The authors Edward Abbey, Gary Snyder, and Norman McLean all served in high-altitude fire lookout posts in the West — their encounters serve as abundant inspiration for their creative works.
However, Jack Kerouac’s response brings a smile to my face.
After he scoured the surroundings for smoke signals from Desolation Peak Lookout in Washington during a summer in the 1950s, Kerouac lamented that his mind was “in tatters.” He remarked, “I thought I’d perish from monotony or leap off the mountain.”
I hardly agree. My wife Linda and I have dedicated the last seven years to Benchmark Lookout within the San Juan National Forest, a fire observation tower in Colorado’s southwest quadrant, and we cherish our time there.
We are on duty from mid-May until mid-September and predominantly in solitude — apart from the plentiful wildlife, infrequent visitors, and firefighters who witness our contribution to the unified effort against wildfires. The fire personnel eagerly anticipate surveying this extensive zone of the West that constitutes their firefighting territory.
Our journey begins in southern Colorado, departing from the town of Dolores and enduring a 30-mile trek over rugged gravel to reach the tower at 9,264 feet. We carry our own provisions for 10-day intervals, enjoying four days off. Linda brings along wool for spinning, while we both pack numerous books, and I spend my days surveying the land and the sky.
We believe we are well-suited for the position, never perceiving the solitude as an issue. For as soon as we ascend our timber tower at the beginning of the season, we transform into the eyes in the sky for the vast Four Corners region, vigilant for what we hope to avoid — smoke indicating a wildfire.
I generally catch sight of smoke from my peripheral vision, or while doing household chores, or even while engrossed in a book. A heightened sense of alertness is ingrained in a workday that typically persists as long as daylight remains.
Every action halts as I mark the smoke’s location on the 80-year-old Osborne Fire Finder and on maps. Subsequently, I communicate my discovery to Durango Interagency Fire Dispatch. This constitutes my 15 minutes of calculated chaos in an otherwise serene existence. Dispatch utilizes the details I provide to deploy engine crews, helitack teams, or aerial support to the incident.
On certain days, I detect two smoke signals, occasionally five, but more frequently none — although after rainfall, mist ascending from canyons can resemble smoke and attempt to deceive you. We refer to these as waterdogs. What is perpetually captivating is the weather itself.
Out of nowhere, clouds appear to coalesce directly above Benchmark Lookout, and with our 360-degree panorama, thunderstorms here are both spectacular and thunderous. On one occasion, a lightning strike landed so close that we felt the hairs on our arms stand erect.
People often inquire why we man a fire lookout. Our motivations aren’t straightforward to express. Typically, our quick response is “we enjoy solitude” or “we take pleasure in being in a secluded location.” However, that explanation is overly simplistic and fails to convey how we and numerous other fire lookouts regard our roles.
For one reason, we are aware that we remain vital, not yet obsolete due to advancements in satellites and aircraft. Our responsibilities extend beyond merely detecting fires. We supply essential weather and fire behavior reports to the frontline fire crews.
Our vista encompasses Mesa Verde National Park, Canyons of the Ancients, Bears Ears National Monument, Shiprock, the San Juan Range, and much more — a four-state territory where Arizona, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico converge.
Our perspective is perpetually evolving as the sun traces its path and the weather shifts. And time appears to slow down when artificial distractions are absent. Our tower has welcomed visits from horned lizards, elk, mountain lions, and a mother bear with her two cubs.
Hummingbirds glide gracefully through dense clusters of wildflowers below us, and we spot flickers, swallows, and turkey vultures. Sandhill cranes, white pelicans, and occasional ospreys also soar by. Silence envelops us as we enjoy this magnificent panorama on our own.
Winter is setting in as I compose this. We are already dreaming of the upcoming fire season atop our 42-foot tower.
Rick Freimuth is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit devoted to stimulating vibrant discussions about the West. He is a former wildland firefighter and carpenter, now retired. He resides in Paonia in western Colorado.