Thoughts On Dating a Wildand Fire Fighterl

*Fire word of the week* 

Region 8- The Southern Region of the Forest Service encompassing 13 states, from Virginia to Florida and Oklahoma. Also, strangely, Puerto Rico. 

Scott left for Region 8 a week ago this Sunday. I woke early with him, pulled on some snow pants over my pajamas and hopped in the car for the short drive down to the office. Two trucks packed with chain saws, fuel, rope, and random gear idled in the driveway; a handful of jumpers talking to spouses, were eagerly making their last goodbyes when we pulled up. Saying goodbye is nothing new at this point for me, though a three week stint is rather long. Scott was excited to get back to work, unemployment was beginning to not suit him at all especially with the close of elk hunting season. 

Four days on the road and the trucks arrived in Arkansas. The past few days have been burning in the Ozarks, starting prescribed burns with what looks like a fire shooting paint ball gun. That coupled with some delicious sweet tea, Scott has been thoroughly enjoying his Southern stay thus far.

Meanwhile, back here in Lake Woebegone, the Misses and her animals continue to shovel through snow and step gingerly on the ice during afternoon walks in the weak January sunlight. We got another two inches or so today with more on the way come Monday. The sun sets a bit later these days, with almost a full extra hour of sunlight, which means I get to hunker down on the couch at five instead of four pm. It's the little things that brighten my days!

It was in the midst of one of these hunker down sessions that I got to thinking how oddly fitting this routine of leaving has become in our relationship or rather odd compared to the norm. I mean, it really does work! He gets to do what he loves, I get to do my thing, and we enjoy seeing each other when he returns. Quite dandy! All this coupled with the relatively general fact that people find firefighters very attractive and want to procreate with one, I started compiling a list in my mind of things I would say to someone who is or is thinking about dating a wild land firefighter. Here it is (It is by no means comprehensive, I am sure that I will be adding to this list frequently):

* They will be gone 75% of the time and almost always 100% during the summer. You'll need to be a fairly independent person to put up with this. I am very independent and yet it is still extremely hard at times to be apart from the person I love. It is important to know how to be alone, to make  a life for yourself outside of your partner, and, in the lonelier moments, to know how to surround yourself with good friends and family who will be an active and strong support system for you whether it's being a shoulder for you to cry on or someone to go out and have a drink with. 

*If you love the smell of wood smoke, you'll be in heaven for the rest of your life!

*They'll come home dirty so be prepared for that. I am not talking about dirt under the fingernails, I spilled some coffee on my shirt kinda dirty. I'm talking can't wash the grime from the pants, don't sit there you'll stain the couch, and oh geez! your boots stink, did something die in there? kind of dirty. You think I am kidding? 

*For that matter, there is something I call boot rot. I don't know how but this kind of rot seems to find firefighters specifically. In reality, it's not an actual rot; the rot more describes the odor. I cannot stress how disgusting those socks will smell when they come home from a fire. Not to mention the feet after the socks come off. I'm just warning you.

*The fire community is wonderful, full of truly incredible and unique individuals from all walks of life who are drawn to this line of work. You'll have a blast at end of the year parties and evening BBQs. But while the community is a social outlet for me, it is easy to forget the for Scott, it is still on some level work related. Cultivate a healthy distance from work where appropriate and make friends outside of the fire community as well. This can also eliminate potential drama and stresses that can stem from this crossover. 

*Tools with names like Polaski and McCloud will start hanging around your house. Embrace them, for they are multi-functional and can even help shovel your car out from the snow and chip the ice away from your front porch. 

*In the throes of winter, when days are short, the snow flurries seemingly endless, and he's been home bored for days, it helps to remember the hard times in the summer when he was away and how much you missed him. Because you likely won't be missing him anytime soon.

*And you do love him, after all :)

Boots, Paws, and Hooves

I pulled my car into the turnout, put it in park, and leaped out in a rush. The sun was already sinking low and who knows how many miles I had ahead of me. Lacing up my boots tight, I tied an extra layer around my waist and set off up the hill into the Pasayten Wilderness. Despite the steepening climb, the first quarter mile or so passed easily, my mind energized by this sudden adventure that materialized not four hours earlier.

