SP ONSORED BY WAT SON L AW

The Big Snowy Prize

YOU CAN’T
BLAME A FIRE

SHUTTERSTOCK

18
“H
azy skies are better for campfires,” Trenton tells me,
looking up at the partially cloudy weather. He’s stoking the
fire we’ve built by a secluded stream in Missoula Valley’s
Rattlesnake Wilderness Area, just east of Sawmill Gulch.
It’s August of 2016, and our plan is to camp overnight.
“Hazy skies hide the smoke,” he continues. It’s fire season and we aren’t supposed to
be having an open flame. We aren’t supposed to be drinking beer, either. We’re 18 and
recently graduated high school. Trenton assures me we’ll be fine and that he’s taken the
proper precautions. Cleared area, bucket of water, deep enough into the forest to evade the
police. Our night is set.
This is the last time we’ll see each other for months. I leave for college tomorrow,
the University of Iowa, and shortly after, Trenton will leave Missoula to attend Montana
State. But tonight, we’re camping among evergreens and I’m trying my best to remember
everything, to notice everything. The smell of the smoke in the air, the heat of the fire,
the underbrush, the pine needles, everything. I am brutally conscious of the fact that I
have one last good night in Montana. A small party is planned for our campfire and there
will be more people coming later, but they’re out buying hot dogs to grill, or searching for
more booze. For now, it’s just Trenton and me tending the campsite and I’m glad to have a
moment alone with him.

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY 19
 Trenton Johnson is one of my oldest friends. We met at “I can’t believe everybody’s leaving already” he says, disap-
Paxson Elementary School when we were 7. Mrs. Kadera’s pointment in his voice. “It seems too soon.”
class. Since then his looks haven’t changed much. He’s built He isn’t sad, exactly. Exasperated maybe. Finally, he sighs
sturdily, has squinty eyes, lots of freckles, and bright blond and stands up.
hair—almost white. He looks vaguely foreign and finds humor Trenton takes a Swisher Sweet cigarillo out of his back
in telling people he was adopted from Ukraine, even though pocket and snaps it in half. He offers me one half and though
he really wasn’t. Lots of people believe him, which is why he I don’t usually smoke tobacco, I take it. I smoked my first
makes the joke so frequently. cigar with Trenton, back in 2014, under a public park awning
We share no specific topic of conversation, but Trenton talks at night. There are roots in these shared Swishers, for me at
continuously as he tends the flame. He critiques his fire build- least. He hands me a lighter and I struggle for a moment before
ing skills, wonders if the hammock he’s tied up is firm enough, getting a good ember. Immediately, I choke on the harsh smoke,
explains different things he knows about the trees encircling us. but Trenton doesn’t laugh. He smiles and tells me to inhale
I make jokes, ask him questions. It’s easy to pass the time in slower. I let out a few more coughs and then take another puff,
this way. slower this time. The smoke still burns, but I manage to hold
Trenton always carries an air of contented readiness and it’s my cough. I try my best to etch the feeling into my overflow-
contagious. He makes a point out of knowing his surroundings, ing mind. One thing I know is that these half cigarillos mean a
especially when in nature. “The better you know your area, the lot to me. Whether they mean much to Trenton, I can’t tell, but
better you can use it,” he once told me. for the first time in my semi-adult life, I don’t know how long it
I learned a lot about enjoying nature from Trenton. From a will be until I’ll get another chance to see Trenton, to share a
young age he’d invite me to his father’s cabin on Elbow Lake, Swisher with him. I want to remember it as best I can.

