As educators, we may not have much say about what we teach. But how we teach flows from who we are — shaped by every experience that brought us to the classroom. For me, that includes surviving one of the worst wildland firefighting tragedies in U.S. history: the South Canyon Fire on Storm King Mountain on July 6, 1994.
There's a photo from that morning at Crater Lake. Brian is loading flares into his backpack, Bill is adjusting his bandana, and Scott and Doug are in the foreground. Scott had just finished his Master's in engineering and was planning to propose to his girlfriend. He was so excited about their future. Doug was the quiet one, but to his sister Cody, he was a hero.
The assignment seemed simple. Lightning strikes had dotted the I-70 corridor near Glenwood Springs, Colorado, with small fires threatening residential areas. We were there to relieve the smoke jumpers who had initially contained them. When we first saw Storm King Mountain, the fire looked so small that we were almost disappointed. After a slow fire season, we were hungry for action.
I lost nine friends that day — Scott Blecha, Levi Brinkley, Doug Dunbar, Terri Hagen, Bonnie Holtby, Rob Johnson, Kathi Beck, Tami Bickett, and John Kelso. Mental health professionals might call my response "survivor's guilt “ — to me, it's about earning what I've been given. My life.
The Whole Hillside Was Black
The fire looked manageable when we landed. Two helicopter loads of hotshots went up first and started working down the hill — something you should never do, but the fire seemed so small that we didn't think it was a big deal. Luck, God, or fate, I was in the third helicopter load.
Around 4:00 that afternoon, with winds gusting to 60 miles per hour, a tree suddenly flared up. The dense gamble oak covering those slopes had been preheating for three days, turning those green leaves into tinder.
I remember the moment vividly. We had just run into a drop off in elevation when the entire hillside was engulfed in flames. I looked up, and it was red and black as far as I could see. The fire weather had shifted dramatically, transforming a smoldering patch into an inferno.
As we ran for our lives, I could feel the intense heat melting the reflectors on my hard hat. We raced down the steep hill toward I-70 and the Colorado River, where I poured my canteen of Medaglia — instant espresso — on smokejumper Eric Hipkey's back as he lay face down on the asphalt, his clothing smoking.
Officials took us to Two Rivers Park — where the White River and Colorado River meet — and we watched the fire jump from ridge to ridge. We had sidestepped fires before. We assumed we’d all be together soon, trading stories and laughing.
But three hours later, we learned nine of our friends were dead.
Walking Storm King Again
This year marked 30 years since the fire, and me, my wife, and my son flew out to Colorado to be at the reunion. We walked the steep inclines of the dusty path up Storm King Mountain, which has permanent memorial markers where each of my friends was found. We shared dinner with the families of those who died and hotshots, past and present.
Traditionally, survivors of the fire haven’t spoken at the reunions, but I asked the supervisor of the current hotshots if I could share the questions that continue to guide me. As the hotshots stood attentively in front of me, Storm King Mountain stood behind them, right in my line of sight. I said:
I have been trying to understand what happened and why, minutes after it happened, and all the years since. But I’ll never know why this fire happened. I’ll never know why my friends died. But what I do know is that I’m alive, and I have to be worthy of the life I’ve been given.
I’ve learned two things. The first is the importance of a moment. If I would have known that would be the last time I would see many of my friends, I may have appreciated the moment more deeply. But I was young; I thought I’d live forever. I don’t remember my last words to Doug, Scott, Rob, Tammy, or John. Now I know it can all be taken from us in a moment, so we should enjoy and appreciate each other while we can.
And I learned that yes, life is hard. And we can do hard things — as long as we understand why. The people on your right and left are depending on you to be the best version of yourself and do what’s required, right now.
I then shared a summary of Leo Tolstoy’s story, “The Three Questions,” a story about a king who wanted answers to what he thought the three most important questions:
What is the most important time?
Who is the most important person?
What is the most important thing to do?
The king could not find any satisfying answers — until he disguised himself and encountered a simple peasant and a vengeful enemy.
The king discovered the answers:
The most important time is now.
The most important person is the one you are with.
The most important thing is to do good for the person in front of you.
The Fourth Question
Back in 1994, I went to nine funerals. Then I went home.
Eventually I was able to break through my depression. Eventually I was able to sleep. I poured myself into my studies to restore myself. As a teacher and as an administrator, when people dismiss others’ mental health issues, I take it very personally. I know that it's real.
I believe it would be disgraceful if I didn’t continually work to be a better version of myself — as an educator, a husband, a father, and a human being. I believe that when I die, God is not going to ask me, Jose, why weren't you a lawyer? Why weren't you a doctor? Why weren't you president?
I believe my God is going to ask me, Jose, why weren't you a better Jose?
I gave you two legs, and you stood for nothing. I gave you two hands, and you built nothing. I gave you two eyes, and you never saw the pain of the people around you. I gave you two ears, and you never listened to anybody.
Jose, why weren't you a better Jose?
This question drove me every day in the classroom and it drives me now, as I work with other educators. It reminds me why I do this work. Each of us should find our own fourth question — the one that drives us to be our best for students, schools, and each other.
Let’s talk about how we can honor the lives we've been given by showing up fully for our students, every day.
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