Flames rushed skyward from a structure less than a mile away across the sagebrush. At the height of another dry desert summer in July 2013, Chris Tucs, a novice member of Carson, New Mexico’s volunteer fire department, was working in the yard of his off-grid home when he saw the blaze. He threw a few shovels into the back of his truck, hitched up a trailer loaded with 300 gallons of water, and sped to the scene, looking up from navigating the ruts in the road to see flames shooting through the billowing smoke, which already obscured the view of Tres Orejas Mountain off in the distance.
The fire was on the property of Tucs’ neighbor who lived with his partner and two children. When Tucs arrived, he saw a wood-framed shed engulfed in flames. The shed …show more content…
Elliot and I rumbled along the main road leading into the part of the mesa known as Two Peaks, the stiff shocks meant for wildland firefighting bouncing hard off of every rock and rut. Elliot was relaxed and cheery, cracking jokes. He pointed out the sprawling junkyard to our left, “the business district,” and took a hand off the wheel to wave at an approaching car. I had been living on the mesa for several weeks at this point, spending my nights in an off-grid trailer not far from where we were now, but I felt tense and exposed in the high cab, like an uninvited guest arriving in the most conspicuous way possible.
Elliot showed me the scene of one of the department’s most recent fires, a trailer that had burned mostly to the ground by the time the fire trucks arrived. On our way back, a woman who must have seen us U-turn flagged us down. She was middle aged and sun worn, standing in the yard in front of her chicken coop. Her voice strained to reach us in the high cab.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” Elliot said. “I was just taking him on a
The fire was on the property of Tucs’ neighbor who lived with his partner and two children. When Tucs arrived, he saw a wood-framed shed engulfed in flames. The shed …show more content…
Elliot and I rumbled along the main road leading into the part of the mesa known as Two Peaks, the stiff shocks meant for wildland firefighting bouncing hard off of every rock and rut. Elliot was relaxed and cheery, cracking jokes. He pointed out the sprawling junkyard to our left, “the business district,” and took a hand off the wheel to wave at an approaching car. I had been living on the mesa for several weeks at this point, spending my nights in an off-grid trailer not far from where we were now, but I felt tense and exposed in the high cab, like an uninvited guest arriving in the most conspicuous way possible.
Elliot showed me the scene of one of the department’s most recent fires, a trailer that had burned mostly to the ground by the time the fire trucks arrived. On our way back, a woman who must have seen us U-turn flagged us down. She was middle aged and sun worn, standing in the yard in front of her chicken coop. Her voice strained to reach us in the high cab.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” Elliot said. “I was just taking him on a