Burned
Blasts of heat and the stench of burnt ozone and timber assailed David Schmidt as soon as he stepped out of the fire buggy. The blaze wasn’t far away. Around him, wildland firefighters in yellow shirts and green pants prepped their gear: They checked chainsaws and reviewed the contents of heavy packs. Schmidt pulled his radio out of its holster to ensure it was operational then tugged on his red helmet, conveying his status as a leader. At six-foot-four, Schmidt towered over most of the men, but his affable nature endeared him to them.
“Circle up,” crew boss Todd Snyder said. Twenty men lined up, and all talk ceased. Snyder outlined the details: The Beaver Creek fire, which would become Colorado’s largest blaze of 2016, was ripping through huge stands of beetle-kill trees. Eventually it would claim 38,380 acres and 17 structures. Schmidt listened intently, anticipation mingling with pride. Surrounded by the other firefighters, he felt a sense of shared dignity. No one here cared that earlier that day he’d woken up inside the Rifle Correctional Center.
is facing an epidemic of devastating wildfires. The 20
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