Summers of Fire: A Memoir of Adventure, Love and Courage

The story behind the photo: A near miss; slurry

2026-10-08T15:51:37.737-07:00

My first fire season—my second fire. After a near-disaster on the Kent Fire, where our gear burned up, leaving my crewmate Joe and I without drinking water for hours, my confidence got a boost because now I knew what to expect-lots of hard, hard work, which I discovered I could handle-and that you can never carry too much water.

We’d been clearing helispots that week. My first experience flying in helicopters, while scary at first, quickly turned into the ultimate thrill. Tom and Eric and I had station duty while the rest of our crew finished up the helispot work when a fire call came in. Because the dispatcher reported the fire along a remote dirt road we often used to access the east side of the Santa Rita Mountains, we hopped into our Model 20 Tanker with the assumption the water truck would come in handy. As we approached the fire, however, we knew we’d be hiking in.

I strapped on my 6 quarts of water and grabbed a Pulaski out of the side tool box. Eric and Tom slung over their shoulders a one-gallon canteen, and grasped a shovel and Pulaski, respectively. We started the challenging hike through the steep, rocky, grass-covered slope, which also hid the pain-inducing shindagger agaves, aptly named for their propensity to stab you where it really hurts.

Finally at the fire’s edge, we began building line. Hard to do in rocky soil, if not almost impossible. After an hour or so, we were excited to have help arrive in the form of slurry, also known as fire retardant.

We watched the first drop, grateful for its support in our fire suppression efforts. A short time later, another plane approached…but unlike the first time, this drop headed straight for us.

Eric ordered us to hit the dirt, and we did, anticipating a life-threatening hit of slurry, if not worse. Fortunately, the main drop missed us, but not by much.

It wasn’t until weeks later I got around to developing the film in my camera, the one I’d brought with me, but left in the tanker. Flipping through the photos, I was puzzled to see images of that fire, that I couldn’t possibly have taken. A few days later, I found a note from a Sierra Vista, AZ firefighter tucked into my camera case.

“Hope you don’t mind, but when our crew arrived, I found your camera, and hope you don’t mind that I took some photos for you.”

The story behind the photo: Rescuing the food box

2026-10-03T05:40:34.669-07:00

A "Gremlin Goose" delivers food to our crew

Ever since my Prescott friend, Chuck, talked non-stop about his Alaska visits, wanting me to go with him some day, and then later encouraging me to apply for a firefighting job there, I had hoped someday I would see this magical place. In 1980, I excitedly accepted a position on a tanker/helitak crew in Kenai, Alaska.

What an experience that turned out to be…and not at all in the way I expected. As a seasoned firefighter, I looked forward to a busy fire season, something that in the past Alaska news never seemed to lack in reporting. But that summer, it rained. A lot. Okay, coming from the desert southwest, weekly rain would be a lot. But here, it seemed like it rained nearly every single day. We were optimistic at first, but as the soggy weeks dragged on, morale plummeted. And then, after two months, at last, we got a fire call.

In past fire seasons, a fire call meant driving or flying by chartered airplanes and then bussed or driven to the fire scene. Here, with the fire being in a remote area west of Anchorage (trust me, there’s absolutely nothing in the way of civilization west of Anchorage), we were transported by our station’s contracted helicopter. I’d never flown for more than 15 minutes in a helicopter before, so the over 1-hour trip was quite unusual.

After a week on the line…I won’t get into the surreal experience of building fireline where tundra had the consistency of a wet sponge, or how there were times where the rain was steady enough that we huddled under ponchos to stay dry, only temporarily slowing the fire’s progress, before we went back to work.

That first week, we also subsisted on the standard C-rations (commonly called C-rats), which passed as food only for the very hungry. Fire Management officials promised a food drop “soon.” Rumor had it food boxes contained what constituted gourmet on the fireline, including fresh fruit and vegetables. My mouth salivated at the thought. I was ready for “soon” to be today.

Finally! The word came in that a food drop, via cargo plane, was on the way. My pal Dan and I had camp duty that day, and we heard the plane approach. We rushed to get a better view of the drop zone. There we stood, in great anticipation of REAL food, speculating on what goodies would be in those crates.

The plane came in low, and the cargo hatches opened, releasing two crates. One parachute opened. The other did not. The one with the open parachute landed relatively easy…bouncing a couple of times before resting. The other crate slammed into the ground with such force, it disappeared into the tundra.

What comes next is one of my favorite adventures in my book. If you’ve not read it, I hope you will!

Arizona Memory Project

2026-08-15T10:20:24.734-07:00

I'm delighted to share that my photos from my firefighting years at Florida (Flor-ee-da) Ranger Station as well as photos of my watercolors of the station are now archived with the Arizona State Library's Arizona Memory Project! You can view the images and read descriptions of these photos here:

Arizona Memory Project Women Wildland Firefighters

Hotshots vs. a fire crew...what's the difference?

