Looking Out for the Water Dog

I graduated from college in the winter of '87 and abruptly found myself at loose ends. I had a degree in political science and a vague notion of law school, but I wanted a break. I could do my McJob for a while, but I also wanted to get out of Dodge.

A friend of mine told me about fire lookouts. In those days, the Forest Service would hire people to man lookout towers during the season. After looking into it, I applied and eventually got an offer to man a tower in the Six Rivers National Forest from May through October. I'd be paid an hourly rate for twelve-hour days, seven days a week. Six Rivers is in the far north of California. I drove up a couple of weeks early, did my training, and before I knew it, found myself hiking up to my tower.

My tower was a three story "windmill" type. I could park at the base of the mountain, but all supplies had to be carried up, a mile and a half of narrow, broken trail. I had a small propane ring for cooking. The radios were powered by batteries that had to be lugged down the hill to charge and then humped back up. The tower was on the highest peak for miles around and utterly exposed to the constant biting wind. The observation cab had spectacular views.

It was, by turns, boring, exhilarating, uncomfortable, pleasant, intense, and laid-back.

At first, as a newbie, I sucked. But my boss, Tony, encouraged me.

"Look," he said, "maybe this is a one-time thing or maybe you'll catch the Forest Service bug. Some people really dig the independence. Tell you what works to get comfortable, though. Work with dispatch every day. There are campfires in all the regular sites. Practice by calling those in. Don't worry if you call in a few water dogs." A water dog is a column of vapor that looks like a fire.

So I did. Every morning I'd sight a few campfires. I'd swing the old Osborne Fire Finder around, working to triangulate the location, estimate the wind velocity and size. Then I'd get on the radio to dispatch.

There was a crew of folks on the radio, but primarily it was two women, Maia and Claire. They were old hands. Claire was annoyed by my "antics", calling down the campfires, but Maia was always helpful. She'd tell me how close I was and my comfort level rose.

Once, the smoke seemed dark and thick out of one of the camps, so I called it in.

"Aren't you done training yet, mayfly?" It was Claire today. "Mayfly" was her term for someone who'd be gone at season's end.

"I am, but this looks like maybe they've got out of control," I called back.

When I called in the noon weather report, it was Maia.

"Good thing you called in this morning," she said, after dutifully taking down the temperature and wind velocity. "Some kids built a huge bonfire. Greg said it could have been ugly."

After that it was quiet a long while. I made friends with two scrub jays. I'd throw them peanuts on the rail and they'd swoop in and scold one-another. I slowly learned the whole of my terrain view. The demonstration forest, with its thick mantle of redwoods and doug fir. The fire breaks and the trails.

Once a week I'd go down and fill the back of my old Chevy Citation with groceries and books. I'd stop into headquarters to check mail and get a real shower, then drive out to the bigger store. Then it was back in the dark, hiking up my hill. The next day I'd spend doing little thirty-minute breaks sprinting down to the car and then hiking back with a full pack.

The first visitor I had was an older guy.

"Hallo the tower!" he called as he puffed up the trail from the parking site. He had thin gray hair and had clearly been in the sun too much in his youth. He had a bottle of George Dickel in his haversack, next to a quart of water.

He seemed harmless, so I invited him up. He surveyed the cab, which was, luckily, shipshape and tidy today.

"I worked this lookout thirty years ago, before going on to CalFire," he told me. "Not much has changed!" He trailed his fingers on the old locator.

We enjoyed a happy hour before he strolled back down the hill.

My second visitor was Claire. It was a Tuesday, the day after a store run, and about mid-morning I was caught up enough that I could walk down and get the first load of groceries. As I was shouldering my pack, a mint green Forest Service pickup rumbled up the road and parked next to my beat-up Chevy.

Claire was decked out in full ranger uniform, gold badge and brass nameplate carefully lined up. She was maybe forty, her thin, straggly brown hair had a few threads of grey. She kept it pulled back severely in a ponytail under her hat. She was trim and tan under her khaki shirt and brown pants, with a perpetual scowl hiding tobacco-stained teeth.

"Whatcha doin' out of position, mayfly?" she barked.

"Retrieving supplies. I'm on a thirty," I said, meaning a thirty-minute break. "Carry some goods up? It'll save me a trip."

She peered into the back of my car, grabbed some bags, and off we went. At the tower, I climbed directly back to the cab, called in, and started scanning again.

