Fire Watch

High above the Appalachian wilderness, a lone fire watcher spends his days scanning miles of unbroken forest.

But there is one place his eyes always return to.

The longer he watches, the more certain he becomes that something is waiting below.

Written and Narrated by Michael G. Moyer

Transcript

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I step out of the truck, and the fire tower stands before me like some ancient monument erected before history began. Oak and beech trees line the small clearing, and the bones of dead standing ash sit just beyond the tree line. Wet rotten leaves flatten under my boots as I cross the clearing. I unlock the tower access gate. When I step onto the stairs, it flexes under my weight. As I climb the narrow steps, I hear the tower waking in the wind. I look out at the dense green canopy and watch the leaves sway in the wind below. I unlock the floor hatch, and the smell of old dust and wet leaves tracked in on boots coats my nostrils. The space is sparse and small, not ten feet in either direction. Windows line every wall. An Osborne firefinder sits at the center. I climb up and drop my pack on the desk chair and lay a hand on the map table. The radio sits at the back of the desk and I pull it forward. I stare out the windows and the landscape opens up before me. The sky is clear and visibility is solid. About a half mile to the west of the tower. The ridge drops sharply into a hollow cut through which beech and maple and one dead white trunk stand above the rest near a shale wash below. I grind my teeth and turn away from the window. I drop my thermos on the shelf. I unfold the chair and set it behind the desk. I sit and open the logbook. I turn the radio on and static echoes in the cabin. I lean in. Blackridge towered district. Radio check. A voice emerges from the static, slightly broken but audible. Reading you clear. Sky is clear and visibility is good, I say. Copy Blackridge. The voice on the other end is replaced by the low drone of static. I grab the pen from the desk and lean over the logbook. The time is five in the morning. No clouds present. Visibility is twenty plus in each direction, and the wind is to the east. I drop the pen on the open logbook. I scoop the binoculars from the edge of the desk and remove the lens cap. I wipe the dust from the lens, then stand and walk over to the western side of the tower. I peer through the binoculars and scan the ridge. They find the dead white beach trunk again. I scan the area around it. What a peculiar little spot in the forest. Was it too distinct, I wonder. The leaves in the canopy hiss below. I scan the ridge through the morning, more intently than I ever have before. The low drum of static from the radio soothes me as I watch the ridge. The sun rises higher in the sky, and I can see the forest below change in the sunlight. The steel tower hums in the wind. As I glass the western ridge again, a glint of pale bark makes me stop. I focus on the dead trunk. It looks different now. Only slightly, but different. Some birds flutter near it. I wish they would go away. The ridge is vast, and the canopy is much healthier than this particular spot with the pale beach trunk. The trunk shimmers through the glass. Surely it was no more than thermal haze. This time of the day, when heat rises from the slopes, it always creates that soft distortion when viewed through glass. I fan the binoculars out to another part of the ridge. I find another large pine tree to the north that stood higher than any tree around it. That tree doesn't waver the way the beech trunk does. I go back to the west. I find the beech trunk again. My eyes strain. I think I see something around the tree move, and for some reason I jump. Things move in the forest, but that tree was not alive. Not anymore. It shouldn't be moving at all. I look through the glass again, and it looks as if the tree lines are blurring. Then they resolve. I drop the binoculars and rub my eyes. My eyes are tired, that's all. I've scanned the ridge more intently this morning than I ever have before. My eyes are just not used to such sustained vigilance. The morning thermals are just messing with me today. Still something prods at me beneath the surface. Why was that one patch of forest so distinct from the rest? Why can't it just blend in with the landscape the way that large pine tree does? Why does my eye keep finding that damn tree? I drop my binoculars on the desk and jot down another timestamp and the conditions. By noon, the heat rising off the western ridge makes the entirety of it waver through the binoculars. The beach trunk seems to bend and steady again depending on the light. More than once I see movement below it before the haze settles back into the trees. I set the binoculars down on the desk, harder than I mean to. I reach in my pack and pull out my lunch. I'm just hungry, that's all. I unwrap my sandwich and bite into it. My mouth is dry. I take a sip of my coffee that has long gone cold and stale from this morning. I curse under my breath. Why must this dead tree make my job harder? I try to focus on my lunch, but my eyes keep flicking toward the western ridge. The wind picks up, and the tower stairs groan. A barred owl calls from somewhere to the west. The sound carries strangely through the hollow before thinning out in the wind. I stare out the window to the north, and the landscape shimmers gently with the heat rising from the slopes. I look to the east, then the south, and the shimmer is nearly the