2026-08-02T09:31:52.167-07:00

I realized I needed to write this when one of my wildland firefighting Facebook groups shared a post titled: “The First Women Hotshots” along with photos and bios of five women. At first I thought: “Nice.” But then I thought: “Wait a minute…” What about the other women who were on ‘just plain old fire crews?’ Who worked just as hard. Who had a place in history as “women firsts” just as much as any female Hotshot. Like me.

A sore spot had been poked.

I struggled with whether or not to add a comment. I’m not one to make waves, but I decided to make a wave…a respectful wave. I wrote: Not to minimize the tough job of a Hotshot...but being on a 10-person fire suppression crew in 1976 was just as hard. Just because we didn't have the "title" doesn't mean we weren't important.

One woman (obviously a former Hotshot) responded: We drew the line; you held it.

Meaning they (Hotshots) initial attacked the fire; and we (not Hotshots) followed to hold that fireline and mop-up.

I did not take offense. And I thought to not respond, but a few minutes later I did, but carefully responded with the truth: “Yes, we did. But we often did it all!”

Let me explain.

Almost everyone I met who knew about my former career and about my memoir assumed I worked on a Hotshot crew. I would immediately dive in to correct this assumption, struggling to find a way to explain the difference to someone who had no clue what the job was like and why Hotshot and Fire Suppression Crews had the same job, even though they did not have the same title. I found myself apologizing (why, I don’t know) and explaining that no, I served on a 10-person suppression crew…and then I would proceed to explain the differences, or lack of differences, feeling foolish for not having the right words to say what I wanted to say…which led to facial expressions on the listeners bordering on disillusionment or disappointment. I inevitably would feel that I let myself down by not saying proudly: I did the exact same work as a Hotshot did—and leave it at that.

My point is this: Is there anything special or different or more important about Hotshot Crews vs. the other hardworking firefighters without said title? My firm stance is a firm “no.”

Here’s why:

Hotshot Crew

Hotshot crews are regionally oriented. In other words, their role is not to protect a specific area or National Forest, but to provide manpower throughout their region (Southwest, Northwest, etc.), but if the fire situation dictates, they travel the entire U.S. (and on rare occasions to Canada), wherever and whenever needed. They are often called in for initial attack, and often leaving the grunt work (mop-up) to others. Mop-up is the grueling, tedious work of extinguishing every single hotspot which could potentially reignite the fire days, weeks, or even in some rare cases, months, after the fire has been declared “out.” I remember the reasoning behind this being explained as Hotshot crews were needed to initial attack new fires.

Fire Suppression Crew, Type II

This is the title my crew held in the mid-1970s. We were proud of that title! So how did we differ? Well, first of all, we were hired to protect a specific area…a District on a specific National Forest. But that didn’t mean if the fire situation warranted sending us off-District, or even out-of-state, we weren’t boarding a plane or driving hundreds of miles to answer that call.

That said, if we had a fire on our District, we initial attacked. And we stayed to hold the line and mop-up. We stayed until the fire was out.

As for what other crews did when there weren’t any fires? All I can say is that for me and my crew, we did a lot! Hiking trail maintenance, building fence, cutting fence posts for said fence, station maintenance, vehicle maintenance, cleaning campgrounds, picnic areas, and outhouses, picking up roadside litter, repairing and improving spring water resources…and more.

The most important point I want to make is that with fire suppression, we did it all. We initial attacked. We held the line. We mopped up. And when not firefighting, we also did it all. I’m very, very proud of the job I held. What’s in a title? Truthfully, not much. It’s wildland firefighters, whatever their role, that is important.

The big question: why are wildfires getting so much worse?

2026-06-30T15:44:59.747-07:00

I've addressed this question in other posts, but I came across this article, and thought to share. Yes, it's a bit long, but it's well-written, and spot on, in my opinion.

Welcome to the Mega-Fire Generation.

Fire shelters again under scrutiny after 3 deaths

2026-06-30T15:33:18.348-07:00

It's no surprise that the summer of 2026 has presented us with huge conflagrations, destroying precious forests, homes, and more. Long-term drought, high winds, forest management (which I'll discuss in my next post), all contribute to the catastrophic events we are witnessing now.

Sadly, there is no specific "fire season" anymore.

But the hardest part about these devastating fires is loss of life. This week, 3 wildland firefighters lost their lives battling the blazes consuming parts of Colorado and Utah.

What really hit me hard is that the 3 firefighters (2 of which were women) died in their fire shelters. Am I surprised? Shocked? No. Not at all. Fire shelters don't work...or shall I say, they only work in very specific conditions, and those conditions are not common on the fireline.

Fire shelters came out the summer of 1977, my second summer on a 10-person suppression crew at Florida (Flor-ee-da) Ranger Station in the Santa Rita Mountains of Southern Arizona. We balked at this new-fangled addition to our gear. More weight, which we did not need or want, but aside from that, none of us believed for a minute they were the life-savers they were designed to be. And they were not. And they still aren't.

It's not that no one has not tried to make a better one. It's the fact that a better one hasn't been figured out yet. When 19 of the 20 Granite Mtn. Hotshots died in 2013 in their fire shelters, cries went out loud and clear: Make better fire shelters! But the reality is, a fire shelter that would protect a human being from over 800 degrees is not something anyone could carry with them in the terrain and conditions that wildland firefighters face on each call.

