The CASA 212 pilot reduced airspeed from 170 knots to 110, as he prepared to circle the jump spot below. The plane was well-suited for jumper missions in remote Alaska. Rugged and versatile, the plane carried eight smokejumpers and equipment with supplies for three days.
When the pilot cut airspeed to 100 knots and leveled out at the three-thousand feet jump altitude, Stu Lavin tossed out the crepe-paper streamers to test air movement. The blue, red, and yellow streamers were twenty feet long, ten inches wide and weighted to drift the same speed as a smokejumper under a canopy. Stu had decades of smoke jump experience and was chosen as spotter for his ability and leadership. Ryan trusted Stu’s judgment in only allowing jumpers to leave the plane if all conditions were to his satisfaction.
Stu pointed down at a small clearing. “Do you see the jump spot?” His voice streamed into Ryan’s helmet intercom.
“Yes.” Ryan peered through his heavy-mesh face mask out the open door. The wind howled around the opening and turbulence caused the plane to jump. He kept a wary eye on the wind direction. The last thing a jumper needed was to drift into burning trees.
Stu signaled the pilot to make the final pass into the wind. “On final. She’s spotting and spitting firebrands a half mile ahead of the flame front. Did you see the streamers?”
Ryan dipped a nod and adjusted his helmet. He appreciated this process of making sure jumpers were on the same page as the spotter.
“There’s 200 yards of drift. She’s burning hot, creating her own wind. Don’t go downwind of the ridge or you’re fucked. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Ryan and Gunnar each responded, competing with the engine roar.
“Get in the door.” Stu motioned Ryan forward.
Ryan gripped the bar by the door and knelt on one knee, his toe near the edge. The whistling wind and the plane’s motors hummed in his ears, despite his helmet muffling them. He zeroed in on his jump spot. No matter how many times he’d jumped, his heart still pumped, and his blood flowed fast. Tree spires three thousand feet below resembled toothpicks encased in green velvet.
“Get ready!” Stu poised his hand above Ryan’s shoulder.
Ryan focused on the stunning horizon, backdrop to the red-orange blaze. This is what he loved about Alaska, spectacular and dangerous at the same time. He awaited Stu’s signal to throw himself out of the airplane and fly. This was his favorite moment, when adrenaline rocketed through his system. He loved this job.
Gunnar stood on the ready behind him as second man, first stick.
Take a deep breath, you’re only skydiving into lethal, flammable wilderness.
Stu slapped his shoulder and Ryan pitched himself through the opening. Schizophrenic winds spun him as he defaulted to his checklist: Jump, look, reach, wait, pull—he tugged his cord and his square parachute opened. He continued his checklist. Check my canopy, check my airspace, check my reserve handle, right turn, left turn, stall check, and orient to jump spot.
He transitioned from chaos to serenity, and silence. Two minutes of peace as the plane engine faded. He toggled toward the jump spot, floating quiet, like a ninja. Enjoy it while you can, before the crazy. He positioned his boots together, landed, and rolled. Nailed it.
Gunnar flew in close behind. “Eee-haw!” he yelled, toggling, landing, and rolling behind Ryan. He stood, gathering his chute. “Let’s tackle this demon.”
The other four jumpers flew in and landed behind them. They gathered their chutes, daisy-chained the lines, and shed their jump suits.
Ryan’s radio crackled with Stu’s voice. “We’re going live on the next pass to drop cargo.”
“Copy that, CASA.” Ryan looped the parachute lines in a daisy chain to keep them disentangled, before stowing his chute.
The plane circled and dropped two para-cargo boxes, drifting under small, white chutes.
“There’s your goodies, boys,” Stu’s voice streamed.
Ryan keyed his radio and waved at the plane. “Thank you, sir.”
The pilot dipped a wing before heading off.
“Let’s do this before she gets greedy.” Ryan knew the woods the way a moose knew his river. When he hit the ground, he tuned everything out except the tasks at hand. He eyed distant flames as he made his way toward the duct-taped boxes.
“You’re IC for this one, so lock and load.” Gunnar unclipped the small, white chute from the cargo boxes and produced a Spyderco folding knife. He sliced open a box and distributed gear to the other jumpers.
Lightning in the west drew Ryan’s attention. Fast-moving storm, with fierce winds. He chose a nearby river for the anchor point for their saw line. If they worked fast, they’d hold it before it ran uphill.
Ryan readied his gear for the short hike. “I’ll light a backfire. You work the west flank and saw fuels to the river. Pace yourself. We’ll be here a while.”
“Don’t let lightning spike your brain. See you in a few.” Gunnar slung his chainsaw to his shoulder and hiked downhill into the smoke.
Ryan grabbed his gear and took off. He pulled out his radio. “Boone, do you copy? Gunns is on the west flank. You guys grab the east one.” He enjoyed incident commanding fires, controlling the chaos, and bending it to his will.
Boone’s responded. “The winds are fickle in this storm. Not only is the fire less than a quarter of a mile from Bettles, but she’s running toward your position.”
“I’ll check it out,” responded Ryan, picking his way through deadfall as he hiked uphill for a clear view. He reached a hilltop to find the smoke had turned dark and dirty and it had changed direction. He and Gunns were now in the path of the running flame front, just as Boone said.
A firebrand came at him and he jumped aside. It hit the ground and ignited, shooting flames upward. His chest tightened.