I
which was surrounded by forest. Trenton’s father, Marty, would
look after us. Marty was a hell of a man. Tall and muscular wouldn’t smoke with Trenton again for almost a year.
with a gruff voice and kindly eyes. He often wore a leather I was back home, my freshman year at Iowa completed. I
cowboy hat. Marty owned land on Elbow Lake, a shady rural got a job working summer camps at the YMCA, check-
place about an hour from Missoula, just down the road from ing children into day camps bright and early and sharing
Stoney’s Kwik Stop. But to me as a kid, that place felt like one looks of knowing exhaustion with parents.
giant playground. Trenton’s family had snowmobiles and a Most evenings I’d drive to the outskirts of town, in search of
four-wheeler. Sometimes we’d ride them all the way around the green grass, or wildflowers, or a new riverbank on which to see
lake. We’d throw rocks and climb trees. Help Marty chop wood, the day end. Sometimes with a friend, sometimes by myself.
plow snow. In the summers, we’d sit out on the deck and play Late in June, Trenton sent me a text. A friend of his was
games of Risk late into the night. In the morning, Marty would having a house party. BYOB.
cook us monster breakfasts of corned beef hash and eggs. Then I hadn’t seen Trenton much since I came home. He was
we’d be back out in the forest with full stomachs for the day, to training to fight forest fires, like a good mountain man. I was
conquer the tire swing or mark dead trees that needed to be wrangling children, like a good modern man. We were both
chopped down before fire season. busy and communication was never our forte, so there hadn’t
Elbow Lake was a great place to learn to love nature. Life been an official reunion. I told him I’d be there.
was good there. After work, happily toting several PBRs, I met him at the
And life was good that last night in hazy Montana. It felt address.
like the beginning of something, even though it was really more Once there, our aim was figuring out the best time to leave.
of an ending. Is this going to be fun? Oh good to see you! Iowa’s been great,

S
how’s Colorado? Remember when we beat Glacier High? Wait
eemingly satisfied with the strength of the fire, oh WOW, so-and-so is here. How are you?! Do you think we’re
Trenton sits down in a folding chair. I’m comfort- going to get busted? Will the police show? Nah, probably not ...
ably leaned against a tree trunk. I wonder if but maybe ... and so on.
Trenton is nervous about starting school. If he is, I talked mostly to Trenton and Anton. We’d all played
he isn’t letting on. We share a short silence and lacrosse together in high school.
eventually he asks me if I’ve had any dates recently. I tell him Trenton was wearing his Greyback Wildland Firefighter
“No,” and that there hasn’t been much point in trying lately T-shirt, and when I asked him how his training was coming,
since I’ll be gone so soon. he was ecstatic. His older sister had been fighting wildfires for
He nods and then shakes his head. For the first time all years, and, finally of age, Trenton couldn’t wait to join her. Late
evening, his brow knits. June is early for wildfires, but there were a few burns down in

20
 SHUTTERSTOCK

M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY 21
 Utah already and Trenton hoped their crew would get called.
Contented readiness.
After about an hour the party swelled into a rager and Trenton decided
that yes, the police were going to bust the party. He told Anton and me
that he was heading out. I told him I was leaving if he was, and that I was
already drunk anyway.
Alcohol scrambles my recollection of detail, but somehow, we were
sitting on a bench at our middle school, which was nearby. Trenton had a
cigarillo with him and the three of us passed it around. I’m sure I coughed.
Trenton called or texted another friend, Curtis, and within a few minutes
he showed up with a basketball. The playground was scheduled for summer
demolition and there was orange tape and construction equipment every-
where. Only one court was available and it was the one with the plastic net
that always gets the ball stuck. We made do with what we had, though our
rebounding suffered.
I can’t tell you how long we played, or even what the teams were. I do
remember that hardly anybody could score, probably because of the alcohol.
A marathon of white-boy smack talk and overzealous crossovers. Trenton
was clearly in the best shape of all of us. He’d been carrying around 50
pounds of firefighting gear every day.
When the game was finally over, we were all drenched in sweat. I
couldn’t stop smiling. Bruises on my knees and perspiration stinging my
eyes, I felt free like I did that night we camped in the Rattlesnake. Both
nights my smiles came from the same place. A place of rooted friendship set
to the task of having fun. We’d been doing that for years. I could look for as
many wildflowers and riverbanks as I wanted, but I’d never find a place like
that.
I called out goodbye to Trenton as I departed, and told him I hoped to
see him soon, even though I knew he’d be traveling for work. With that, I
wobbled off into the darkness. Dazed and spent by alcohol and late-night
exertion, I began stretching toward my parents’ house. One more good night.

