Page 82 of Falling for the Firefighter
"It would need clearing—fallen trees, probably some erosion damage—but the underlying structure is sound." I trace theapproximate route on the satellite image. "It would give access to most of Sector Seven, bypassing the worst collapse areas."
Donovan nods, already calculating logistics. "Can you guide the assessment team? They need someone who knows exactly where this road is. Satellite imagery shows nothing but tree cover."
"Of course." The opportunity to do something active instead of mapping from headquarters is welcome. "When do they need me?"
"Now. Team's assembling at the east checkpoint in twenty minutes." He hands me a field radio. "Check in every thirty minutes. Cell service is still down in that sector."
I gather my gear—detailed maps, GPS unit, emergency supplies that have become second nature after days of crisis response. The rhythm of preparation feels good, purposeful, pushing aside the constant awareness of Mac's absence.
Scout rises immediately when she sees me preparing field gear, her tail wagging with the first genuine enthusiasm I've seen from her in days. She knows the difference between my staying at command and heading into the field—and she clearly prefers action to waiting.
When I clip her working harness into place, she practically vibrates with readiness, eager to return to the mountains where we both feel most capable.
"You're coming with me, girl," I tell her, and her entire body language transforms from patient endurance to focused anticipation.
The drive to the east checkpoint takes me through progressively more damaged terrain. The town center remains largely intact thanks to the defensive lines that held, but moving eastward reveals the fire's true destructive power. Familiar landscapes have been transformed, recognizable only by topography, where all surface features have been consumed.
At the checkpoint, a small team awaits—two Forest Service engineers, a heavy equipment operator, and Jackson Hart, whose mountain rescue expertise has been invaluable throughout the crisis.
"Hey, Jo," Jackson nods in greeting, his weathered face showing the strain of days without proper rest. "Heard you're going to show us this magic road."
"Not magic. Just forgotten." I spread my map across the hood of the Forest Service truck. "It follows this ridgeline, staying on bedrock for most of the route. The mining company abandoned it when they built the newer access road, but the foundation should still be intact."
The senior engineer—Stevens, according to his vest—studies the route with skepticism. "No signs of this on any of our surveys."
"It wouldn't be. The forest reclaimed the surface decades ago." I trace the path with my finger. "But underneath the growth, you'll find engineered roadbed. My father documented it when he was surveying the watershed in the early 90s."
"Your father again." Jackson's expression holds respect rather than doubt. "His knowledge keeps saving our asses."
"He knew these mountains better than anyone." The simple truth comes without the pain that usually accompanies memories of my father. "I just try to maintain his maps."
"And add your own." Jackson gestures toward the detailed annotations I've made to the original survey. "Let's see if this road of yours is still there."
We load into a Forest Service truck modified for off-road conditions, Jackson taking the wheel with me in the passenger seat, navigating. The heavy equipment operator follows in a smaller bulldozer, transported to the edge of the access road.
Scout settles in the truck's back seat, her nose pressed to the partially opened window as we begin our ascent into the fire-damaged terrain. Her ears swivel constantly, processing sounds and scents that tell her more about the changed landscape than my eyes can detect.
When we pass through areas of complete devastation, she whines softly—not distress, but recognition that something fundamental has been altered in her familiar territory.
The going is rough immediately. The fire has transformed familiar landmarks, leaving behind a monochromatic landscape of ash and blackened trees. I navigate primarily by topography and memory, identifying subtle features that fire couldn't erase—a distinctive rock outcropping, a sharp bend in a stream bed, the gradual rise of a ridge that my father first showed me when I was twelve.
"Should be just ahead." I check the GPS coordinates against my memory. "The entrance was hidden by brush even before the fire. Look for a gap between those two boulder formations."
Jackson slows the truck, scanning the slope with experienced eyes. "There. That look right to you?"
I follow his gaze to a barely perceptible break in the terrain—more suggestion than obvious path. "That's it."
The small dozer moves forward, clearing carbonized brush and fallen timber to reveal what lies beneath. As the debris is pushed aside, a distinctly engineered surface emerges—not pavement, but deliberately placed stone forming a durable roadbed.
"I'll be damned." Stevens steps from the truck, crouching to examine the exposed surface. "This is professional road construction. Probably better than the official access we've been using."
"Told you." I can't help the satisfaction in my voice. "The mining company built things to last back then."
"Can it support the weight of fire apparatus?" Jackson asks the practical question.
Stevens nods, already calculating load capacities. "If it's consistent with what we're seeing here? Absolutely. This could handle engines, water tenders, everything we need."
"Then let's find out how far it goes." I return to the truck and pull out the detailed map showing the road's projected path. "According to my father's survey, it continues for approximately three miles, connecting to the main fire road just beyond the worst collapse point."
