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.