Ten years ago today my phone rang at home and the familiar voice of a friend and Fire Captain was on the other end. “Joe I need to give you a heads up. We lost Masto at Camuesa”. I knew that my immediate response was a misinterpretation of what I had just been told: “What do you mean ‘lost’ him? Find him”. But the reality had already landed: Masto was dead.
“What happened?” A pause, and then: “I don’t know”
Another pause, before I realized that Mike’s task was to call every member of the Department, wherever he could find them. I had another call coming in anyway and I let him move on with his somber chore. The next voice was the Chief’s: “Take whoever you need and get up to Camuesa to investigate this” As gently as I could, I reminded him that Camuesa was not exactly our jurisdiction. Masto was assigned as a Line EMT on a wildland fire in the Los Padres National Forest. As such, he was working for the Forest Service, who are accustomed, I was sure, to conducting their own fatality investigations. “Whatever, just get up there. He was working near a convict crew and I’m getting conflicting information about what happened. I’ll tell them you’re coming”
I wanted to go anyway and would have been disappointed had he not called. I contacted Marty and had him meet me on Highway 154, where we then went on to Live Oak Camp, the headquarters for the Camuesa Incident. The camp was teeming with firefighters in various stages of deployment or rest, along with the Type II Management Team in charge of suppressing the fire. The mood of the team was grim, and they had just been informed that a Type I Team was being assembled to replace them the following morning. The death of a firefighter had upped the ante.
Not long after that I found myself in a helicopter with a Cal Fire Captain, headed for the spot where Steve Masto fell. Marty stayed behind to conduct interviews and because I knew of his lifelong fear of helicopters. He called them “whirly-gigs of death”, which usually made me laugh. Not today though, and I boarded the ship without my usual enthusiasm for the flight. There had been no time for crews to cut a landing zone and the pilot intended to “hot drop” us on a nearby ridge. I checked the weather conditions: 105 degrees F with low humidity and moderate winds. All we needed was one skid down for the two of us to grab our gear and bail, putting distance between ourselves and the chopper. The drop was uneventful, except for the clouds of fine black char and dust the rotors kicked up, making it difficult to see.
Reality is never the way you presuppose it. Although the ridge had been an area of heavy fire activity, the terrain where Steve died was not. Inexplicably, it appeared that he had been making his way up the face of an extremely steep knoll laced with game trails but otherwise not suited for hiking, especially in extreme heat. To the west, the Camuesa Connector trail looped around the back side of the knoll, allowing relatively easy access to the top, and visible from above a second ridge trail led from the south with similar ease of use. It was this trail leading, ironically, from Paradise Road, where Masto was last seen before he disappeared.
Hand crews had by now cut a path across the face of the knoll and we made our way to the spot where the CDF crew had found him. My colleague was the leader of that crew, a group of convicts on partial work release, trained as hand crews. There was never a valid suspicion about the convicts: They had been actively searching for Steve, under the direction of their leader, since he had been reported missing. The CDF Captain spoke what I was thinking: “No trail, all in the green”. Climbing a steep, south facing slope in 105 degree heat, dense chaparral, that would have to be one extremely hot climb. I tested the footing: “Shale…”, said my companion, “…really loose”. Another strike.
I found myself talking to Masto, looking for any kind of clue that might make sense. “What the hell were you doing here?” The ”Z Division” Supervisor had been waiting for him on the ridge above not 200 yards away, but was unable to see Masto, and probably would not have considered the face of the knoll anyway. Let’s face it: Why there? No one would climb that under those conditions, right? It wasn’t until later in the investigation that we realized the obvious: Steve could see him. His red Captain's helmet would have been a beacon to the rookie, who was ordered to report to the "Z Division Supervisor". The duty bound, dedicated Masto was reporting for duty, right to the end.
At some point, he had to know he was in trouble. Somewhere along the line, before delirium fully set in but after taking the wrong branch of the trail, he must have thought that something was not right. Being an inexperienced but highly dedicated fire professional, he was fully outfitted for wildland firefighting according to the Department’s Standard Operating Procedures. The double layering; the gloves; the helmet; the face shield; the full pack, including medical equipment. He was doing everything right. This was his first wildland assignment and he was not about to invite trouble from his superiors by removing safety gear because of a little heat. Everyone else was handling it, and they were on the fireline already!