The solution? I'm no expert, but I've never forgotten what my supervisor told us during training: No tree is worth a life. In other words, putting people into situations where life can be lost just to save the trees should not happen.

The Swanson River Fire (1969)

2026-06-19T09:15:09.181-07:00

For those who have read my book, you may remember my summer in Kenai, Alaska. Maybe you recall our loony supervisor, who often felt the need to remind us on a rainy, cold day, "Just remember: The Swanson River Fire started on a day like today!"

We were skeptical. One crewmate did look into it, and said it was supposedly a big deal. We were still skeptical.

Today another former crewmate shared this article with me. Looks like the story is true. And that Air Force Base the fire nearly destroyed was where we lived and worked!

The destructive Swanson River Fire of 1969 burned about 83,000 acres on the Kenai Peninsula.

This fire eventually burned dangerously close to Wildwood Air Force Station, and became one of the most significant fires in Kenai Peninsula history.

If you've not read my book yet, and would like to, it's currently (June 2026) on Amazon at 37% off! (Only $9.44!) A very good deal.

A 50-year anniversary! May 12th, 1976--May 12th, 2026

2026-05-11T15:18:00.823-07:00

FIFTY YEARS AGO I arrived at Florida (Flor-ee-da) Ranger Station in the Santa Rita Mountains to begin my career as a wildland firefighter. I knew the work would be hard, but I didn't know my job would be difficult in many ways I couldn't have possibly imagined.

To commemorate this anniversary, I thought to share an excerpt from my memoir: Uprooted: A New Life in the Arizona Sun. Here, I'd been offered, and accepted, a firefighting position in Southern Arizona south of Tucson, an area I'd never seen, both excited and terrified at the same time.

When I called Greyhound Bus Lines to make reservations, a bored agent said that they could get me to Tucson, but not to Nogales. That both surprised and concerned me. Good grief, were they afraid to go to Nogales too? I had to pry options out of him, which resulted in a call to another bus service for the last leg of my trip. That done, I made reservations at the Nogales Motel 6.

Tuesday night, I packed the largest suitcase we owned with essentials. My parents would bring down the rest of my belongings on Saturday.

Early morning at the Prescott bus station, I waited in line to pick up my ticket. Once at the window, the cashier shrugged, saying, “Greyhound changed their schedule. Your bus already left.”

To say that my jaw dropped would be an understatement. My bus LEFT? Images of not getting to Tucson on time, thereby missing my connection and most likely not reporting to work on time, made my knees weak. Now what?

“Continental has a bus leaving in five minutes,” the cashier said. “There’s a seat available…”

I sprinted to the idling bus, and handed my luggage to the driver seconds before he closed the cargo door. Once seated, I calmed down, and shook my head. Unbelievable. At least I lucked out with a window seat.

Prescott’s pines disappeared when the scenery changed to open, high desert with no trees. The bus approached the familiar plunge into the Phoenix Basin, where the Interstate turned into a steep, winding road through a series of dramatic canyons dotted with sahuaro cacti poised like exclamation points. This stretch wasn’t scary as a passenger, but I’d never forget the first time my dad let me drive to Phoenix. Petrified by every curve, I had to pry my fingers off the steering wheel when he took over before we headed into the heavy, congested traffic of the largest city in the state.

It was always hard to tell where the line between Not Phoenix and Phoenix began.

As usual, haze hung in the sky like brown fog, the stench of air pollution working its way through the closed windows. Mid-afternoon, the driver pulled into the bus station. Inside, rambunctious air conditioning had turned the grungy waiting room into a refrigerator. I shivered while I waited-out the hour layover. Most of the people were travelers like me, but the vagrants sleeping in chairs kept me on guard.

Back onboard, my trip continued south, where the landscape turns flat and desolate. Barren, parched ground, which rarely saw rainfall, looked foreboding and just plain hot. It sure wouldn’t be fun if the bus broke down, I thought, adding a new worry to my list. Undulating, wavy lines of heated air blurred distant mountains. A pool of water appeared on the asphalt in front of the bus. Mystically it moved ahead of us—always out of reach. I remembered my dad explaining the mirage phenomenon after we’d encountered them on our first trip out West. It now made me think of Wile E. Coyote in the Road Runner cartoons. I entertained myself by recalling a scene where Wile E. assumed with relief that he’d found a concession stand in the middle of a desert wasteland. Just as he raised the glass of lemonade to his lips, it turned into sand.

When we approached Tucson, I immediately recognized the Santa Catalina Mountains on the horizon. What would it have been like had I been hired there again? Passing the exit I used to take, a tug pulled at my heart. I’d miss my friends at Palisades.

In Tucson, I boarded a Continental Trailways bus. A short time later, I sat up and paid closer attention to new territory. We crossed a bridge over the Santa Cruz River, and I craned my neck to see if it held water, but the sandy bottom was dry. There were several distant mountain ranges—none of which looked tall enough to support trees. A twinge formed in my chest. Had Ralph tricked me into taking a job nobody else wanted?