Claire poked around a bit.

'What is she doing? Checking for contraband?' I thought.

She finally ascended to the observation area, looking around at how I had things.

"You seem to have settled in fine, mayfly," she admitted. "I brought some lunch."

She had two hero sandwiches and a pair of lukewarm sodas. As we unwrapped them, I addressed her presence: "So, did Tony send you to check up on me?" I tried to make it sound friendly.

"Nah, but I like to put a face to the voice. And I want to know what sort of person it is on the other side. It's early now, but later in the season, things can get hectic. The difference between a false alarm and the real deal can mean having a crew in the right place at the right time or wasting everyone's time. You called in that one..."

"I thought it was a good call?"

"Turned out, it was. Not only that, you didn't wait to call it. Point to you." The soda tasted a bit better.

She busied herself about the place, then went out to inspect the perimeter. Around four o'clock she climbed back into the tower.

"I could head back," she said, "unless you want some company tonight?"

That made me put the binos down and glance over. The smokey bear hat was downstairs somewhere and she'd let her stringy hair down. Was this a test? Or was she serious? The radio interrupted.

"L62, L62" (that was me), "base," came Maia's voice.

"Go ahead, base," I replied.

"We have a report of a lost hiker on French Hill. Can you get eyes on?"

"Will do", I replied. "I haven't seen anything the past hour," I told Claire.

Claire and I both took binoculars and looked at the various trails leading from the gulch.

"Base, this is L62. Can't see any activity on those trails. My view isn't great though. 54 should have a better view."

"Roger, L62."

"You didn't answer me," Claire chided. My mind had been tumbling around what to say. It was great to have company, even from an unfriendly and, frankly, unattractive gal. But it felt too like a kind of a trap. Would she report me for something? I decided to risk it.

"I... uh... company is nice."

"I'm glad. I'm going down the truck. If you give me your keys, I can bring the rest of your load up when I come back."

I manned the radio and kept looking out for the lost hiker while she slipped down the hill. Maia called me almost as soon as she disappeared into the trees to give the all-clear. Not much later, it was time to sign off for the evening.

I pondered my meager supplies and thought about what to serve an overnight guest, but I needn't have worried. Claire came puffing up the hill with an overstuffed pack. First it disgorged my remaining groceries, the recharged battery packs for the radios, and then a miniature feast. Some roasted chicken, vegetables, potatoes, and a bottle of screwcap red.

We sat up in the observation deck, the windows shut up against the chill breeze of the evening, the greens and browns of the forest spread out like a rumpled blanket before us.

"I never worked this tower," Claire said, "but it's always been one of my favorites. It's not on the regular trails and the guys here always seem happy--happy to be here and happier to see me." She chortled the last bit, the wine starting to have an effect.

The ranger seemed to be relaxing, turning into a middle aged woman. She lit up a cigarette, held the smoke for a moment, and then exhaled it through her nostrils.

"Mmm. First of the evening. You smoke?"

"Never have."

"Good. Don't start. Still, a good cigarette after a bit of self-denial is nice."

"You been denying yourself all day?"

"Longer than that, in some ways," she said. She was eyeing me closely again, measuring my response.

"I guess I know something about that," I said.

She sidled closer, the orange coal at the end of her cigarette gestured to the rapidly darkening horizon.

"Maybe you should show me how to stay warm up here?" There was no pretense there. I put my right hand into the small of her back as she stabbed out the cig. Her mouth tasted of ash, but her tongue was a little dancing worm. I felt a pleasant surge in my loins as I drew her to me.

She put her hands on my shoulders, then snaked one up into my hair. I was taller than her and she had to bend my head down to meet her, while standing on tip-toes. She wasn't well-endowed up front, but she had a nice firm bump that filled my left hand. A gentle squeeze made her pant slightly.

Her other hand grabbed at my crotch, feeling my stiffening erection. She smiled as I could not suppress a groan, enjoying the feel of quivering pole in her hand.

"I'm going to need that in me all night tonight," she whispered, "warming me from the inside out." She led me to the stairs into the lower levels of the tower.

My sleeping bag was unrolled on a kind of flat pallet cushioned with foam and Claire had spread hers across the same surface. The room was dark and rapidly fading into a kind of inky blackness. The sole small window faced northwest and my Coleman lantern, fueled by precious (and heavy) small gas cylinders, remained unlit.