same. To the west, the ridge seems to bend and blur together, as if it's trying to distort my view of it. I see the beach trunk from where I sit, eating my lunch. It bends with the glimmer of the ridge as if it's waving at me. Heat can make a ridge look like a living thing. I find myself staring at the beach trunk as I chew the last of my sandwich. I reach over and take the last sip of cold coffee from my thermos. I stand from my chair and wrap around the Osborne firefinder. I rotate the sighting arm toward the western slope. I bend to the rear sight. I stare through the near sight and align it with the beach trunk. No smoke, no flare. But if there is going to be a fire today, it will be to the west. A lot of heat coming off that ridge. I check the degree reading on the ring beneath the site. I look down at the map. I see that bearing running across the hollow. West slope, two six, eight degrees, I say, out loud. Then I walk over to the desk and jot it down in the log book. I pause. I flip the pencil around and erase the log and sit down. I still see the faint lines of my log on the paper. I dig the eraser into the paper and scrub it away. The paper rips slightly. I put the pencil down and turn my gaze back to the west. The shimmer is stronger now as more and more heat comes off that slope. The wind shifts to the south, and the tower reacts with a slightly higher pitch in its groan. The stairs creak, and for a moment I think someone is ascending them. But I know it's just the wind. The wind at elevation behaves differently than it does on the ground, I remind myself. I scan the western horizon intently, and my eyes begin to burn until I allow myself to blink. The ridge is hot today. I don't want to miss anything. I squint at the horizon for any sign of smoke. There is none. The radio comes to life, crackling as a voice comes through. District 9 to all towers, smoke visible, north-northeast. Wind out of the south. Monitor conditions. The radio hums then goes silent again. A strong gust of wind carries across the tower, and the windows rattle and the steel beams groan. District 9 is north of my tower. I glance that way and see no visible smoke or flare. I go back to scanning the western ridge. Periodically I glance to the north in case the landscape changes. I feel how hot the tower's gotten. I open the windows and a gust of wind slams into my face. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a hand and continue scanning the western ridge. The sun descends to the west and the western ridge grows dark. The pale beach sticks out for a short time as a beacon in the growing dark. I feel my eyes strain as I force myself not to blink. I rub my eyes. I grab my binoculars and raise them to my face. I stare through the glass at the beach trunk. No movement. I drop the binoculars from my face and stare out. The wind howls and the tower hums louder. I hear the stairs creak again. I freeze. Why would someone be coming up the tower now? The day's almost over. I unlock the hatch on the floor and open it. No one there. I laugh at myself. Just the wind, of course. The windows rattle again. The ridge has grown dark, and I've nearly lost sight of the beach trunk. There's something there. I know it. Could it be smoke? It would burn easily, and this entire ridge would go quick. I have to be sure. I rub my eyes and see that the sun is dipped beyond the horizon. I squint and I can still see the beach trunk. I stare at it until my eyes hurt. The radio comes to life again. District 9 all towers. Conditions remain stable. Final reports due before shutdown. I check the logbook and realize I haven't made enough logs for the day. I quickly fill in ordinary details and add timestamps throughout the day so it appears as a full day's report. I close the logbook. My eyes flick toward the western ridge again. Full dark is set in. The beach trunk is no longer easily visible. I slide the chair closer to the window. The legs scrape against the metal floor. A breeze passes through the tower and sends a chill down my back. I close all the windows. I stare through the window and see my own reflection staring back at me as the dark presses against the glass. I walk closer to the window. I cut my hands around my eyes and press them against the glass and squint. I think I can just barely see the beach trunk. I grab the binoculars from the desk and raise them to my eyes. I stare at the beach trunk for several long minutes until I realize how tightly I'm gripping the binoculars. I loosen my grip but continue my vigilance. Static bursts through the radio again, and I listen to the other towers signing off. But I can't sign off. Not yet. I reach over and twist the knob to turn the radio off, and I accidentally turn the volume higher instead. Static screams through the tower and I flinch as I turn it back down. I still hear the low drum of static as I go back to the glass. I panic as I struggle to find the beach trunk in the dark. I feel my pulse settle when I finally do. I can't lose it again. I hold my gaze until my eyes hurt. I blink. Then I see it. A shadow. It moves across the tree and disappears right as I open my eyes again. I lean forward and the front of the binoculars hits the window. It's gone. Was it smoke? That ridge was giving off a lot of heat today. Or I feel every joint lock all at once. Could it be something else? Could it be someone? I lower the binoculars and stare at my own reflection in the window. The windows rattle in the wind. The radio drones on. No, it couldn't be. I shake my head