After reaching the small retirement community of Green Valley, the Interstate ended. The bus made its way to the two-lane Nogales Highway, a backcountry road with less traffic, but few passing lanes. When a rickety pickup truck, bed stacked high with hay bales, held us up for what seemed like forever, I worried about how we were doing for time. A glance at my watch told me: Not good. The motel reservation clerk had said I needed to check in by five. Anxiety mounted when we encountered more slowpokes.

We pulled into Nogales after six. In a panic, I waited for my suitcase, grabbed it the second it appeared on the conveyor, and took off in a dead run to the motel office.

A Hispanic woman, with heavy-lidded dark eyes, turned from the black-and-white television screen when I pushed the door open and rushed to the counter.

“Got reservations?” she asked languidly.

“Yes, yes, I do,” I said, out of breath. I set my heavy bag down, and adjusted my purse back onto my shoulder. “Linda Strader.”

She ran her finger down entries in the reservation book, and slapped it shut. “Sorry, we gave that room to someone else. You were supposed to be here by five.”

All of my nightmares were about to come true. The thought of sleeping in the bus station created pure terror. But then something clicked. Wait a minute. This is ridiculous. I asked, “Don’t you have another room?”

After a pause she said, “Well, yes, I suppose we do.”

“Oh! Great.” Why didn’t she say so in the first place?

She flipped pages back and forth. “Would you like one with a TV? It’s only five dollars more.”

I thought about it for a second, and then decided it would give me something to do. I handed over twenty-five dollars. Room paid for, I hauled my bag up two flights of stairs, and unlocked the door of number 12.

Once inside, I quickly secured the deadbolt and slid the chain in place. I made it. Exhausted, I launched onto the bed, positioning the pillows as a prop. The TV stared blankly at me. Might as well, I paid for it. I got up and turned it on, twisting the knob through the half-dozen channels. After settling on what looked to be a movie, I suffered through fifteen minutes of it, and turned the set off. What a waste of five dollars.

Not remotely hungry, and frankly too scared to venture out for something to eat, I changed into my nightgown, turned off the light, and crawled under the covers hoping for sleep. It came quickly, but then I awoke every single hour wondering if it was time to get up yet. This gave me a considerable amount of time to mull over new-job-jitters. Would I like it? Would my coworkers be nice? I hoped to make new friends, but wanted the freedom to spend time with whomever I wanted, without commitments. Having a good job would also give me freedom. The thought of being financially self-sufficient created a different kind of jitters. Pleasant ones. Maybe I’d have my own place. I could buy and eat anything I wanted to. I could buy some new music. Heck, I could save up for my first car. I thought about all of the times I felt as though I was waiting for something. Maybe the wait was over.

In the morning I skipped breakfast—not only because I was still too nervous to eat—but because I feared leaving the room. Instead, I sat by the phone waiting for eight o’clock so I could call for my ride.

At 8:30 I answered the knock on my motel room door to find a short, stocky Hispanic man regarding me through black-framed glasses. The Forest Service badge pinned above the pocket of his uniform assured me that neither robbery nor kidnapping were on his agenda.

Rudy drove us to the district office, where I completed the necessary paperwork—reams of it in the typical government way. With my right hand cramping from filling out all of the forms, I accepted my reward: a “Red Card.” Slightly larger than a business card, it documented my step-test score, and my classification as “Firefighter.” I stared at it for a moment. Firefighter. Wow.

Ralph and I climbed into a government pickup, and we drove north to Florida Ranger Station. Along the way, I studied the road construction parallel to our route that I’d not noticed on the way down.

“The remaining portion of I-19 is almost done,” Ralph said. “Looking forward to it. It’ll make the trip between Nogales and Florida quicker.”

Once leaving the highway, we headed up a two-lane paved road toward the Santa Rita Mountains. Ralph braked for a dozen reddish-brown cattle with blank white faces standing in the middle of the road.

“Damn cows,” he said. “They’ve got to be the stupidest animal on the planet.”

He tooted his horn. The bovines turned their heads, curious, but did not move. It always amazed me how cows had no fear of a shiny metal box ten times their size heading straight for them at a high rate of speed. Ralph laid on the horn again. A few moved, and gradually they all crossed the road, allowing us to continue.

Ralph drove silently while I stared out the window, frowning. The scrubby trees out there were definitely not pines. The road climbed steadily and the mountains loomed closer. The tallest peak did look intriguing—resembling Thumb Butte in Prescott somewhat, but on a much larger scale. Was the dark green vegetation up there what I hoped it was? I couldn’t tell.

The luxury of smooth pavement ended, and we hit a washboard dirt road, truck fenders rattling, and tires flailing dirt and stones out behind us. Ralph answered a call on the radio, and I focused on the change of scenery. The scrubby tree variety I saw earlier grew taller here.