She started immediately to unbutton the uniform shirt, so I pushed off my plaid flannel shirt and pulled my t-shirt off over my head. She pulled off whatever thin garment held her tiny boobs in place before stepping up to steal a kiss. Her breath was still musky with tobacco and roast chicken, and she smelled slightly of salt and sweat. She was like a caged animal, wiry and lean. Her skin was warm and smooth under my hands. The press of her body against my chest made my blood sing.

One of my thumbs found the bulge of her titty and gently skimmed over it. Her hands were massaging my ass and quickly we were grinding against each other.

Out in the trees, the owls hooted the first chorus of the night. She stepped back, tugging once, twice at the thick service belt around her waist. The buckle jangled as she pushed her trousers down, then bent to loosen boots.

I turned to my own. The long laces flew out of clips and the big tongue of the left boot disgorged my foot. Her first boot clattered on the wooden floor as I turned to my other boot. Her second boot joined the first. She mounted the bed platform.

My second boot came off in a tangled rush. Then I was pushing down pants and tripping over them.

Claire laid on her back, the sleeping bags arrayed under her. Her legs were spread obscenely. Her arms beckoned me. She was still wearing thick hiking socks and practical-looking beige panties.

I pushed off my underpants and crawled onto the platform. My lips sought her knees, the better to trail up into her private parts, but she was having none of it. She pulled me forward. I pressed my lips to hers and let myself feel the warmth of her body underneath me. She wrapped her thighs around me and clenched me with her knees. My hardness jabbed at her opening, still protected by its silky casing.

"Promise me," she asked, "this is just for the season. Just casual. No harm, no foul. Nobody else knows. And nobody else in this bed but me."

"I can do that," I promised.

"Good," she said, her hand reaching down to pull her panties to one side. Her stubby fingers manipulating my head, working towards her slick slit. It being the age of AIDS, I demurred slightly. "I don't have protection."

"You don't need it," she replied, stroking my glans between her meaty opening. We both feel it catch at her entrance. I rocked once and sank halfway in. She was tiny and tight, smaller than any woman I'd known before--or since. She grunted with delight as we worked my thick tool inside, deeper, further.

In the falling darkness, to the mournful call of owls, we mated.

I awoke somewhere before the false dawn, snuggled around her. She roused slightly as I passed my hand down her body and felt the slight curve of her toned tight butt. I trailed my fingers back up between her thighs, feeling the faint sticky track where my spend had leaked from her in the night.

Her hand groped around and found my depleted noodle, still crusty with the leavings from earlier. Her touch focused my attention, a heavy feeling. That hand of hers didn't pretend to be asleep: it yanked and jerked and tugged. I let my hand explore between her legs. There was a tangle of hair and flabby fleshy lips. My middle finger came away slick and sticky.

It was cold in the tower, and we wriggled around trying to stay under the sleeping bags and threadbare wool blanket, until desire won out. I drew her up onto her knees, her face pressed down into the foam pad, and drew myself up behind her. She jabbed her hips at me, her motions begging me to pierce her. I worked my way in, slow, steady. It was the first time the word "screw" made sense to me, the two of us forcing me into her tight well.

"Yes," she shouted, her voice a scratchy contralto, the final syllable drawn out into a verdant hiss. "Fuck me," she cried. I held her hips and began to hump her in earnest. We moved together, bodies slapping and slamming. In and in and in each push took me. Back-and-forth, see-sawing our way together. Her fingers circled her pleasure spot as her voice rose, just nonsense sounds full of need. She grunted with release. I couldn't be sure if I felt it as a tremor inside her, but her tiny hole was strangling me, moist squishy noises gurgling out of her. Then her fingers reached further back, grabbing at my sack, nudging dangling fruit, urging me to fill her. My hands pulled her hips against me and I shot a long sizzling stream into her, my own voice screaming in tune with hers.

Later, we cleaned up and she packed up everything she'd brought. I took a sponge bath and went to man the radios, take the weather, greet the scrub jays with peanuts.

She came up into the observation cab with her uniform perfectly straight, hair back, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

"Thanks, cowboy. I'll be seeing you again before long. Remember your promise," she said, departing without even a peck on the cheek.

