Sounds of thunder interrupted the radio blaring on our front porch. With binoculars we watched lightning strikes in the distance, waiting for a dispatcher’s voice to say the call number 9210. When those numerals rang out over the storm, we knew the lightning had turned to wildfire. It was time to get in the truck and go.
Growing up the daughter of a wildland firefighter and forest manager and working a stint as a dispatcher myself, I waited by the radio a lot. My upbringing included hours of learning and teaching fire prevention tactics and a never-ending supply of Smokey the Bear gear.
Wildfire season is akin to calving – and perhaps weaning – in the beef cattle community: exciting…
