About the Book
Linda Strader is one of the first women hired on a fire crew with the U.S. Forest Service. A naïve twenty-year-old in the mid 1970s, she discovers fighting wildfires is challenging—but in a man’s world, they became only one of the challenges she would face. Battling fire is exhilarating, yet exhausting; the discrimination real and sometimes in her face. Summers of Fire is an adventure story that honestly recounts the seven years she ventures into the heart of fires that scorch the land, vibrant friendships that fire the soul, and deep love that ends in devastating heartbreak.
For Readers and Book Clubs: Summers of Fire
In the News
“A local woman’s experience as one of the first female Forest Service firefighters” — KGUN Channel 9 Interview
“Virtual Book Tour – Linda Strader reads from her memoir Summers of Fire” — Universal By Design
“eBS Linda Strader interview” by Graham Higson
“Summers of Fire author coming to Bisbee” by By Laura Swan, The Bisbee Observer, May 3, 2018
Lessons in Bravery
“Arizona Firefighter Finds Voice and Story In Memoir” Women’s Writing Circle
“How I Ended Up Writing a Book and Landing a Book Deal – Guest Post by Linda Strader” Quills & Coffee
“Author Interview: Linda M. Strader” by Natasha Orme
“Facing Flames: Adventures, challenges of female firefighter” By Ellen Sussman, Green Valley News
“The experiences of a female wildland firefighter in the 1970s” Bill Gabbert, Wildfire Today
“Strader’s writing is insightfully descriptive, from nature’s wonders and brutality, to times when she survived only on sheer willpower, truly pushing herself physically to the brink, and the rewards she found working in the great Western outdoors. This well-written memoir will have readers caught up in the adventurous twists and turns to very end.” — Karen Walenga, Review, Green Valley News
“Strader’s story is an unsung part of the #MeToo movement . . . I found myself nodding and sympathizing as I read, and I thoroughly enjoyed her descriptions of working fires, building trail, and finding her way as a woman in what is tragically still a man’s world.” — Susan J. Tweit, Review, Story Circle Book Reviews
“It is a must read for anyone who wonders what it’s like to run toward a towering wall of flames that everyone else is fleeing.” — Laura Swan, The Bisbee Observer
Santa Rita Mountains, Southern Arizona
Monday, May 31st
“Uh-oh,” my crewmate Joe said, staring behind us. “There go our packs.”
My Pulaski froze mid-swing. I lowered it to my side, momentarily forgetting the wildfire in front of me. Smoke swirled between the two of us. I leaned around Joe and saw nothing but pine trees on fire, which, all things considered, made sense. Where did our packs go? Was an animal dragging them away? Then it hit me. Our packs were up in flames. The forest fire had jumped our line. The narrow defensive belt of raw earth we’d feverishly clawed through the woods had been breached. All of our gear. Gone. Including our canteens of precious water.
This was my first fire; but not Joe’s. When he said we’d just rebuild the line, I thought, okay, no big deal. He seemed calm and not too concerned about when we’d get more water, so I didn’t worry about that either. Even with our gear a pile of ashes, we’d no choice but to continue to build line. In my hands I clutched a Pulaski, invented by a forest ranger for just this kind of work. A combination ax and hoe, it made building line easier. Easier, but still brutal hard work. With flames a mere foot away, I removed fuel from the fire’s path, down to bare mineral soil, our fireline. Soon my arm muscles burned from swinging the ax at small trees, my back pinched from leaning over to scrape pine needles and the duff underneath them with the hoe. Intense heat from the fire and exertion made me thirsty. A drink of water would be good right about now. I had some gum in my pack, which might have helped, but it had become a melted glob. As I chopped and scraped everything to bare earth, I mentally inventoried what I’d lost besides my canteen: headlamp, socks, my Levi jacket. Damn, I really liked that jacket.
While we continued to battle flames, the sun rose higher in the sky. Temperatures had climbed over ninety, I figured. My mouth felt like the dry, dusty, desert below. I so wanted a drink of water. I really needed a drink of water. An abrupt shift in the wind funneled smoke into the draw like water pouring from an overflowing dam, filling my lungs. I exploded into a coughing fit. I can’t breathe! Remembering the bandana around my neck, I retied it bandito style over my face. My eyes stung, teared, my vision blurred.
“Over here!” Joe said, waving me on. “Get down low.”
Crawling, choking, with tears streaming down my face, I followed him. At the edge of a smokeless ridge, I yanked down my bandana to suck in fresh air, terrified it wouldn’t be enough, terrified I’d inhaled too much smoke. My chest seized, hurt, until oxygen filled my lungs. Not being able to breathe scared me more than the fire below.
I turned to Joe, who also wheezed and coughed, until color returned to his face. His presence was comforting. At least he knew what the heck to do next, which was to wait until the smoke dissipated. We sat for a few minutes, clearing out our lungs, blinking to regain our vision. If I had any moisture left in my body, I would have wiped my brow, but I didn’t. My tongue felt swollen, glued to the roof of my dry mouth. My teeth were gritty, but I didn’t have enough spit to lick them clean. Don’t think about how thirsty you are, it will only make it worse.
The drone of plane engines rose above the crackling of the nearby fire.
Overhead, a huge, slow-moving C-47 carried fire retardant, slurry. The silver bird gave me a twinge of hope. Slurry, a mixture of water and fertilizer, would knock-down the fire. The plane circled, making a second pass. I watched in awe as the hatch doors on the bottom opened, releasing a plume of dark pink, which rained through the forest canopy, dampening flames. Nose turned up, the plane disappeared from view.
Joe and I took advantage of the temporary window to dive in and get closer to the fire’s edge. Despite intense, nagging thirst, my body weak from dehydration, I kept scraping, digging. Pine sap boiled, snapped, and sputtered, as flames consumed boughs. Somehow we managed to reach the lower edge of the blaze, although I had no idea if we were catching the fire or not, or if Scott, the third member of our crew, had made any progress. There’d been no sign of Scott since he’d vanished across the rockslide seven hours ago. He had the only two-way radio, so we couldn’t check in.
As the sun rose, temperatures did too, shifting winds upslope. Not good. On autopilot, mouth clamped tight to conserve moisture, I pushed myself to scrape more line clear of flammable pine needles, chopping branches that could breach our clearing, until distant voices made me pause. Through tall ponderosas I caught a glimpse of bright yellow fire shirts. Thank God, help! Leading the group: a firefighter from the Nogales crew carrying multiple canteens strapped across his stout frame—a walking canteen shop. “Anybody need water?”
“Me!” I accepted one, fumbled to unscrew the cap, and took a swig, resisting the temptation to drink too much too fast, which could make me sick. I savored the wetness, swishing the water around my teeth, tongue, and gums before swallowing. Water never, ever tasted, or felt, so good.
After quenching my thirst, I realized that behind him stood the Catalina Hotshots. Hey, I know these guys! I broke into a big grin, hoping they’d recognize me.
“Hey, Linda,” one said, smiling. “I heard you made it to a fire crew.”
My grin expanded. Oh, yeah I did. Too bad we couldn’t talk, I was dying to tell them all about my new job, but we had work to do. We had to get this fire under control.