And it was like nothing had happened, except now she never called me "mayfly" over the radio. Always now it was "cowboy". And, for a while, some Tuesdays I could count on a little help bringing up the supplies from the car.

In the dog days of July, I got my third real visitor. The marine layer, normally close to us, went on vacation and the mercury soared towards triple digits. I was in shorts and t-shirt, working my lookout progression, when I spotted her coming up the trail, just a flash of shirt between trees. She came up the backside trail, rather than the one from where I parked on the service road. She was tall, perhaps in her early thirties, wearing a tank top, brush pants, and carrying a day pack.

When she emerged into the clear space around the tower, I paused what I was doing to go down and greet her. Her dark hair was bobbed at shoulder length, but tied back with a red bandana, and she wore tortoise shell glasses over striking blue eyes. She had a broad mouth with a quick smile and very white teeth.

Unlike Claire, she was all curves. Her pronounced bosom was wrapped in a bandeau bra. Below, her waist flared to wide hips and a muscular, if prominent, set of buns. And, unlike Claire, I felt an immediate attraction for her.

"Howdy," I greeted her, "are you lost?"

"I hope not. You're L62?" The lilt gave it away immediately.

"You must be Maia?"

She just smiled, adding, "I brought lunch."

We went back up in the tower, where I resumed my lookout. But all the while our conversation flowed. Easy and bantering. Where she was from (Flagstaff) and where she'd been (all over the West, across Europe) and what she'd seen. Where I was from, where I'd been, what I'd seen. What brought us to here. Where we might go. Where was good to eat. Who was the biggest loudmouth on the radio. What books we'd read. What politics we had.

The day passed quickly and, around four, she turned to me and said, "I'm really enjoying this, but I need to walk down to the service road if I'm going to catch my ride."

In some ways, summer was monotonous. The temperatures climbed into the eighties in the daytime, cooling off in the evenings. Traffic on the trails and in the campgrounds doubled and trebled. The scout camp on the lake was full. Around me everything was busy. For me... it was the jays, and the starlings, and the hawks and the owls. It was scanning for smoke and mowing the break and doing maintenance. I read a lot, and I wrote longhand in my journal.

There were occasional visitors, but they were just hikers passing by. Mostly it was marmots or ground squirrels, the soaring of turkey vultures. The hawk who'd hover, waiting to dive on unsuspecting mice.

There was always Claire. I got to know a bit more about her--she'd tell Service Stories, but also about her failed marriage and her time at Penn State. But mostly, it was her scratching her itch in my bed. Or elsewhere. There was the one time I pulled her pants down and did her over the rail in the observation cab, her cries echoing into the trees below. Or the time she rode me as I lay back on the dried grass around the base of the tower, the chill wind whipping over us.

And there was Maia. Always strolling up from the main trail. Always leaving to meet a ride on the service road. And always the deep sense of attraction. I wanted to kiss her in the worst way, but always the moment and the conversation was just far enough out of whack. The chemistry was just so and we quickly found each other completing the other's sentences.

"Someday you're going to find a woman," she told me, one afternoon. "Find her and have a brace of babies."

"Is that what you want?" I asked. "And 'brace', so two babies?"

"With my man, it'll be as many as I can get. Herd? Flock?"

Fall changed things. As we passed over Labor Day, traffic in the forest went back down. But the heat stayed. Now, fire danger truly lurked. There was one ten-man crew for initial response, and they were in constant motion.

One morning, I was surveying the landscape when I spotted a trail of what looked like smoke rising from a valley. I sighted in in the Firefinder, measuring the azimuth.

"Base, L62. I have smoke near Williams. Coordinates are..." I repeated the location.

"Roger, L62, response team on it." The voice was unfamiliar, a guy instead of Claire. At first, I thought nothing of it: there were always some folks spending a day on the radio here and there, plus a night shift I rarely spoke to.

I kept watching, but as the sun warmed the hills, the look of the smoke column changed, dissipating.

"Base, L62. I think I got fooled there. I think I called in a water dog."

"We'll check it anyway, 62."

"Thanks, base. Was expecting Claire this morning. Who's filling in for her?" I asked him.

"I'm Charles. I'll be filling her slot. Uh, she is taking some vacation time, over" he replied. I tried to evince only casual interest--we were supposedly on the "down low", after all. Every time, she cautioned me: "it's only for the summer" and "it's only casual, okay?"