"Babe, I got a buck, a beautiful four point." I was at work in the bakery, my hands covered with flour, but that didn't stop me from digging into my apron and pulling out my phone. I was beyond overjoyed to hear from Scott who had hiked out the afternoon before to make his camp deep in the woods and begin his hunt. There was virtually no cell reception up there and an impending storm was said to roll through the valley in the next few days. I worry, it's what I do, and knowing Scott's tendencies to underestimate his appetite as soon as he had left I began imagining him huddled in the rain under a tarp somewhere with no food and a little jar set out collecting rain water, a last ditch attempt to stay alive. This scenario hardly gives him credit, but like I said, I worry.

"Come and find me after work. I'm gonna clean it out, pack up camp, and then start making my way back down the trail." "Sounds good" I reply, my heart quickening it's beat, eager to get the baking over with and meet Scott in time before it got dark. "I get off at 3. I'll drive up to you right away." Filled with new purpose, I breezed through my tasks, wanting Scott to take as few steps as possible with all of those many pounds of camping gear, flesh, and antlers.

So there I was hiking up through the Pasayten, marveling at the sharp peaks, the meandering ridgelines, the creeks snaking down through the folds of canyons and ravines in the mountains. It was a spectacular evening hike and for a time I forgot about the fading light and the oncoming cold, so enraptured was I by this wild place. I wanted to run off trail, to explore the nooks and crannies of these slopes that only it's hoofed and furred inhabitants would know. It's a blessed thing, to know the secrets of mountains. Looking down at my feet on the trail, I see the many explorers of this place that came through the past couple of days. Boot prints, heavy soles leaving deep imprints; paws, arranged neatly in a repeating pattern, left front back right, right front, back left; and hooves, the unmistakable track of deer, two symmetrical prints almost like two commas, curving in toward each other, creating quotation marks. Boots, paws, and hooves. I smile at this interplay, these creatures that use this land and must share together. 

I think about how land use has changed for me within my three short decades of life. Learning first to love nature with family by my side, a campfire and cozy tent in the woods, sausages roasting over the fire. Later in my teen years, nature being a source of spirit and inspiration, a place to get hope and learn lessons about certain inevitabilities of life. Then in college, experiencing the harsher parts of the wilderness, the cold, the wildfires, the predators, the unforgiving elements. Respect and awe was gained throughout it all and an unwavering love for all that is wild and untamed.

Now, perhaps the most difficult of all, learning to take life in order to have life. Accepting and being comfortable with the process and in doing so honoring it. Not carrying guilt about it as though it is a badge that might absolve me of any criticism or finger pointing from those who do not and could not understand. Holding my head high and saying yes, I took that animal's life and no, it was not murder, violence, or sin. It was life at it's most basic. If we cannot accept that and celebrate it, how could we truly embrace other aspects of living? I am by no means saying that that's easy to do, especially in mainstream American culture, where meat is connected least of all to a living animal. I struggle with the taking of life, it's intense, watching a beautiful wild creature die at your hand. There is a sadness there that I almost always feel and yet, also an acceptance and a joy that I am once again reclaiming my place in the nature of things and I am actively taking responsibility by being a part of the process of taking life which we are ALL inherently a part, regardless of dietary or lifestyle choices. All we have is a choice to either ignore it or to embrace it. If we choose to ignore it, it doesn't make it untrue. For the truth in life is that for things to live other things must die. Including us. For a time we are the takers. Then we become the givers. It's tragic maybe if you look at it that way. But it's also genius, and beautiful, this circle that still contains carbon from the bones of dinosaurs and water molecules they say that Caesar and the pharaohs and King Arthur once drank, that contains me and the Pasayten and a buck who lived out several years evading his predators and who will now nourish us and our dreams.

