A Foot in the Black
Ashes to ashes, dust to gust
By R. ALAN KUEHN

Bob heard the screen door swing open and he froze, holding still the rag in his right hand and tensing his neck muscles. The frequent comings and goings of friends and neighbors relegated the screen door to the background noise of life, like the radio broadcasting scores in the garage or the trucks barreling down Highway 25 a few hundred yards away. But this time there was urgency in the swinging door, an invisible irritation that polluted the air like thick carbon monoxide.

The door slammed shut, then opened again a few moments later. Bob looked up from under the old Willeys Overland he was working on and saw Sarah rush past without a word and climb into her Toyota truck. Tires threw gravel into the air as she drove down the dirt driveway of the small house in Government Camp. Glen saw it too and walked up to Bob, and together their eyes followed the silver truck as it vanished around the bend. Dust hung silently in the warm, late-spring air.

"So that's it," said Bob, wiping sweat from his forehead with a greasy hand. "Relationship over."

Glen wiped his hands on his pants and leaned on the old Willeys with one, and put the other on Bob's shoulder. Two cedars staring at a distant fire. "You're chasing after the unobtainable, Bob. You always do. Her life isn't here; it's in the city."

Glen pulled a beer out of the cooler and offered it to Bob, who pushed it away. "Don't want one," he barked. Bruised and sullen, Bob kicked at the dirt and threw a wrench into a thorny tangle of blackberry bushes. "I thought this one would work. After all this time, I really did."

"You belong to the mountains," countered Glen. "The peaks and forests run in your blood. They are you and you are..." Bob didn't look much for straight talk, so Glen changed the subject—barely. "You know I'm right. You need to adjust your timing."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bob glanced at his long-time friend. Women, the service, choppers, steeps—they'd been through quite a few scrapes together. Still, Glen always felt far older.

"It's like this," Glen said, turning back to the old Willeys. He grabbed the remote starter and pressed down and the motor coughed to life. He loosened the adjusting nut, then turned the distributor. The engine sputtered, barely able to continue running. "Timing is off, see?"

Bob loved his friend but regretted whatever lesson he was trying to teach. "What's your point?"

Glen turned the distributor again and the idle smoothed out. He pointed the timing light so that it illuminated against the marks on the cover over the timing gears. He continued to turn the distributor until the strobe flashed on the mark 10 degrees before top dead center. The engine ran smooth and strong. "Perfect," he grinned. "It's a lost art you know."

Bob's mind was on the Toyota truck and the blond hair and the lean body that were now far down the mountain road. "What?"

"A man should be able to work on his own rig, eh?" Glen grinned. "Lost art. Kids today have no idea. You just need to adjust your timing. Life is no different."

"Which is why you live with me instead of a wife, right? You're an expert on relationships?"

Glen looked Bob square in the eyes and held his gaze. For the first time Bob noticed how etched the wrinkles were near his eyes, some graying around his temples. Yet his eyes gleamed as brightly as the green flame they both craved and feared. "I know who I am," said Glen. "I know you. We are the same. We belong to the mountains. We're skiers, nothing more...or less." Glen killed the engine and closed the hood. "I like living here."

Bob started back toward the porch. Perhaps, he thought, Sarah's departure wasn't so surprising—or unexpected. "I leave in the morning," he said. "The season looks like a long one. Don't expect I'll be back much 'til fall. Take care of things here, will you Glen?"

"No worries, I'll look after the house. Same as always. You just keep a foot in the black, fire behavior is changing. That's why I got out of it."

"It's what I do. It's in my blood, you know," and he shot a smirk at Glen. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Bob walked out of the house before dawn the next morning. It was warm and still as he drove away. Tires threw gravel, dust hung silent in the air.


Glen sat in the shade of the porch sweating out the Indian summer. The air was hot for October, but there was a hint of snow. The switch had turned, as Bob always said. You could feel it. You wake up one morning and something had changed. The fires might burn for another six or eight weeks, but the snow was coming.

