes to feeling like all eyes are scrutinizing her every move. 

She found wildfire more welcoming, but she still doubted herself and her place in the field. Her vulnerability showed me that I wasn’t alone. Throughout the season, she motivated me with a lighthearted but dedicated approach to the job. “If boys can do it…” she said as she shrugged her shoulders.

I had to confront my ingrained idea that men are physically stronger than women and, therefore, more qualified for the job. 

Eman, Justine’s crew leader, said that he prefers to have a woman on his crew. In his opinion, the dynamic shifts when it isn’t solely men; people are more considerate. There isn’t this competitive dog-eat-dog mentality where men are trying to prove themselves —  instead, teamwork becomes more important.

On one fire, I was lifting a hose pack onto my back, and a male crew member from another base offered to help. Was he offering because I’m a woman and he thinks I’m too weak? Was he just being nice? Would he ask to help if I was a man? 

I said no.

Sometimes, I still wonder if that was the right choice. I wanted to prove I could do it, and I could, but did I need to? 

I brought up this interaction to a few coworkers; one said to let people help me, and one said never let a man take something from you. 

Regardless, I don’t know how I would have made it through the summer without Meagan’s encouragement to do things I disqualified myself from or Justine’s example of perseverance.

Moving Forward

Sometimes when I’m sitting in a cold college classroom, I can’t help but daydream about standing in the forest, listening to the gentle rustle of leaves and watching the warm whispers of sun dance across the mossy ground.

The phrase “just keep moving” turns around in my mind, even when I’m not stumbling through the trees chasing a wildfire. The blind act of tripping, grasping, and crawling forward, regardless of circumstances, has helped me get out of my head. 

Some part of me knows I’ll get to where I’m going. I simply need to be where my hands are, find comfort in the uncomfortable, and just keep moving.