After a few miles of bouncing on the backcountry road, it narrowed, and Ralph let off the gas pedal. The road dipped, and we splashed through a shallow creek. Hand-laid rock pillars acted as sentries on each side of a cattle guard, the metal rails clattering as we crossed. Massive oaks shaded the way up the steep gravel road. Okay, oaks weren’t conifers, but this was encouraging. Ralph veered right to climb up a steep driveway, which was edged by a rock retaining wall. We parked in front of a small building where an American flag on a tall pole rippled in the late morning breeze.

“Glenn is in charge of Florida. I told him I’d be bringing you up today. Let’s see if anyone’s here,” Ralph said.

The screen door squeaked on rusty hinges when we entered the office, our footsteps sounding hollow on the wooden floor. Cool, damp air blew from a noisy machine mounted outside one of the windows, enhancing the musty telltale odor of “very old building.” With a quick scan of the room, I catalogued the mish-mash of furnishings gathered for function, not aesthetics: an industrial-gray metal desk, an antique wooden desk, two tall green metal file cabinets, and a few gray metal chairs against the walls. On top of a sturdy wooden dresser sat a large aluminum percolator, with assorted stained ceramic mugs neatly stacked around it. A canister of powdered creamer, plastic stir-sticks, and a diner-style sugar dispenser rounded out the coffee station. The aroma of stale coffee lingered.

“Guess they’re over at the fire cache,” Ralph said.

Instead of driving, we walked, passing a few of Florida’s structures. On my left, an apricot tree bloomed in the front yard of a house with no signs of occupancy. I freely stared into the windows. Oh, I hope that one will be mine! The first building to my right also appeared vacant, but the next one, with a faded blue van parked in front, had music drifting from the open windows, and laundry on the clothesline. A cluster of buildings at the center of the complex formed a circle, where a group of men stood under a large oak. My gaze moved from them to landing on exactly what I needed to see—honest-to-goodness conifers! Tall, stately, and downright perfect.

A lean, darkly tanned man noticed us, and walked our way, taking long strides. He squinted at me from beneath the brim of his Stetson cowboy hat, and extended his hand.

“Hello, I’m Glenn.”

After we shook hands, he held onto mine for a moment, and turned it palm up to give it closer inspection. He raised an eyebrow. Then he reached out and squeezed my right bicep, shooting Ralph a half-smile. Was he teasing, or questioning my ability to handle the tough job ahead? I decided he must be teasing, and smiled.

If you'd like to read this book, it's available on Amazon.com. Uprooted: A New Life in the Arizona Sun

Scrapbook memories

2026-03-27T12:12:00.001-07:00

What fun to find a scrapbook from my firefighting days! Here are some photos of newspaper clippings of fires I went to.

1977

1980

1979

1977

So you want to publish a memoir

2026-03-09T15:02:00.001-07:00

Determined to write a memoir? Not only that, are you determined to publish your memoir? Maybe even traditionally?

That was me over 10 years ago. And I'm proud to say I succeeded in publishing traditionally, not once, but twice...but trust me, it wasn't easy, and it wasn't a short road. I learned the hard way...trial and error, and many, many agent and publisher rejections. I'd like to save you from that anguish...although I'll tell you, learning the hard way made me a much better writer. Anyway...

I came across this article and it was spot on. While the article addresses "what's new in 2026," that's not quite true. I read almost all of the points made here 10 years ago.

Tough to hear? I thought it was. But I also wanted to make my story the very best it could possibly be. If that's your goal as well, I suggest you take the suggestions posed here to heart.

The State of Publishing Memoir in 2026

"SUMMERS OF FIRE" the poem, by Stephen Chaffee

2026-02-21T09:16:00.004-07:00

My quarters at Florida (Flor-ee-da) Ranger Station, 1976

I met Steve Chaffee about 14 years ago, when we were both attending a local writers group. With my background as a firefighter for the U.S. Forest Service, and him being a retired National Park Ranger, we found we had much in common. Even more so when we discovered we both loved to hike the Santa Rita Mountains of Southern Arizona, where my Forest Service career began.

Fast forward 10 years. Steve knew I painted in watercolors (and had, in fact, purchased one of my paintings about 12 years ago). After his first poetry book published, he wanted to write one specifically about the Santa Rita Mountains, and asked me if I would be interested in providing illustrations for some of the poems, and maybe even the book cover, possibly using the painting he'd purchased from me. Of course I said yes!

After 4 years and 17 paintings later, Steve's book: Wild Ruminations: Poems Inspired by the Santa Rita Mountains (Wheatmark. February 3, 2026) released into the world.