as if trying to jar it loose from the thought. I raise the binoculars again and press them against the glass. I can't find the beach trunk in the dark. My breath becomes short and my heart flutters at the base of my throat. I scan the dark ridge for several minutes until I find the beach trunk again. I can't lose it again. I stare through the binoculars until my eyes hurt. I allow myself to blink. Then I stare until the pain returns. Blink. The trunk stands against the darkness like a beacon. Maybe it was too distinct. Maybe I should have picked a more conspicuous spot. Blink. A gust of wind passes through the tower, and I hear the metal scream below. Then the stairs creak. I ignore it. I don't take my eyes off the tree. Blink. Static comes through the radio, and now it feels too loud. Still, I won't take my eyes off the tree. I stare forward. A single bead of sweat drops down my temple. Blink. The windows rattle again, and instead of pulling back, I press the binoculars harder into the glass. I feel the rubber eyelets digging into the edges of my eye sockets. The trunk stands unbothered. Blink. Then the tower groans again, but I don't hear wind passing through it this time. The stairs creak. I drop the binoculars and focus on the sound. It doesn't return. Is someone climbing the stairs and timing their steps with the wind? No. Why would they do that? They wouldn't be sneaking up on me. I did my job today better than I ever have. I just forgot to write down the logs. But it was only because I was so focused on scanning the forest. If there was any sign of danger, I would have seen it faster than anyone else today. If someone now climbs the stairs quietly, timing their steps with the groaning of the tower, it's because they're coming to congratulate me on a job well done. Yes. I laugh out loud and the sound echoes in the tower. Then I realize I've taken my eyes off the beach trunk. I watch my jaw drop in the reflection in the window. I snatch the binoculars, raise them to my eyes, and peer out into the dark. My eyes won't adjust to the darkness outside. I look up at the ceiling, at the dim bulb that's keeping my eyes from adjusting. I stand quickly, reach up, and turn it off. I sit in full dark and wait for my eyes to adjust. I press my face to the rattling window. My breath fogs the glass. I hold it. I stare out across the landscape and slowly watch it resolve back into familiar shapes. I see myself smiling in the glass. Then I raise the binoculars again. I scan the landscape and it all blends into itself. I curse out loud. I stare out the window for several minutes. The beach trunk is gone. The radio drones and the sound grates in my head. I throw the binoculars down. Shut up, I say. I reach over and swat the radio off the desk. It crashes to the floor. The static hum continues. I press my hands against my temples and feel heat rising through my chest. That sound of radiostatic echoes in my head. I can't take it anymore. I lift my leg and bring my boot down hard on the radio. I hear it crack under my boot. But the sound is still there. I raise my leg and stomp it again. Then again, and again, and again. When I look down, the radio is in pieces on the floor, and that insufferable sound has ceased. A hollow sound escapes my throat, carrying just enough of a laugh to frighten me. I bend over and pick up the binoculars. One lens falls out and the other's cracked. I scream and throw them down, and they crash against the metal floor. Then it's quiet, save for the sound of the tower groaning in the wind. I move to the glass and press my hands and face against it. I scan the landscape over and over and over again. I know that beach trunk is out there, but now it hides from me. I know I saw something moving around down there. I know it. It wasn't smoke. It wasn't flare. It was someone who knows something. I raise my fingers to my mouth and bite my nails. Did someone see me? It was an accident. That man shouldn't have even been there. A high-pitched whine leaves my throat. Then I hear it again. Louder this time. The stairs creaking from somewhere below. I hold my breath. The windows rattle in the wind and I shush them, but they rattle on. Then the stairs creak again. I fall to the floor and crawl backward until my back presses against cool metal. I press my knees against my chest and wrap my arms around them. The tower screams in the wind. Then it's quiet. It comes again, the sound of metal bending under load. Go away, I yell. I thought he was a deer, I say, not to anyone in particular. He wasn't wearing any blaze orange, and he moved through the brush like an animal. Why should I spend my life in jail for someone else's recklessness? I even risk getting caught by finding a nice spot to bury him. That beech trunk is his tombstone, and it will outlast us all. Someone must have seen me. Now, someone climbs the stairs, and I have nowhere to run. The stairs creak again, closer. I shrink against the wall. A gust of wind hits the tower, and the windows rattle, and the tower groans as the metal cools. Then another stair creaks right below the hatch. I shove my palms into my ears and the world goes quiet. I don't hear the wind howling outside. I don't hear the windows rattling. I don't hear the tower groaning. I sit there watching the hatch with my hands over my ears. My heart thumbs against my ribs. And slowly, very slowly. I pull my hands from my ears. It's quiet. Unmistakable in the house. Thanks for listening to Ludwig. If you enjoyed tonight's story, you listen to the next time.