Fighting the urge to grab my head lamp, I can barely discern Scott's bent over shape on the trail not fifty feet ahead of me, resting one of his two massive packs on a large rock. Good lord, I thought, this man is half beast! I rush over, exalted to have found him to help carry his load. "Bear, look at you! You are absolutely insane!" Scott easily carried 120 pounds for five grueling uphill miles from the ravine below before he found the trail and met me. I wondered briefly whether or not other meat eaters would eat so much meat if they had to carry it ten miles out of the wilderness. In my eyes, this meat was pure gold. Scott mustered a smile, so happy was he to get some relief. "I am so glad to see you, THANK YOU for coming out here. I don't think I would have made it out the whole way tonight." "Sweetheart" I said, "This is the absolute least I could do. Plus, it's beautiful out here, can't let you have all of the fun." And it was true, how could I ask this man to feed me and bring it to my table while I just sat and watched? No way! I shouldered the pack with the quartered buck, skull dangling from the top, and started the slow and measured journey back to the car. "Scott" I joked, "If we feed this animal to any dinner guests, we should make them drop and give us twenty. No fifty. They need to earn this meal." 

I have never carried anything so heavy as that pack that night. We ran out of water halfway and the return to the car was like a welcome to heaven. We had dinner with a friend, licked our wounds with a bottle of mead, and woke up from a deep sleep the morning after. It is now the middle of winter and our freezer is stocked with ground venison. We smile to ourselves and relive that chilly October night every time we sit down to some venison tacos or maybe a rich chili heated up for lunch from the day before. 

New Year Resolutions

Launching into a new year, I can't help but be intrigued by resolutions. It just feels like a new page is being turned, fresh and unread with endless possibilities awaiting their turn to be written on the page. Even if the feeling fades after a while, there are a few sporadic days littered throughout the calendar year which serve as focal points that help me to remember that life truly can at any moment be changed. New Year's Day is one of them. 

Waking up on January 1st a few days ago, nature seemed to agree with my fresh start assessment. The sun shone so brightly out of a radiant blue sky illuminating the brilliant little crystals in the soft powdery snow. I wanted to fly. Instead, I headed off to the bakery to serve sweets and hot drinks to the throngs of tourists seeking brief respite from their skis and snowball fights. I was able to maintain a cheery composure throughout the day and here I am January 4th, still smiling, and attempting to make good on a resolution which I set down for myself at the beginning of the summer- to blog at least once a week and chronicle this time in my life. It is never too late.

So to start off this year, I will share a story that happened about a month ago. I think that it accurately represents my winter in the valley thus far. Cheers and Happy New Years to you all! May you also write, draw, collage, or paint all over this brand new page of a year.

********************************************************************

It all started with a pumpkin pie. "Here, take a second one!" My boss called out to me. "We really need to get rid of them, they're just not sellable anymore". "Okay!" I went back and grabbed another box. Now, you have to understand, I was born and raised in a certain kind of paradise, always 70 and sunny in the San Francisco Bay Area, so snow was a foreign concept to me, much less maneuvering a vehicle through two feet of it. That day was the day that Tanya Aspen met snow- hurrying home in time to feed the dogs to drive back into town to meet a friend for dinner, I came upon my driveway barricaded by a high berm, freshly made from the plow puling onto the main road. Hmmmm. Well, I've been driving through this stuff all day, I suppose if I gun it I will fly over the berm, safe to the other side, and I'll plow my way to the house. In my 2 wheel drive Toyota Corolla. That's got 250,000 miles on it. And a front headlight that's falling off, held together with clear packing tape. I floor the gas, give a Hail Mary, and thunk! I am stuck in the berm. Can't go forward, can't reverse. Shit. What do I do??? I assess the damage, consider my options, and decide to use a lifeline- my fiancee almost 1,000 miles away in Idaho. "Scott, this is what I did, what do I do?" I say half bemusedly into the phone. "Dig yourself out". "Okay!" So my mitten-less self goes to work, numb fingers begging for an end to the monotonous work of grabbing snow out from under the car. I hop back in, throw the car in reverse, car comes unstuck, happy ending! Almost. 