I'm so honored to have been asked to contribute to this book! I'm also quite touched that my Forest Service career inspired one of Steve's poems. I'd like to share that poem here:

Summers of Fire

with sunrise

cold, heavy air descends

steep Florida* Canyon slopes

cascading around and through

mammoth Douglas-fir, ponderosa pine,

Arizona walnut

then over oaks, mesquite, juniper

and an historic work station

built years ago

by Depression-era young men

yearning for a better life

Florida Ranger Station

Forest Service firefighters

train long and hard

for summers of fire

build firelines

bust knuckles

swing Pulaskis

haul packs and gear

chase spot fires

work to exhaustion

tongues like shoe leather

back and shoulders taut as

a charged fire hose

perseverance and grit prevail

over burnt landscapes

after a shower and supper

guys and gals meet at a cabin

for cards, music, laughter,

good ribbings, and beer

and perhaps, companionship too

if these walls could talk

what intimacies

what secrets of the heart

what hurt, pride, and loss

would reveal

a fire crew’s

summers of fire

flor-ee-da*

Dedicated to the fire crews of ‘76 ‘77 ‘78

"Tell Me What It's Like" podcast with Stacy Raine

2025-10-01T05:39:00.002-07:00

Come listen!

I joined Stacy Raine on Tell Me What It’s Like to talk about what it was really like to be among the first women on a US Forest Service fire crew in the 1970s. We discussed:
- What a fire crew did beyond fighting fires
- How I reacted to the discrimination I faced
- Why I loved the job despite the hardships

Here's the link: Tell Me What It's Like

The underlying story of Summers of Fire

2025-08-30T15:13:00.002-07:00

I'm often asked: Why did you want to be a firefighter? What was your goal?

This excerpt from Chapter 19 of my memoir is a glimpse into how taking on a firefighter job went from 'wanting to do something different' to a formal career choice.

If you've not read my book, I hope this passage is intriguing enough to give it a try!

(I've just returned to Florida (Flor-ee-da) Ranger Station after spending two weeks on a 55,000 acre fire.)

Like a loyal friend, Florida Station had waited for my return. Tomorrow would be my last day here. I reported to work in the morning, turning in my gear, key, and driver’s license. Glenn allowed me to clean up my quarters and pack on government time.

On departure day, I simultaneously wanted to go home and not go home. I missed my mom so much my heart ached; but I sensed that Florida wanted me to stay. Joe did, too.

After stashing the last box into my car Skyer, I turned toward the government truck pulling in behind me. Glenn. My breath hitched. Get a grip. I cared for him more than I knew was right. He stood before me, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his Levi’s, his cowboy boots shuffling in the dirt. He gazed at me from under the brim of his ever-present Stetson. That always got to me.

In his slow and deep voice, he said, “I want you to know that I think you did a real good job in Northern California on a tough assignment.”

My heart somersaulted. From a man who said little, that simple sentence touched deep into my soul. He was proud of me. Not sure what to say or do, all I managed was, “Thanks.” But I also stood there waiting for him to give me some kind of sign…that what happened in that motel meant more to him than just sex. It was not there. I desperately wanted to hug him, but feared he would not hug me back, or worse, back off. Driving away I checked my rearview mirror to see if he watched me leave. He did.

In Prescott, I rushed to enroll in forestry-related classes at Yavapai College, which I hoped would advance my new career. Despite the aching in my legs from hiking up and down all of those hills on the Klamath, I had a lightness in my step. There were so many challenges last summer: brutal long hours, backbreaking work, intense heat, danger, smoke inhalation, bad food, and no sleep for days on end. Why did I put up with it? Because this job made me feel important; it gave me a purpose in life. Plus, if I could handle those grueling conditions, I could do anything; and what I wanted more than anything was a permanent Forest Service position.

My interview on eReads Podcast with Liz Bullard

2024-04-17T12:37:00.002-07:00

Liz and I talk about my memoir writing journey. I hope you'll come listen!

FINDING MEANING IN MEMOIRS: LINDA STRADER'S INSIGHTFUL JOURNEY

Podcast interview with Marci Nettles: You're (Blank), What Next?

2024-01-24T02:59:00.000-07:00

Join me with Marci Nettles as we talked about how I am faced with a worst case scenario, and find a way to move forward.

You're Facing A Worst-Case Scenario...What Next?

Working in Alaska by Becky Shufelt

2024-01-07T05:05:00.002-07:00

This is me and my tanker crew, Kenai, AK, 1980

My guest today is Becky Shufelt, who hosts a podcast called "Life in the Wildlands." Becky's goal is to encourage and support those interested in working in the great outdoors.

This episode I thought was particularly interesting, having had worked in Alaska back in 1980.

What is it Like to Work in Alaska?

Tragic loss of a former crewmate

2023-12-08T10:35:00.001-07:00

I just learned today that my former Alaska crewmate, Karan, was killed in 1996 by a drunk driver on her way home from work.

Karan and I worked together the summer of 1980 at Wildwood Station in Kenai, Alaska. While we weren't close, we were friends, and I liked Karan. She had a good sense of humor, and we had fun working together.

At the time of her death, Karan and her husband had 2 children, ages 8 and 11. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for her kids and her husband to lose her when she was only 41 years old.

Here's a photo of Karan and me, sitting alongside Skilak Lake.

New release! My essay on resilience

2023-11-27T12:02:00.001-07:00

"The Resilience I Didn't Know I Have"

JUST RELEASED!

Storyteller's True Stories of Triumph

Published by Chicago Story Press

November 27th, 2023

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON!