T

hat was the last time I ever saw Trenton.
Less than a month after the party, on July 19th, 2017,
Trenton Johnson would receive his second and final assign-
ment from Greyback.
It’s a quite a story, his death. Not one I care for, but inter-
esting, nevertheless. A story fitting for a folk hero, I suppose. A wildland
firefighter, clad in green and yellow. A son of Montana. Freshly home from a
burn in Utah and now on his second assignment. A day trip to Seeley Lake.
The tree branch that fell was unpredictable and everybody else got out of
the way, but Trenton didn’t make it. It happened fast, and the crew tried
hard to save him. They got him in a helicopter and he was responsive and
conscious. He didn’t make it to the hospital. He was pronounced dead in the
air.
Nineteen years old.
I don’t know what his injuries were, or what exactly killed him. But
there’s the story.
I’ve heard and told that story over and over again, each time it gets
shorter, more precise, less real. The only meaning that I can seem to wring
out of that story is this:

22
 He’s gone.
He’s been gone.
He’s going to be gone.

I
built a fire in my backyard the night he died. People came over. They
cried, they hugged, they tried to talk to each other.
At the center of them all was the fire.
It was pleasant, the fire. It served as a nice hearth for people to
cry around, but I couldn’t help but regard the flames with restrained
animosity. I wondered if anybody else drew the connection. Fire took my
friend, not God, not a mistake, not the limb that fell. Fire. And there it was,
contained in a damn metal pit from Home Depot.
There was a numbness to that first night without Trenton, things were
blurry and I can’t remember if I talked much. But I do remember what I
thought about. Of all the things to think about, I kept replaying a scene from
high school.
I’m with Trenton, we’re in his car, listening to music. Headed for Elbow
Lake.
I remember how important music was to me back then, a signifier of
things to come, a clue to what life might be like when I got older. Trenton’s
driving. It’s just us two.
I press play. Dire Straits, freshly downloaded. Their sixth album,
Brothers in Arms, one of my favorites. I want to show it to Trenton, want him
to hear it like I hear it, to get it. I’m not sure he’ll like it, but by the second
track, Money For Nothing, Trenton smiles. He’s a sucker for a good guitar
lick.
I smile back and start to sing along. The chorus isn’t too complicated,
so Trenton picks it up quickly. You kind of loosen your grip on yourself when
you’re out on the road, which makes it the perfect place for sharing things.
I remember asking him can you imagine playing guitar like that?
And I remember he replied we sure wouldn’t be here right now if we
could.

A
fter Trenton died, I had four fires in four nights. Each of
those four nights people sat with me and cried, and hugged,
and tried to talk; their faces flickered orange and red. Each
night, when finally the people left and I was alone, I’d sit
and stare at the fire. Late, late into the night until the last of
the embers were spent and black. I’d watch the flame deteriorate and vanish.
I’d pour water on it, the hot ash and metal would sizzle and then I’d feel good
for a moment. Not because I’d made any peace, or because I was suffocating
the thing that had taken Trenton from me, but because it was gone. When
you’re grieving, daytime weighs on you, it’s burdensome. Once the fire went
out, daytime was gone. Done. I’d stumble inside, undress myself and pass
out on my bed.
After a few short hours, I’d wake up and think of fire.
The smoke hadn’t yet hit Missoula when Trenton died, but a month
passed and with no rain and dry heat, it came. Slow, harsh clouds settled
into the valley and set the background of life to a dull auburn filter. Blotting
the sun, smudging the mountains and forcing its way into what was once the