I park the car along the main road, wade knee deep in fresh soft powder to my doorstep, feed the dogs, change my socks, and trudge back to the car with dogs in tow. I make it back into town with barely minutes to spare in time to meet a friend for drinks and food. She just learned that she was offered a really neat place to rent, a place far more suitable for her and her three year old than her current situation. We are out to celebrate!! A number of beers later, I have hit my limit and I know I have to play it safe to make it back through the snow. I say goodbye to my girlfriend and start the trek home. 

Before turning the engine, I see that I have missed a call from my mom and decide to have her on speaker to keep me company on the drive back. We laugh about this and that, I tell her of the wintery wonderland surrounding my every turn when suddenly I spy several antlered shapes on the road directly ahead. Deer! Crap!! Instinctively, I put on the brake- just slightly, as I have been told numerous times by many a-sneering local- and immediately begin to slide to the right toward a deep ditch. Breathe. Don't panic. Course correct. I attempt to steer back to the left. Course correct! COURSE CORRECT!!!! I AM COURSE CORRECTING! The two sides of my brain scream at each other, trying to keep the inevitable from happening. And for the second time that day, a familiar thunk! lets me know that I am unequivocally stuck. 

Huh. Well, I am in a ditch. Now what? Do I call 911? The tow company? Who do I know with a pick up? I call my friend who I had dinner with- she is a local and might know what to do. No answer. I call Scott for the second time that day. "Sweetheart, I am stuck in a ditch!" "Okay, are you safe?" "Yes." "Okay, how far are you from home?" "Not far." "Okay, can you dig yourself out?" "No." "Okay...." and it goes like this, running through my list of options. A few people stop to offer their advice- call the tow truck or the insurance company- and then head back on their way to their nice warm homes and families. Gahhhhh! Stupid deer!! "Scott, now I see why you tell me never to brake for them in the snow, they will cause you to skid! Bah!" "I know babe, well, just try to cal the tow truck, start from there, let me know how it goes. Love you, bye." I duck back into my nice warm car with the heater on, trying to forget that my front end is nose dived and my back end is sticking up into the air. 

I see a pair of narrow set lights making their way toward me from down the road. Narrow lights, could be a plow! Oh glory hallelujah! I step out of the car, if at the very least to entice the driver with my long hair and legs. Something did the trick because to my astonishment the plow stopped. It's just the way it is in small towns, I am beginning to learn, long legs or no. "Oh wow, you sure are in a pickle!" The driver says and moves straight to work to figure out a solution without me even asking or saying a word. Within minutes he has a tow rope fastened securely around some part of the undercarriage and is surging forward with my car in tow. Righted back on the main road, my spirit soaring, I am beyond words in gratitude for this night road angel. "What's you name?" "Joe". "Joe, I'm Aspen, thank you sooooo much! Can I give you money? A pie??" "Oh no no no, just meeting you and being able to help you is joy enough." "Oh no, I need to give you a pie. Thank you so much!" I pop the trunk and reach for the extra pumpkin pie. "It may not look the best", I warn, "but it sure will taste good!" Joe was unbelievably speechless by this act of pie kindness, as though I had done him a favor. My heart swelled from the effect of the kindness from this incredible road angel. Could he be a servant of some deity up there sent down to right us all on our paths when we are lead astray? The timing and the sheer luck of it all had my hair standing on end. Gratitude, the most amazing drug of choice available today. 

To top it all off, when I finally reached home I came to another plow ferociously maneuvering in the driveway from the road to my house. Who is this second night angel to grace my life here in the valley? It's the base loft manager, who, true to his word, is working after hours to plow a way for me into the house. I was almost brought to tears when he puled down his window and said "I told you I would be here!" These acts of kindness are too much. "Do you want a pie? No, seriously, I want to give you this pumpkin pie, it's from the bakery." "Aspen, you don't have to give me a pie, I am being paid to do this. Plus, you and Scott are wonderful people and we are glad you are here." I am floored speechless. Reject my pie and then slather on more love and kindness? It was too much. I called Scott for the eleventy billionth time and sobbed heavy heaving sobs, just so grateful for this life that has materialized around us, keeping us safe and happy in the valley. As for angels, I think that they come to us and show themselves to us when we are most in need. They are ALWAYS there , they just step into the light a bit more when the situation calls. Or perhaps when there is an extra pie lying around. 