At the time of his death, he was what the fire service refers to as a “single unit resource”, that is: alone. He had a radio but it is unclear whether he knew whom to call. It is reasonable to assume, however, that the rookie did not want to draw attention to himself, and by the time it would have occurred to him it is unlikely that he was in any condition to do so. Heat stress will do that to you: Confusion as dense as the chaparral, robbing you of your last defense.
The Forest Service welcomed us into the investigation and as a team we tried to dissect what went wrong. A firefighter not exposed to the incident perishes in a seemingly senseless fashion and there simply has to be a palatable explanation, right? We learned a great deal, about heat stress, an already well known danger in wildland incidents; the dynamic of being the “new guy”; the machismo firefighting culture; dogged adherence to policy, even when one’s own self interest is threatened, and the single minded dedication to duty of a young man who only ever wanted to be a firefighter.
We learned that we failed that young man, of course. He should not have been alone. Someone older and wiser should have said: “Take some of that stuff off son, you look like hell” or maybe “No, rookie, we are not climbing that.” We failed as a culture too, when someone confused about their situation is too embarrassed or intimidated to ask for help when it is as close as the radio strapped to their belt.
And once again I find myself talking to Masto directly. There are annual remembrances after a loss like this, and as time goes on you hear words like “He died doing something he loved” but I don’t know, Steve. A part of me wishes you had at least made it out of your twenties. You would have loved giant flat screen TV’s and the way the internet just exploded; social networking, and texting contractions: Omg! LMAO! WTF! on your iphone. You would have an iphone, trust me. A part of me wishes that you were an accountant, or a teacher, a lawyer. Someone who’s idea of danger was a summer rafting trip on the Rogue River; and perhaps someone with children of your own.
The Chief here was your Captain at Station 1 and he keeps your last evaluation on his computer. It shows the promise, the potential of a rising star, forever stuck in time. Sometimes I get a little pissed at you Steve. I’m pissed that you didn’t just say “screw this”, and start taking off equipment, find some shade, pour water over you head and yes, call for help. There were 500 people out there who would have moved that stupid mountain to get to you buddy.
But of couse, that’s futile now. For now, we remember the single minded dedication, the loyalty, the honor of the kid who only ever wanted to be a firefighter. It was a good death Steve, and a senseless one.
“What happened?” A pause, and then: “I don’t know”
Another pause, before I realized that Mike’s task was to call every member of the Department, wherever he could find them. I had another call coming in anyway and I let him move on with his somber chore. The next voice was the Chief’s: “Take whoever you need and get up to Camuesa to investigate this” As gently as I could, I reminded him that Camuesa was not exactly our jurisdiction. Masto was assigned as a Line EMT on a wildland fire in the Los Padres National Forest. As such, he was working for the Forest Service, who are accustomed, I was sure, to conducting their own fatality investigations. “Whatever, just get up there. He was working near a convict crew and I’m getting conflicting information about what happened. I’ll tell them you’re coming”
I wanted to go anyway and would have been disappointed had he not called. I contacted Marty and had him meet me on Highway 154, where we then went on to Live Oak Camp, the headquarters for the Camuesa Incident. The camp was teeming with firefighters in various stages of deployment or rest, along with the Type II Management Team in charge of suppressing the fire. The mood of the team was grim, and they had just been informed that a Type I Team was being assembled to replace them the following morning. The death of a firefighter had upped the ante.
Not long after that I found myself in a helicopter with a Cal Fire Captain, headed for the spot where Steve Masto fell. Marty stayed behind to conduct interviews and because I knew of his lifelong fear of helicopters. He called them “whirly-gigs of death”, which usually made me laugh. Not today though, and I boarded the ship without my usual enthusiasm for the flight. There had been no time for crews to cut a landing zone and the pilot intended to “hot drop” us on a nearby ridge. I checked the weather conditions: 105 degrees F with low humidity and moderate winds. All we needed was one skid down for the two of us to grab our gear and bail, putting distance between ourselves and the chopper. The drop was uneventful, except for the clouds of fine black char and dust the rotors kicked up, making it difficult to see.
Reality is never the way you presuppose it. Although the ridge had been an area of heavy fire activity, the terrain where Steve died was not. Inexplicably, it appeared that he had been making his way up the face of an extremely steep knoll laced with game trails but otherwise not suited for hiking, especially in extreme heat. To the west, the Camuesa Connector trail looped around the back side of the knoll, allowing relatively easy access to the top, and visible from above a second ridge trail led from the south with similar ease of use. It was this trail leading, ironically, from Paradise Road, where Masto was last seen before he disappeared.
