By Etan Horowitz
Orlando Sentinel
Copyright 2007 Sentinel Communications Co.
FLAGLER COUNTY, Fla. — The workday is half over when Charlie Rushing and Ricky Jones encounter their first “widow-maker.”
It is a dead cypress tree, swaying precariously over Jones as he sprays water on a smoldering mixture of roots and tree limbs.
Rushing spots it first and yells, “Snag!”
Jones looks up, takes note of the danger, and calmly keeps spraying.
This is not the spectacular image that many associate with battling wildfires -- grimy firefighters facing down walls of flame, roaring aircraft dumping loads of water or fire retardant.
Instead, Rushing and Jones, two state Division of Forestry firefighters from North Florida, crunch through the blackened remains of a serene Flagler County tree farm, holding back danger by mopping up hot spots one at a time so they don’t give birth to new fires.
With the 6,800-acre fire in southeast Flagler largely contained, and temperatures only in the low 80s, the challenge for these firefighters is not getting complacent as they spend entire days doing the same tedious tasks: Spray down hot spots. Refill the truck. Spray down more hot spots. Refill the truck again ...
Rushing and Jones are among the 600 wildland firefighters the Division of Forestry has working on blazes that have scorched more than 100,000 acres so far.
Some climb aboard bulldozers, clearing away trees and brush to trap the spreading flames behind fire lines.
Many others are like Rushing and Jones, who work 14 straight days at a time, often far from home and family.
They get overtime pay, a taste of adventure, a sense of duty fulfilled, and the almost overwhelming gratitude from the residents they protect.
The morning briefing
The day begins with an 8 a.m. briefing by their division supervisor.
Richard McGhee, 39, of Port St. Joe, outlines the day’s conditions: high winds, but a 50 percent chance of rain.
They’re all professionals, but he still reminds everyone to wear their hard hats, keep their headlights on and watch out for dead, fire-damaged trees -- “snags” -- that could fall and crush a truck.
Or a firefighter.
The staging area is like a high school reunion, with firefighters from various parts of the state greeting each other.
Jones, 36, and Rushing, 47, work at the Blackwater Forestry Center northeast of Pensacola. They are joined by two other rangers from Blackwater: Justin Rowell, 24, and Tommy Paradise, 30.
For most of the day, the four will travel in two brush trucks equipped with water.
Rowell and Paradise are in “Blackwater 117,” Rushing and Jones in “Blackwater 110.”
They all say they would rather be driving a bulldozer and than doing mop-up duty. But they concede it’s an important job.
“I’d like to be on a tractor right now, but hey, your turn comes around. Sometimes you do this; sometimes you are on a tractor,” said Rushing, a six-year forestry veteran. “That’s just how the cards lay out sometimes.”
It could be worse. They could be working the night shift.
‘Bring it on’
At 10 a.m., Rowell spots his first flame. He backs his truck into a cleared firebreak. One side is green; the other is black.
The fire is only ankle-high, but still dangerous. Strong winds could send embers across the firebreak and ignite the green side.
Rowell stalks the flame, a hose draped over his shoulder. Standing about 30 feet away, he aims with laser-like precision, sending steam and smoke roiling into the air.
Rowell turns his attention to other spots, spraying them in a circular motion. The resulting sizzle sounds like eggs in a frying pan.
At just 24, Rowell has nearly a decade of firefighting experience.
His father is chief of a volunteer fire department in his tiny hometown of Munson. His mom volunteers there, and both of his brothers are firefighters for the Navy. Rowell couldn’t become a volunteer firefighter until he was 15, but he hung around at the firehouse starting at 9, rolling up hoses and doing other chores.
“This is what I know the most about,” said Rowell, who has two years with the forestry division. “It’s a way of life.”
About 10:30, Blackwater 117 and Blackwater 110 meet up to refill their water tanks. Each truck holds about 300 gallons, which provides only about 15 or 20 minutes of spraying time.
“Bring it on,” yells Rushing as he feeds a hose from the 4,000-gallon tanker into his truck’s water tank.
Rushing, a retired military man with a mischievous grin, is the group’s joker. He likes to steal the other truck’s keys and turn their side-view mirrors upside down.
He became a wildland firefighter by chance, answering a forestry service ad for a part-time dump-truck driver. He became hooked on firefighting. He got certified and became a full-time wildland firefighter.
With lunch approaching, Jones and Rushing have a new challenge when the mechanism that winds up the hose breaks. They spend a half-hour trying to fix it, but no luck.
Around the same time, Blackwater 117 heads back to the staging area. With the Flagler fire winding down, they may be needed in other parts of the state.
Rowell and Paradise are doomed to spend the rest of the day sitting in their truck at the staging area, waiting around for orders. It’s a fate far worse than mop-up duty.
Jones and Rushing eat a boxed lunch of meatloaf, potatoes and vegetables, then head back to where they have been working most of the morning.
More spraying. More refilling. More spraying . . .
Like trick candles
With high humidity and lower temperatures, Rushing says the conditions are perfect for mop-up.
But putting out hot spots is like trying to blow out trick candles. Areas the firefighters sprayed in the morning are still smoking after lunch.
And now the winds are starting to pick up, increasing the chances that airborne embers will ignite new fires. With every gust, new flames pop up, then die back down.
Rushing gets more aggressive, getting closer to the hot spots. Soon the water is out and Blackwater 110 leaves to tank up again, with Jones promising, “We will return!”
The two spray out five more tanks of water over the next three hours. Nearing 6:30 p.m., they head back to the staging area. Hot spots are still smoking, but they’ve done what they can.
The men call it a tiresome day.
Their reward, however, comes as they leave.
In the nearby communities, signs dot the yards of churches and homes.
“Thank you firefighters,” reads one. Another: “Kick some ash.”
At restaurants and convenience stores, the firefighters’ money is no good.
“We get thank-you’d to death by people around here,” Rushing said. “I don’t mind that at all.”