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Behind the Scenes with the Smokejumpers
Leaping from an airplane into the slipstream, hurtling ninety
miles an hour toward the fiery earth -- who are these amazing people who risk
their lives to fight fires? Smokejumpers, of course -- the elite men and women
of the wildfire-fighting world and the heroes of my first two books.
What a privilege it was for me to write about these courageous
people. They impressed me with their commitment to catching fire, their camaraderie,
their willingness to work under the most harrowing conditions while putting their
lives on the line. And what wonderful people they are! When they found out I was
writing about them, they sent me emails, told me their anecdotes, gave me copies
of their memoirs and books. And I came away with a much deeper respect for what
they do, who they are, and the enormous the risks they take to fight fire.
So here, on this page, is a bit more about smokejumpers, the
real people behind my stories. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into their dangerous
world and join me in thanking them for all that they do. They are truly American
heroes!
Gail with Forest Service Spokesman Tim Eldridge at the Missoula Smokejumper base.
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Inside the jump plane |
The parachute loft |
Paracargo |
Gail with former smokejumper, Ron Rockwell |
A fusee demonstration |
 
The cover artists who created the cover for FACING
THE FIRE made two mistakes with the smokejumper hero’s clothes. The
hero’s hardhat should not have a visor, and smokejumpers don’t wear
suspenders. So now you know!
Ten Seconds over Birch Hill
By Jerry Dixon
 Note:
this article first appeared in the National Smokejumper Association newsletter,
April 2000. It is reprinted here by permission of Jerry Dixon.
Our Volpar circled low over Birch Hill just north of the Alaska smokejumper
base at Ft. Wainwright. It was our second practice jump that afternoon of May
14, 1976. As a fifth year jumper recently arrived from McCall, I was excited about
being a BLM Alaska jumper. The winds were erratic and jumpers were scattered over
the landing zone, a small depression in the birch-covered hill.
My exit felt okay, but something didn’t feel right. My risers were tight
against my face and there was no opening shock. I pulled the risers apart and
looked up to see a streamer. Having had a Mae West and a delayed opening during
previous jumps I knew what they looked like. But a total malfunction of a main
was something I never thought I would have to deal with.
I’m standing in the dirt road after the 4th of July running race at Eagle
on the Yukon talking with Tony Beck (Fairbanks ’94). Tony says, “You’re
the jumper who had the double malfunction. Tell me about it.”
Actually I was shocked that he had heard of it as it had occurred 20 years
before. Nothing was ever written about it, and I didn’t talk about it. Some
members of my immediate family still don’t know. It then occurred to me
that my malfunction had become part of our smokejumpers’ oral history.
Pulling apart the risers I looked up at the canopy. Then I said one word that
to my knowledge I have only once in my life uttered in questioning disbelief:
“Jesus.” I reached down, grabbed my reserve ripcord, pulled and punched,
turning my face away. The reserve blew past me, hesitated at the edge of the main
and then flowed up alongside it. I was stunned to see it clinging to the side
of the main. Immediately I pulled the risers apart, looked down and could see
the trees below expanding to the edge of my vision.
Had I frozen at that point I would have bounced. There’s no doubt the
finest jumper training in the world then played a role in saving my life. That
week I had (much to my chagrin) gone off the training tower innumerable times
to practice throwing my reserve. I hadn’t practiced that since “Ned”
training in McCall five years before. However, the Alaska trainers had insisted
that we keep at it until we got it right.
I knew I had no time to cut away the main and that I had to make the reserve
work. My training told me to pull in the reserve and throw it out again. PULL
IT IN AND THROW IT OUT.
The most surprising aspect of this entire event was what happened next. My
mind cleared. Actually in my entire life there have only been a few times when
things were so crystal clear. All fleeting thoughts were gone. There was almost
a calm. My entire world became the lines leading to my reserve, and there was
not only a remarkable lack of panic but an eternity between each heartbeat. Incredibly,
I was not just focused, but free.
I grabbed my reserve lines and started pulling in the chute. Either the act
of pulling or the fact that my body was arched so that I could pull harder caused
the reserve to deploy. It seemed to explode and I could actually see what appeared
to be dust pulse from the canopy. The main started to billow and I was on the
ground.
“Did you hit hard?” Tony asks me. “Yes, I did. The reserve
was attached in front so I was leaning back.” “Did you jump again?”
“Not for six years. I jumped again at McCall in ’82. It was like starting
over but it was great.”
My back hurt and I was in shock. I left my chutes on the ground and walked
away. Bob Steiner (Boise ’71) who jumped right after me in the same load
said, “We watched you go below the tree line trailing two malfunctioned
chutes. Everyone in the plane thought you went in.”
Another jumper told me, “We all went out after you with our hands on
our reserves.” Other jumpers had different perspectives: “I hear you
almost died today. Ha.” “You had a close one, I’ll bet anyone
on the base would buy you a beer tonight.” “Death always sits on your
left shoulder. You’ll get over it.”
It made for an interesting learning experience for the Alaska Rookie class
of ’76. One of the trainers had tried to get a mannequin on board our flight
with a streamer chute. The idea was to throw it out in the middle of our practice
jump and give the rookies something to think about. The plane was held up for
a few minutes but the prop couldn’t be found. On the ground other trainers
were still thinking there would be a mannequin dropped and commented that they
must have found the mannequin because there was the streamer. Then one exclaimed,
“Hey, wait a minute. Its hands are moving.”
The loft foreman examined my chute and found no burn lines. Both chutes were
untangled. There was no evidence to suggest why they did not open immediately.
That year experiments were started with anti-inversion netting, which I jumped
with in ’82. It seems to have eliminated total malfunctions.
The jumper who packed my chute and I didn’t speak much after that. Perhaps
I had some deep-seated need to blame someone. It took 20 years to come to grips
with the fact that a poor exit and lines that caught under my backboard probably
caused my malfunction. Several years ago at a wedding I ran into him. He gave
me a big hug and said, “I’m sorry I packed the chute that almost killed
you.”
“Your chute was fine,” I said. “It was my lousy exit that
did it,” and we continued dancing to the Mariachi band.
Jerry S. Dixon is a conservationist, smokejumper and teacher of the gifted;
during 14 years he was a smokejumper/firefighter, over a 30 year period he taught
22 subjects, including four world languages to 1000 students primary through university.
Presently he writes and (when his wife Deborah and two boys allow) traverses mountain
ranges.
Visit the National Smokejumper
Association's website
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