Hand crews had by now cut a path across the face of the knoll and we made our way to the spot where the CDF crew had found him. My colleague was the leader of that crew, a group of convicts on partial work release, trained as hand crews. There was never a valid suspicion about the convicts: They had been actively searching for Steve, under the direction of their leader, since he had been reported missing. The CDF Captain spoke what I was thinking: “No trail, all in the green”. Climbing a steep, south facing slope in 105 degree heat, dense chaparral, that would have to be one extremely hot climb. I tested the footing: “Shale…”, said my companion, “…really loose”. Another strike.
I found myself talking to Masto, looking for any kind of clue that might make sense. “What the hell were you doing here?” The ”Z Division” Supervisor had been waiting for him on the ridge above not 200 yards away, but was unable to see Masto, and probably would not have considered the face of the knoll anyway. Let’s face it: Why there? No one would climb that under those conditions, right? It wasn’t until later in the investigation that we realized the obvious: Steve could see him. His red Captain's helmet would have been a beacon to the rookie, who was ordered to report to the "Z Division Supervisor". The duty bound, dedicated Masto was reporting for duty, right to the end.
At some point, he had to know he was in trouble. Somewhere along the line, before delirium fully set in but after taking the wrong branch of the trail, he must have thought that something was not right. Being an inexperienced but highly dedicated fire professional, he was fully outfitted for wildland firefighting according to the Department’s Standard Operating Procedures. The double layering; the gloves; the helmet; the face shield; the full pack, including medical equipment. He was doing everything right. This was his first wildland assignment and he was not about to invite trouble from his superiors by removing safety gear because of a little heat. Everyone else was handling it, and they were on the fireline already!At the time of his death, he was what the fire service refers to as a “single unit resource”, that is: alone. He had a radio but it is unclear whether he knew whom to call. It is reasonable to assume, however, that the rookie did not want to draw attention to himself, and by the time it would have occurred to him it is unlikely that he was in any condition to do so. Heat stress will do that to you: Confusion as dense as the chaparral, robbing you of your last defense.
The Forest Service welcomed us into the investigation and as a team we tried to dissect what went wrong. A firefighter not exposed to the incident perishes in a seemingly senseless fashion and there simply has to be a palatable explanation, right? We learned a great deal, about heat stress, an already well known danger in wildland incidents; the dynamic of being the “new guy”; the machismo firefighting culture; dogged adherence to policy, even when one’s own self interest is threatened, and the single minded dedication to duty of a young man who only ever wanted to be a firefighter.
We learned that we failed that young man, of course. He should not have been alone. Someone older and wiser should have said: “Take some of that stuff off son, you look like hell” or maybe “No, rookie, we are not climbing that.” We failed as a culture too, when someone confused about their situation is too embarrassed or intimidated to ask for help when it is as close as the radio strapped to their belt.
And once again I find myself talking to Masto directly. There are annual remembrances after a loss like this, and as time goes on you hear words like “He died doing something he loved” but I don’t know, Steve. A part of me wishes you had at least made it out of your twenties. You would have loved giant flat screen TV’s and the way the internet just exploded; social networking, and texting contractions: Omg! LMAO! WTF! on your iphone. You would have an iphone, trust me. A part of me wishes that you were an accountant, or a teacher, a lawyer. Someone who’s idea of danger was a summer rafting trip on the Rogue River; and perhaps someone with children of your own.
The Chief here was your Captain at Station 1 and he keeps your last evaluation on his computer. It shows the promise, the potential of a rising star, forever stuck in time. Sometimes I get a little pissed at you Steve. I’m pissed that you didn’t just say “screw this”, and start taking off equipment, find some shade, pour water over you head and yes, call for help. There were 500 people out there who would have moved that stupid mountain to get to you buddy.
But of couse, that’s futile now. For now, we remember the single minded dedication, the loyalty, the honor of the kid who only ever wanted to be a firefighter. It was a good death Steve, and a senseless one.
Beautiful piece. Great ode to a man who sounds to me like a strong, daring soul!
ReplyDelete"At some point, he had to know he was in trouble. Somewhere along the line, before delirium fully set in but after taking the wrong branch of the trail, he must have thought that something was not right."
Ug.
Thanks for the terrific read Joe.
And for the thoughtfulness.