Writing Rampage Newsletter by Artemis Savory

2023-10-31T15:21:00.001-07:00

I met Artemis online about six months ago when she was looking for authors to interview. Artemis is a marketing specialist, and I'm delighted to be featured in Artemis Savory's Writing Rampage newsletter today, October 31st, 2023! I hope you'll check out her website, and if you are a writer, you might want to subscribe to her delightful newsletter.

Linda Strader is the author of Summers of Fire: A Memoir of Adventure, Love, and Courage, and Uprooted: A New Life in the Arizona Sun. Linda is a woman who knows what she wants, and goes after it with ferocity. That’s how she became a firefighter in 1976, in a time when few women worked in male-dominated fields. “I never thought of myself as a tomboy, or [wanted to] prove to men that I could do that tough job, I just went after what I loved.” She stuck with firefighting for a solid seven years. Her first memoir, Summers of Fire, is about her experiences fighting fires, but it’s more than that.

Linda didn’t attend college until she was 29. “I was certainly not a writer,” she said, when I asked if writing came first for her. She graduated in 1990 with a degree in landscape architecture, but the economy was terrible and she couldn’t find a job. So, she returned to school in l992 and earned a master’s degree in land planning. And then she went into land development, because that was where the money was. “I wanted to be a landscape architect for the Forest Service,” she said, “but that didn’t work out.” Although Linda didn’t study writing in college, she had taken a creative writing class, where she wrote an essay about fighting her first fire.

In 2005, she ended her 23-year marriage. Shortly thereafter, she lost her job. Unemployed for the next two years, she decided to spend her free time writing about her firefighting experiences. “I kept detailed journals,” she said. She didn’t want to forget the stories. First, she wrote 90 pages and sent it to friends. They told her to keep writing. “I got out my journals and started to write, and I wrote 400 more pages.” Her local newspaper interviewed her, and they connected Linda to a local author, who had published traditionally. This author encouraged her to join a writers group. Linda learned a lot, but eventually she was ready to leave that group. “I figured, [I] have everything I need to finish this book and make it right. I no longer need that writers group.” As all writers know, not every writing group is created equal, and some of us do better without a group at all—perhaps this is most true for book-writers. It is tough to get full feedback in a group setting.

Over the course of two years, Linda queried over 200 agents. She also queried small publishers. After waiting for agent replies that never came, she said, “I chose Bedazzled Ink Publishing in California, and I have no regrets.”

Her book was published in 2018. Linda said, “2018 was a big fire year. California was burning up. All the west was burning up. It was good for my book, but it was also tragic. A lot of homes were lost. Every time when fire season starts, a whole new interest in fire damages [emerges].” Linda said that the book isn’t just about firefighting. “It’s about how I figured out how to do that job in a world where women are not welcome.”

Linda said that her idea of writing success was getting her story out there. “Total strangers have picked it up and said, ‘This is a really great story…’ I had this career that I loved more than anything, but it all fell apart. It all fell apart, and then... I figured out how to rebuild my life. I’m grateful that my story is out there. I had a great career, one that most men and women wouldn’t want to do. Yes, it all fell apart, but that wasn’t the end of the story. Everybody has a different take on my book. What’s interesting is that most of my readers are men, and some of those men have written really amazing reviews. One guy started out with ‘I was thinking what kind of person actually wants to fight fires? And I discovered by the time I finished that book, a perfectly normal one.’”

Guest post: Writer Advice by B. Lynn Goodwin

2023-09-20T11:38:00.004-07:00

My guest today is B. Lynn Goodwin, whom I met a number of years ago in a Facebook Writing Group. I invited her to share how her company, Writer Advice, began, and am pleased to share it with you.

Finding a Niche and Filling It: The Story of Writer Advice

Over twenty-five years ago, I stood at the edge of a grassy meadow and realized that the mailing list of thirty-five writers that I’d been given by a site that was closing, could be the start of something big. The thought came unbidden and felt powerful. I’ve never forgotten that moment.

At the time I was single, caring for my mother, and interviewing authors. I wanted to write a book someday and figured the best way to find out where authors got their inspiration and how they learned their craft was to ask them. My first interview was with a local writer named Penny Warner, who’d just published a book about a hearing impaired detective named Connor Westphal. I’d signed up for a class with her, asked her to do the interview, and she said yes.

Of course, I needed a place to publish my author interviews, so when Haven’s List closed, I asked if I could have their mailing list. Their thirty-five person list was a start. I published on web pages that were available to the AOL community.

Eventually a woman named Jeanne Marie Childe took me onto the web and renamed us Writer Advice, a spin off of her e-zine, Novel Advice. Novel Advice is gone too, but Writer Advice persists.

Today, I’ve published three books, a fourth will be coming out soon from a press in London, and I have a fifth manuscript seeking the right publisher. I’ve written flash pieces, articles, and book reviews. In addition, I run a Manuscript Consultation and Editing Service through Writer Advice. We have four contests a year, and we’ve grown to have many additional features including writing and marketing advance. I also run a monthly Writing Extravaganza for StoryCircle.org, and I’m on their board.