Planes

*Fire word of the week* Otter Plane: A short take-off and landing (STOL) plane. Can seat anywhere from 4-10 people.

Planes are magnificent beasts. The almost instantaneous means of transporting yourself from one reality to the next, I can't think of anything closer to teleportation. They are beautiful dreams come to life, the gift of flight to us otherwise grounded creatures. Some people fear them, some drive them, most I believe don't think twice about them, so seamlessly have planes become a part of our every day. Even now as I am click clacking away on the keyboard, I hear a plane flying overhead, roaring off to some unknown destination.

And then there are those few people who jump out of them, falling through the clouds like wingless birds only to be propelled swiftly upward by a large, poofy piece of material: that sacred parachute. The adrenaline I feel as I imagine myself in that situation! It's a curious mixture of enormous excitement, relief, and wanting to hurl up my breakfast all at once.

Scott has completed 8 of his 15 required practice jumps! When we spoke after his first two, I was a rush of questions and curiosity. What was it like falling through the sky? Was there a few seconds where you looked around and thought, this is cool!? Were you scared? What are you thinking about when you are just floating there? My inner grounded creature wanted to know what it was like to fly over and over and live to tell the tale. Scott was his usual self, calm and collected. "Sweetheart, you have to understand, it's all happening so fast and you are so focused on what you have to get done that you don't really think about it. It's just work, a way to get to the ground to do what I have to do to contain the fire." Geez, what a boring let down!

In all seriousness though, that's what separates people like Scott from people like me. He is like a cat focused on his prey, nothing else matters or registers. And I am like a butterfly, focused on the field of flowers, flitting about in the breeze, taking it all in. He is able to do these extraordinary things every ordinary day because of his mental resolve, his ability to see through to accomplishing the goal at hand. And that's really all it is, at the end of the day, a task to complete. He teaches this ole butterfly much through his accomplishments and I love watching him and hearing his stories as he closes in on his third week of rookie training.

One such story, and I can't believe that this is't the first thing he told me when he got to the base almost a month ago, involves a silly little wiener dog named Penelope. Hahaaa! Penelope is the base dog, she goes wherever she wants, when she wants. And if you step on her you get punched in the face. Seriously. I just about peed my pants imagining these burly, strapping young men running around the base, doing push-ups, and practice jumps all the while keep watch for Penelope who is half mockingly running along beside them. Scott said she even licks your face sometimes when you are doing push-ups and there is nothing you can do but let her. It's a good man who understands the limitless power of a female.

Lady Penelope

Lastly, there are those who ride on planes. Nothing too exciting, no jumping, no steering or maneuvering. These people sit in often uncomfortable seats for long periods of time, meditating on their latest adventure ahead, thinking of a friend or loved one they are about to see, annoyed at the screaming child to their right, wondering whatever happened to the honey roasted peanuts and how on earth do you say where is the taxi in Mandarin? I fall into this category and yesterday I hopped aboard a plane to take me to Washington! I am here now, fresh off of a wonderful evening with my cousin and her family in their house in West Seattle. True to Czech hospitality, I drank a bit more than I thought possible and suddenly my plan to go camping in the Cascades tonight sounds a bit far fetched. I love this state, forgotten how whimsical it feels to step into the explosion of green that makes even highway roadsides sparkle. Looking across the Puget Sound to Vashon Ishland, inhaling the sharp smells of the muck of low tide, my soul can't help but feel lifted and at ease. Memories come flooding back of sharing a bowl of homemade clam chowder with my dad over in Port Orchard, riding the ferry, kayaking to Blake Island, zigzagging my way through the ferns and the mossy trees to Port Townsend, an artsy haven of food, color, and small towns with big histories. It feels like a certain kind of home. And tomorrow I see Scott! Another kind of home. I can't wait to see what the Eastern Cascades have to show me!

Explosion of green

A path through the forest.

The Seattle skyline, as seen from Alki Beach

Week One- Done!

