The dry grass ignited with a crackle, and an orange glow lit up the midnight forest. I gripped the hose tighter, my shoulders screaming under the weight of two extra rolls slung around my back. At eighteen years old, on my second wildfire, I was already questioning my life choices.

Embers swirled like angry fireflies overhead and sweat stung my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to drop the hose, sit down, and quit. But I didn’t – my pride and the stubborn streak from my parents wouldn’t let me.

High school graduation had left me directionless, a kid with no clear path and an empty bank account. College was coming up in a year but I had a whole year to burn, and minimum-wage jobs in my hometown offered neither excitement nor serious money. When my father suggested I sign up as a wildland firefighter for the summer, it felt like a lifeline. I craved camaraderie and a challenge – and frankly, I needed the paycheck. A month after training, I found myself packed into a crew carrier headed for my first fire. I had no idea what we were in for.

That first assignment was 13 straight days of chipping and brushing—loud, repetitive, miserable work. Ten hours a day feeding branches into a screaming chipper under a 95-degree sun. My arms were cut to hell and my ears never stopped ringing. That kind of monotony breaks you down fast. But it also taught me how to work without complaining, how to show up even when every part of you wants to be anywhere else.

Things ramped up on our second fire. The first week was a haze of smoke, ash, and exhaustion. High in the hills of Northern California, we were cutting trail, hauling gear, and running on whatever energy we could find. One day, my squad boss Kenny and I were the only ones left posted low in the canyon when we got a call—the fire was gaining speed and heading straight for our crews deeper in. The problem was, they were still short 700 to 800 feet of hose. No hesitation. Kenny and I loaded up with rolls—more than we probably should’ve—and started jogging uphill as fast as we could. Full gear. Steep incline. The California sun cooking us the whole way.

Halfway up, my legs were shot and my lungs were cooked. Every step felt like it was pushing me closer to the soil below me. I thought about dropping the hose more than once, nobody would’ve blamed me. But we didn’t. We pushed through, made it to the top, and dropped the hose where it was needed, with just Kenny knowing what we did together.

That night, driving back in the trucks, covered in sweat and ash, completely spent, I remember staring out the window. The forest was black and quiet. Everyone in the truck was silent, not for any real reason, just too tired to talk. And I sat there thinking,” I did it. I didn’t quit. No one will remember that run, but I will.” That kind of moment doesn’t make headlines, but it’s where a lot of fire gets won.

Fire didn’t look like it does in movies. It was a front-row seat to a new reality for me, a blue-collar reality–hot, filthy, backbreaking labor surrounded by people who don’t care where you came from, just whether you can pull your weight. We dug line, cut timber, and hiked for miles with saws and packs that never got lighter. I worked with firefighters who did this for decades. They worked hard and watched out for each other.

That’s what I learned fire is really about: showing up, doing your job, and making sure the guy next to you makes it home. That’s masculinity in the real world.

No speeches, no drama, just work, grit, and accountability, and I saw the ones who didn't understand that, the ones who caused drama or argued or couldn't keep it together, and nobody on the crew respected them.

Our crew was an odd bunch thrown together by the flames. We had college kids like me, chasing adventure on summer break or fighting debt. There were guys fresh out of rehab, determined to prove themselves in a tough new life. We had seasoned vets – an ex-Hotshot with a heavily scarred face who could saw through a tree faster than almost any, and our squad boss Kenny, a quiet Native man who would tell us crazy stories about his twenties. On paper, we had nothing in common. But when you spend sixteen hours cutting lines with someone, you learn what’s under the surface. By the second week, our differences mattered less than our shared mission. I remember one night shift twenty of us trudging in single file under a sky thick with smoke and stars, telling scary stories to make the night pass by quicker. Camaraderie in wildland fire isn’t polite or gentle; it’s forged by sweat, fear, and trust. That chaotic mix of personalities became like extended family. We bickered. We told jokes. We picked each other up when things got heavy. In fire camp after a long shift, I’d collapse next to these folks - filthy, sore, and utterly spent.

Life on the fireline is equal parts monotony, misery, and moments of bizarre joy. You learn to embrace the suck and find humor in them. During my second summer fire-fighting, after a 20-hour night shift on a complex of fires, I had been on lookout duty and it was late in the night. We were stationed on a hill, staying late on to make sure our line didn't get overrun. I grabbed a bag of candy I had bought on our last store run and as I walked the entire line to find a spot to guard, I passed 2-3 pieces out to all the guys. Exhausted after 20 hours of work, everyone was overjoyed to get something as simple as candy.