I get joy from helping writers with their work. Writer Advice has become a source for writers seeking ideas, inspiration, and feedback. Today, the Internet gives us many ways to reach readers—ways we hadn’t dreamt of years ago.

Of course, there’s plenty of room for us to keep growing. My husband, whose been in my life less than half as long as Writer Advice, encouraged me to find a partner – someone who would eventually take over Writer Advice. I’m still looking for the right person. In the meantime, I’m willing to share opportunities with anyone who is interested. If you have an idea, please query me using the contact box at www.writeradvice.com.

Wherever your writing takes you, I hope you enjoy the journey and I wish you all the best. If Writer Advice, www.writeradvice.com can help you in any way, please reach out to us. We’re here to help writers.

You can find Lynn's books by clicking on the book covers:

B. Lynn Goodwin wrote two award-winning books, a YA called Talent, and a memoir titled Never Too Late: From Wannabe to Wife at 62. She’s also done author interviews, book reviews, and article for WriterAdvice, www.writeradvice.com and Story Circle Network. She writes flash pieces, is an editor and blogger for the San Francisco Writers Conference, and loves helping writers improve.

Saying goodbye to a good friend

2023-08-15T09:38:00.001-07:00

My friend Joanne passed away at one a.m. this morning, after being diagnosed with cancer a mere 2 weeks ago.

I met Joanne over 10 years ago while we were both writing for Examiner.com, an online magazine in which she wrote about children’s educational challenges, and I wrote about gardening in the southwest desert. She commented on a few of my articles, and soon we were chatting via regular email. At the time I was unemployed and newly divorced, desperately looking for work and something to fill my long days. Because of that long-term unemployment, I’d started writing a book; a memoir, called Summers of Fire. I told Joanne that I had no idea what I was doing…I’d never written a book before and had no idea if what I was writing was any good. Joanne expressed interest in my story, and as she was a retired English teacher, she offered to take a look at what I had written, willing to offer advice and guidance: I remember her saying later, “What you’ve got here is a good story, better than most of the junk out there. I can help you if you’d like.”

Soon after that, we discovered that we lived only 40 miles apart.

Our friendship began.

Joanne made a great editor. She didn’t mince words. She always told me straight out when a section needed work. She’d say, “You’re writing like a professor.” (Referencing my college paper writing experiences.) Or she’d say, “This is really blah,” offering ways to liven up the events while not changing the actual events. Joanne would also catch writing that she felt put me into a negative light. “You are making it look like you are this kind of person, and I know you are not.”

As my writing improved, sometimes I wouldn’t take her advice on certain aspects, but I always, always, gave the changes deep thought before accepting or rejecting. I always appreciated her feedback.

Joanne supported my efforts to find a publisher, and I know she was just as excited as I was when, after 2 long years of querying literary agents and publishers, I succeeded. After that book was handed off to my publisher, I started the prequel. Joanne was back onboard to help me with that book, too. But this time the focus was more on the storyline. She taught me well, for there were far less grammatical errors for her to fix.

Aside from helping me with my writing, Joanne also became a good friend. She grew to know me better than most people have or ever would—having read my journal entries and our discussions via email or on the phone. But our relationship went beyond my book(s). We also shared our lives, our joys and woes…her challenging family; my challenging business and life on my own. In addition, we went on a few outings. On a blustery and partly cloudy Christmas Day, we headed out to take photos of an area that I hoped would provide good material for my watercolor painting. My photos were mediocre, but several of her photos were spectacular (no surprise-she is a great photographer!) With her permission, I turned them into paintings.

Joanne loved clouds. I mean, she really loved clouds. I’ve done a bit of cloud gazing, but Joanne would often send me photos of interesting formations, telling me what she saw—anywhere from a dragon, to a whale…whatever. It didn’t matter. Once she pointed out her sighting I had to agree with her vision.

I remember how, for the first year or so, Joanne signed her emails, “Wishing you flowers,” often attaching a flower photo she took.

I am wishing you flowers in Heaven, Joanne. Lots and lots of beautiful flowers.

The Fire Inside Her Podcast

2023-08-02T11:05:00.000-07:00

Come listen to my chat with Diane Schroeder, where we talk about not only my adventures as a wildland firefighter, but about her adventures as a structural firefighter!

The Fire Inside Her

The Things I Want to Know Podcast

2023-06-08T03:43:00.004-07:00

What a great conversation I had with Paul on Paul G's Corner Podcast! We talk about my fire experiences, writing, and much more.

I hope you'll come join us!

Paul G's Corner

Rendezvous With A Writer Talk Show

2023-04-28T12:09:00.005-07:00

On Thursday, May 11th 2023 at 6:00 p.m. PST, I interviewed with Bobbie Jean and Jim Bell on their LA Talk Radio show "Rendezvous With A Writer! If you missed it, here's the video link:

Book talk at the Tubac Presidio

2023-02-01T06:40:00.000-07:00

A few photos from my book talk at the Tubac Presidio State Park in Tubac, Arizona. I had a great turnout!