Down the road Glen heard tires spinning on the dirt. Around the bend he could see a light green Ford pickup. Forest Service truck. Unmistakable. The F-150 pulled up and stopped in the drive.

The door opened and a tall woman swung her feet out, grabbed a bag, and walked toward the house. Glen watched her approach. Yellow fire shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a sweat-stained tank top. Her auburn hair pulled back in a long ponytail swinging beneath a blue bandana. She was lean and strong and walked with purpose.

Glen stood up as she looked at him and asked, "Glen Peters?"

"That would be me." He smiled an uneasy smile.

She extended her arm and they shook hands. "Laura McCain." Her grip was firm, not like most women's. "I brought Bob's PG bag, his personal gear. He told me about you. Accurate picture he painted, too." Her lips parted in a wide smile.

"Were you there?"

"Yes."

"How did he go?" Glen felt his smile withering away.

"He died scared. We all do in my experience."

Glen offered her a chair. She continued. "It was weird, really. We were falling Pondos in front of an advancing fire. Nothing different than we had done for days. This tree just split, like it was furious with the saw, it spun and fell on him before he could run clear." Glen noticed how tightly she was clutching the bag. "We cut it off him. He looked at me and said something about Sarah. He lost consciousness and died in the hospital."

This woman is tough, thought Glen, but suddenly her eyes revealed something different. "I worked a few fires with him this season," she said. "So he was with someone? With Sarah?" The question caught Glen off guard.

"Shit, no. They broke up last spring. He wasn't with anybody."

"It didn't seem that way. He stayed pretty much to himself on down time. Hung out in his tent, writing. His journal's in his PG," which she handed to Bob with a bit of reluctance. She looked down for a few moments. "Didn't really know him that well I guess. I enjoyed his company. Guess you did too. Would have liked more of it."

She got up and walked back to the truck, and Glen thought that was that. Then she reached inside and brought out a plain-looking box. Walking back to the porch, she offered it to Glen. Hesitantly, he reached for it.

"I said I'd take him home, so here you go." They looked at the box uncomfortably, unsure of what to do or say.

"So you work full time for the FS?" Glen asked, trying to change the subject.

"Nah. Only fires during the summer. Winters I pretty much ski bum it." She looked up and around. "The mountains suit me. In my blood I guess." She grinned at Glen.

"Seems a woman like you shouldn't ever be lonely," Glen said, blushing a bit at his own remark. Here at last, he knew, was Bob's match.

"Maybe. Can't seem to find that guy though." She looked at her watch. "Well, I have to go, long drive back to Prineville." It really wasn't that long. Laura walked back toward the green F-150.

"You need to adjust your timing," Glen said after her.

"What?" She turned, her face puzzled.

"You'll find that guy. Bob's was off too. So damn close, though." Then he waved. "Thanks for bringing Bob home."

She walked slowly back to the pea-green Forest Service truck. She opened the door and pulled herself inside, then leaned out and looked back at Glen. "So, are you going to have a service? A funeral or anything?"

"No."

"No?" She seemed surprised.

"Funerals are for the living. Aside from myself, there is no one living I think that needs a funeral. Perhaps you. I don't know."

"You're right I suppose. No, I don't need a funeral." And with that she shut the door and turned the Ford pickup down the dirt road. Tires threw gravel. Dust hung in the air.


Indian summer gave way to fall, which, as always, succumbed to winter. January brought a new year, low pressure, and a fine La Niña storm cycle to the Northwest. Glen skinned deep into the Sisters Wilderness, up Pole Creek to the base of North Sister. He bootpacked up the southeast arête until it met the south ridge proper.

The temperature dropped and the ceiling lowered as light snow born of Alaska began falling. Glen paused above an unnamed gully, then tipped the box over and let its contents fall down the slope. The wind picked up the ashes and mixed them with the falling snow, now drifting down the southeast face of the volcano. "You're home now," he spoke. "Rest well my good friend."

He looked down at the odd box. Such a small thing to hold the essence of one's life. He knew Bob was free, but the departure was bittersweet. "Timing dude," he said with a wry grin. "You just needed to adjust your timing."


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