That sort of joy, over such a simple thing, is something I haven't been able to find anywhere else.

Amid the adrenaline and banter, the job took a toll I hadn’t anticipated. The longer I fought fire, the more I felt the strain on relationships back home. Cell service was typically a luxury, and days they wouldn't believe weeks - would pass before I could call my family or my girlfriend at the time. My ex tried to be supportive, but how do you explain to someone that you might be gone for 14 days straight, with no phone, risking your neck for strangers’ homes? There were tense phone calls: Are you safe? When are you coming back? Why can’t you just say no to the next assignment? The unwritten rule was that duty to the crew came first. I learned how hard that truth hits when your personal life is begging you to stay. Balancing love and responsibility felt impossible. In those moments, I did wonder if the sacrifice was worth it. But each time, duty won out. I’d sling on my 45-pound pack, hug my loved ones goodbye, and head back out leaving only worried hearts behind.

For all its chaos and hardship, fire had a quiet side. Occasional moments of clarity amid the destruction. One evening, we were told to wait and watch a mountain alongside a crew of hotshots as the fire burned over the ridge. We were on night shift and watched the ridge as it glowed a bright orange while the sun set behind it - glowing in the light of the fire and the smoke. I grabbed my speaker and sat in the back of our truck with my best friend Jaden, and started playing Lana Del Rey. A medic came over to listen and talk while we sharpened our tools on the truck bed and hummed along to the music. Sitting there and watching the sun set over the burning ridgeline was one of the most gorgeous and serene moments I've experienced on fire.

By now, after a couple of seasons on the line, I’ve come to terms with a hard truth: I can’t do this job forever. Fire taught me more than any classroom ever could—about endurance, responsibility, and how to keep moving when everything in your body says stop. But I’ve also seen what long-term firefighting does to people. The busted knees. The chronic coughs. The family strain. I respect the lifers, but I know that’s not the road I want to stay on.

This summer, I’m still fighting fires. It will be my third. I still suit up, still dig line, still carry weight. But I know it’s part of a bigger picture now. Fire showed me what I’m capable of—but it also pushed me to think about where else I could take those skills. I don’t want to leave the land behind. I want to protect it in different ways—more sustainable ones.

I’m still in it for now. And likely the next five or so summers. But I’m planning for after. And when I do eventually step away from the fireline, it won’t be out of burnout or failure, it’ll be because fire did its job. It sharpened me. It gave me direction. And it sent me forward with the kind of backbone you only get from doing hard things the hard way.

One of the biggest takeaways from my time in fire was realizing I didn’t want to just fight disaster, I wanted to get ahead of it. Seeing burned forests and the communities we protected made it clear that we needed more than reaction; we needed restoration. That’s what led me to co-found an organization named Castaway E.C.S. Environmental Conservation & Stewardship.

The name “Castaway” came from what my fishing buddy and I kept seeing every time we went out—trash dumped in creeks, illegal sites in public parks, and spots that looked like people had just stopped caring. Our mission is to reclaim those places, one site at a time. Since launching, we’ve pulled out over 6,500 pounds of garbage, removed around 50 shopping carts, and safely disposed of more than 100 used needles from local parks and waterways. We focus on park cleanups, habitat restoration, and building a culture of environmental responsibility through action, not talk.

While fishing, we also found out that the main river we use has elevated mercury levels. That’s when we decided to create a research project to monitor water quality using a scientific approach. We collect biweekly data on turbidity, dissolved oxygen, temperature, and methylmercury levels across multiple points in the watershed. Our methods follow EPA guidelines, and we’re working to map contamination patterns over time. The river isn’t just ours. Local Native American communities and Eastern European refugees fish there too. Knowing our work might help protect their food sources and health makes it all worth it.

What we do isn’t glamorous. It’s muddy, cold, and smells like rot half the time. But that’s what makes it honest.

Fire taught me how to deal with the miserable stuff—the long hours, the setbacks, the work no one wants to do.

That same mindset carried over. Now, instead of hauling hose, I’m hauling garbage. Instead of prepping for red flag warnings, I’m coordinating cleanups with city officials and volunteers. It’s a different uniform, but the mission’s the same: protect the land, and don’t wait for someone else to step up.

Starting a nonprofit from scratch was a grind. But after running chainsaws on no sleep and digging line in 100-degree heat, dealing with emails and logistics didn’t scare me. If anything, it felt manageable. Castaway E.C.S. became a way to keep the fire going, just channeled into long-term impact. We don’t just clean up. We build habits. We give people a chance to give back. That’s what sticks.