Firefighter chases newborn blazes with binoculars

At 5,670 feet above sea level, it's 70 degrees at midday. But the summer heat down in the Mission Valley and west side of the Flathead Reservation is quickly drying out grasses, tempting a bolt of lightning or the under belly of an idling vehicle to rapidly turn the prairie grass and timber into a swift-moving inferno.

Not if Al McCrea can help it.

Perched in his lookout nest 20 feet above the highest peak in Ferry Basin, Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes' Division of Fire firefighter McCrea has been fighting summer fires for 10 years.

His weapon is a pair of low-tech binoculars.

Dodging flying ants and tiny bugs, McCrea circles the perimeter porch with the long lenses perched on a makeshift monopod for stability. He methodically sweeps the diverse landscape in an up-and-down pattern across the forests, rivers, farmlands, moraines, and peaks.

Not only is he seeking columns of smoke, he's searching for anything that appears out of place. On Friday - without the aid of binoculars - McCrea spotted a small tree that had snapped in half by the previous night's winds.

"You are familiar enough with the landscape that, if there any changes, they are obvious," McCrea said.

On a clear day, McCrea can see north to Glacier National Park and south to Missoula's Television Mountain. The Mission Mountains block further views to the east, but to the west, McCrea can see the mountain range beyond Pat's Knob. He can hear and see herds of elk as they begin their rut at summer's end.

When the sun has set, McCrea is privy to a panorama view of meteorite showers and secures a front row seat for northern light displays.

"(The northern lights) ripple across the sky like a ribbon being snapped and unfolded," he said.

McCrea has also spied a rare moon bow, glowing like a silver arc of light on a misty night.

Thunderstorms rattle the lookout's wooden supports, yet McCrea keeps guard outside on the balcony where glass reflections won't obscure his vigilant search for lightning strikes.

Bolts often hit one of four grounded lightning rods positioned at each corner of the lookout roof.

"It sizzles, just like a stun gun," McCrea said. Yet he's not afraid out there, protected by lightning rods and his unwavering faith in God.

"I believe I'm safe, and I don't have to worry when the lookout gets rocking and rolling," he said. "I feel I am just protected."

McCrea begins every morning with Bible study, devotions and prayer before making breakfast from a pre-planned, 10-day menu provided by his wife, Billie. His first hourly patrol begins at 9:30 a.m., after he's washed the 15 windows that encase his square perch.

His patrols continue throughout the day, and at 6 p.m. ("that's 1800 hours, their time") McCrea "clocks out."

But he still watches.

Although he never fights rush hour traffic, the 10-days-on/four-days-off lookout schedule can be a challenge to avoid boredom and loneliness in the solitude. His faith, he says, keeps him company.

McCrea frequently listens to Christian radio stations that transmit praise and worship music, and occasionally plugs in on a portable black and white television with a five-inch screen.

"I turn it on for news, that's it - if I watch it at all," McCrea said.

While McCrea jokes that he makes pets of the pack rats, his humble abode does offer creature comforts. He cooks on a camper-sized, four-burner propane stove. Two modest refrigerators - one solar-powered, one propane - keep his perishable inventory fresh. Two five-gallon cubes of drinking water hauled up more than 100 steps is enough for each shift, and he bathes in a large water tank beneath the living space that is painted black to absorb heat. A mirror the size of a photo snapshot allows him to shave indoors.

McCrea hikes down three flights of stairs to visit the outhouse.

Communication is imperative, and the fire-control radio allows him to talk to firefighters at headquarters in Ronan as well as Bassoo (pronounced "baa-zoo") and Pistol Creek lookouts on the north and south ends of the Flathead Reservation.

His lifeline is a cell phone that gets perhaps the best reception in the county.

"Before the cell phone, I had to wait 10 days to talk to my wife," McCrea said.

Yet always on his mind is his main task - to find smoke, and relay the location, color, size and volume to dispatch as quickly as possible.

Peering at a plume through the crosshairs of a post WWI-era Osborne Fire Finder, McCrea delineates the location of the smoke by line-of-sight, then records and relays azimuth readings to fire dispatch. Division of Fire leaders determine whether to activate a ground crew via truck or fly one of the helitack crews to the fire.

When a wildland fire crept dangerously close to the Ferry Basin lookout in 1994, a helicopter lifted McCrea off the mountain and away from danger.

As the fire season ebbs, McCrea will leave the lookout to return to his 37-year teaching career at Polson Middle School, where he'll challenge students to get fired up about social studies, literature and reading.