By the middle of October, the mountains looked like the dead of winter. Only the laurels along the creeks still had leaves; they were rolled up like little green cigars. There hadn't been even a wisp of a cloud in the sky in over two weeks. We had been on at least four fires every week, but none that lasted more than part of a day.
The last Saturday of the month, fire struck Long Ridge--that's what we call the four-thousand-foot-high mountains--which runs all the way from Frog Mountain in Tennessee and Georgia to way back in the Great Smoky Mountains. From far off the high peaks and deep gaps make it look like a long, narrow set of jagged stair steps.
Once the call came in, Dad gathered us in front of the mill, and I saw the worry in his face. "Men, it's hit Long Ridge. As you know, it runs southeast to northwest, and the south wind has blown for three days. We gotta hurry and you've got to be extra careful on this one."
All of us piled into the truck and Dad drove like a bat out of hell, toward the state line. I could see the smoke ten miles before we reached the base of Long Ridge. High on the mountain, a patch of ivy covered part of the ridge crest. It looked to cover about ten acres all together. All at once, it burst into a ball of flames two hundred feet high. By the time we drove around the next curve and looked up, nothing was left except smoking bare scrubs.
Ceece shook my arm. "There's a right smart more smoke than the fires we've been on."
"A heap more fire too," One of the old-timey firefighters allowed. I saw a frown come on the faces of the old firefighters. Some pointed while others dropped their heads.
The truck slid to a halt beside a small branch, a half a mile below the crest of Long Ridge. I looked at the big boulders that lined the streambed. In normal times, the branch would have been a river.
Dad was at the back of the truck before any of the men got off. "Men, climb to that rocky ridge top and start your cut just to the right of the peak. Hopefully, the fire will slow down once it gets above that ring of broom sage and brush along the bottom of the ridge. It's our best shot to stop this thing."
"If we can stop it on that ridge top," a voice from the truck said, "we'll be home for dinner. If not, all hell will be to pay."
Dad led the way to the peak of the ridge. Smoke choked us as we gathered on the crest. It was maybe a minute before Dad spoke. "Half of you go down one side and half the other; rake as wide a break as you feel you have time to, but don't get caught."
Ping! Bang! Clang! Whang! The sounds of men and tools as we chopped, raked, yanked, and dug among the boulders. The noise we made didn't drown out the roar of the fire as it got closer and closer. By the time we got down below the rocks, the air was filled with white-hot sparks. Hot wind burned our skin like someone had opened the door on an oven. It was so hot and dry the sweat dried before it reached our clothes, yet our eyes watered, which caused streaks on all our faces.
I was working below Ern Tally and above Ceece, when Ern came down toward me. I had never seen a look like he had on his face. "We'll know in a minute if the thing's going to hold."