*Fire word of the week* Survival: To survive

Hahaaa, I honestly don't mean to open up this entry in such dramatic fashion! I ask Scott every week for a new fire word and last week, without hesitating, he said survival. I even had the audacity to ask what it means!

Well, survive he has! He hasn't given me too much insight as to the ins and outs of that hellacious first week, save the sound of his voice. That was the hardest part. All last week, whenever he called, his speech sounded labored and he could hardly stand to be on the phone longer than a few minutes. "Just calling to say I love you and that I am alive...sort of". That was the extent of our conversation. I began to wonder if he would ever sound normal again, the usual happy go lucky tone and excitement for life completely absent. Often, when he is out on fires, a simple phone call home is all it takes to get him to feel a little better. This sudden turn makes me a bit uneasy, thinking what else I could try to get him to laugh or at least muster a smile.

The hardest day of the week was last Friday, the pack test. What the rookies were told to do was to carry a 110 lb pack 3 miles, only those 3 miles gained a total of 2500 ft of elevation. Oy! Scott told me after he was glad that they didn't time the day, he was stopping so frequently against any tree or rock that could offer a brief respite from the climb. He did it though! They all did, and after they could all stumble home and lick their wounds for the weekend.

As tough as it is, hearing about his perseverance and his focus through this ridiculously difficult ordeal makes me think of the old myths we grew up hearing or learning about in school. Whether they be Norse tales, Herculean legends, or old Irish folk tales, it seems that the heroes and heroines all had a mountain to climb, a battle to face, and what made them so spectacular and god-like was their ability to keep going, to triumph. I loved reading those stories and still do for they make me feel that even in everyday life I can be capable of achieving great things. I may not be slaying dragons or walking through fire but that determination and courage comes from the same well regardless of the task at hand. Scott is living proof.

Davis Lake, Scott exploring the nearby areas

A river near Winthrop, at dusk

The fox is in the hole!

*Fire word of the week*

Bagger: The slowest person on the crew, or someone who is having difficulty keeping up.

"Babe, you are gonna LOVE it here!" Scott declares to me over the phone as I eagerly listen for any tidbit of information he cares to throw my way. What's the weather like? Hot. Is it green? Yes. Are there trees? Some, most on top of the mountains. Are there farms? Yes, apple orchards as far as the eye can see. Are there any animals? Let's just say the deer outnumber the squirrels and I almost hit a grouse a mile back. I tune out his voice for a moment and try to imagine what he is seeing, what he must be feeling driving up a country road with his jeep packed like a pioneer, pots literally hanging off of the side of his car, newness all around, the unknown dangerously close to becoming reality with each passing mile.

The jeep about to begin its trek up north.

Taken from the roadside, the Methow Valley. Look to the middle and the very right, you will just barely see the peaks of the snow capped Cascade range

A local grocery store in Winthrop. I wonder if they are selling the taxidermy or if it's the decor of choice?

My heart is eased though by the sound of his voice and the excitement that the land elicits in him. Imagine the Eastern Sierras, slightly more green, with a huge river running through it. That's the Methow Valley, my soon to be home in the next few months. I don't know why I have started taking life decisions so seriously. I used to throw caution to the wind, knowing in my bones that somehow everything was going to be okay so why worry? Just go do something and live! Now I feel like a shriveled leaf on a tree,  fretting about my inevitable next move, calculating every aspect of the decision as though my life depends on it, because, well, it does. At least, that's my excuse. Somewhere within the worry and the worst-case scenarios that I let play out in my mind there is a nugget of wisdom though that still whispers, it's gonna be okay. It will, won't it? My goal is to listen to that nugget more often until the whisper becomes a scream.

I think of my parents yet again, their big move in their late twenties, leaving behind their native land for America, their furniture, their families, their life, everything. I think of me leaving my mother and father without telling them, never knowing when I would see them again. The thought almost sickens me. How does one have such courage and not falter? Where does it come from? I ask my mother and she looks at me with a sideways glance. "Ve vere young and stupid" she says in her thick accent. Oh. And here I am mistaking stupidity for courage. I am forced to laugh a big hearty belly laugh at my mother's subtle wisdom. The beauty and irony of life is that it is in the eye of the beholder. Like a knotted up ball of yarn, the more you pull the more tight it winds itself into the knot. If somehow you are able to let go and work the yarn loosely, more often than not the knot seems to just kinda come undone on it's own.

I suppose my fretting really comes down to caring an awful lot for myself and my well being. Let go, says the ball of yarn. Be young and stupid, says my mother. It's gonna be okay, says the nugget. Yeah! And as I reflect on my ongoing inner turmoil, I remember Scott and his ordeal that starts at 0800 tomorrow morning. I think of the nervousness, the butterflies that must be flying around causing windstorms in his belly, the mind game of knowing there is six weeks of unimaginable training ahead and whether you have prepared enough to pass the test. I hold silent gratitude for this uncomfortable but necessary process for I feel somehow that as we both review courage, strength, and conviction we are in our own ways chipping away at the rough parts and becoming stronger individuals who have the courage to move through life no matter what. I can only imagine what we can achieve with our powers combined!

Home base!

Goodbyes are sad and packing is tiring

*Fire word of the week*

Spiking out. When you are headed for a location in the middle of nowhere that will be your base camp for fighting the fire for the next x amount of days. Like a satellite camp.
In a sentence: We are spiking out today! Or if a camp is already established: We are headed to spike camp.

It's only fitting that I write my inaugural post for Jump! on Memorial Day, the day which I am told we honor service men and women who so boldly and honorably uphold their duty to this country. Yet I don't think I ever thought twice about what the day actually meant, except a day off from school and a reason to fire up the grill. I am born on American soil but to Eastern European immigrants who learned English along with their toddlers by watching Sesame Street. My mom still sings me silly songs she remembers from that formative show!

I don't mean to paint my family as unpatriotic, it's just that our family roots have always been and still are closely linked to the Czech Republic. I have never had family members or family friends who have long American lineages or who are in careers of service. I am that first generation who will likely establish those links for my family. I never imagined how much my life would become entwined with words like duty and service, how I would come to feel like those military families you see on TV with tears of joy streaming down their faces when surprised by the sudden appearance of a loved one during the holidays. You have to understand, I grew up in one of the most liberal places in one of the most liberal states and I went to college at UC Santa Cruz where arm pit hair is in, footwear is optional, and on the first few rainy days, clothing is, too. I thought my future husband might have a name like Cloud, wear Birkenstocks year round, and fix all of the bathrooms in the house to have composting toilets. Well, that last part still holds true.

My love is a gun toting, fire fighting, fish wrangling, horse riding country boy from East County San Diego. He had his first gun at the age of four, a little half pint wandering around his parents ranch in an over-sized orange crossing guard vest, shooting bbs at birds and ground squirrels. He has blossomed into an incredible hunter, a marksman really, and is on his 11th year in the Forest Service as a wildland firefighter. He is pure grit and determination, hidden by a mischievous smile that seems to explode across his face in a way that makes people feel good. It's funny how you think you want one thing but life has a way of giving you what you really need.

This past weekend was the last I spent with my sweetheart before he heads up to the smoke jumping base. We spent aching hours packing and packing and packing his one bedroom apartment as the rain fell and fell and fell down around the world outside. It was a fitting scene and even after an entire day of moving and donating to Goodwill, it still looked as if nothing had changed! What is with that weird vortex of packing? It's so psychologically exhausting! We fell into a fitful sleep some time around 9 in the evening and woke up to get the rest done and have him on the road with his truck and trailer by 10 am.

Heart in my throat and tears welling up in my eyes, I suddenly was at a loss for words. How do you support someone who is heading into what will likely be the most intense training he will ever experience, into God knows what kind of grueling physical and psychological test? I don't know. I just started heaving sobs, letting the tears flow freely. He was also so reluctant to say this goodbye knowing that where he was going there would be no family to comfort him, nor could there be. This is his journey, his jump, his proof to himself of his resolve and his warrior heart. I have no doubt that he is the man they are looking for.