SHUTTERSTOCK M O N TA N A Q U A R T E R LY 23
 territory of blue sky. Hazy. a living thing, but it certainly
The smoke came. Like a sickly wasn’t inanimate. It wanted
reminder from the heavens, food, it wanted to reproduce,
the smoke came. To burn your just as a plant or animal
throat and to make eyes red, would, except it didn’t have
to force you back inside, to a single thread of conscious-
shorten your gaze, the smoke ness. No instincts, no goals.
came. The smoke came. A villain without an ego is a
In the wake of Trenton’s horrid thing. Fire took Trenton
death I built many fires, I had from me, from everybody. It
something to watch and when was fire that led to his deploy-
the time came, something to ment that day, it was fire that
suffocate. I had a time when weakened the tree branch, fire
I could escape. I remember that brought it down on top of
I felt like I was drowning for him. There were no mistakes.
those four days and I could The blame lies with fire, so
only come up for a breath in effect there is no blame.
of air every so often. Come There is no closure with fire,
August, I was no longer drown- no victory. Even when you put
ing, but the smoke had come, it out and it’s all gone, it can
so I could still barely breathe. always come back again.
I felt a slower pain, one that Trenton Johnson
You can’t blame a fire.
crept up on me, one that would So I stared at the smolder-
spread and linger. ing flames that force fed Missoula with smoke and took away
You can’t suffocate a wildfire. our big sky, and I did my best to come to terms with the ubiqui-
I didn’t make much money the summer of 2017, though I tous natural phenomenon that took my friend from me.
really would have liked to. I didn’t go to the lake, or take a day Summers end, fires end, lives end. Then they come back,
trip to Lookout Pass, or go to an Osprey baseball game. I didn’t different from before.
go to Canada, or Oregon, or Yellowstone. I didn’t get busted by I never went back to Elbow Lake. I think Marty might have
the police at a single party. I didn’t make it with many girls. sold the cabin. He was no longer tethered to Missoula and
I didn’t finish As I Lay Dying. I didn’t do any of those things, moved north. But Elbow Lake is forever in my memory; the
but on my last night in the city of Missoula, there was a burn chores, the games, the breakfasts, the car rides. Can you imag-
in Lolo Pass and it was visible from the lower Rattlesnake, ine playing guitar like that? We sure wouldn’t be here right now
Waterworks Hill. if we could. But here we are. There we were. There will always
I went to see the flames with a few lacrosse buddies. be late night Risk games, there will always be trees to climb,
Together, we gazed at the flaring red glow burrowing itself into fires to tend and cigarillos to break in half. Trenton made a
a crook of Lolo Valley. point of knowing his surroundings and as a result he had a
It was undoubtedly romantic, the warm light shimmering deep love for them. He was a man of nature, a damned moun-
across the valley. Perhaps if the summer had been a fast and tain person.
uneventful one, I’d have sat up on Waterworks alone that late Trenton was a Missoulian, a Montanan; a mountain man
August night and speculated on my time in Montana. Maybe I from the city, struck down defending the only state he’d ever
would have been lonely, or sad, or worried, or maybe it would lived in. He died in a helicopter somewhere between Seeley
have been a night of fulfillment and warmth. But the summer of Lake and Missoula. There was no smoke in Missoula on July
2017 was not fast. It dragged on and on with one dour headlin- 19th, 2017. Not yet. Trenton Johnson died in blue sky.
ing event that infected life from all sides. That summer ended
with Trenton, fire took the rest.
Chase Koenig grew up in the slant streets of Missoula,
Yes, the fire was romantic, but I couldn’t appreciate it.
Montana. He is 21 years old and in his senior year at
Where it burned now, its flames only occasionally flaring above the University of Iowa, where he has been accepted in
the pulsing crimson and orange glow, it was painfully clear the Undergraduate Writer’s Workshop for Fall of 2019.
that it was still just a goddamn fire. Friction and fuel, like the His work has appeared in Iowa’s undergraduate review
lighter in my pocket. It had no motives or vendettas. It wasn’t Earthwords.

24
PROUD SPONSOR OF THE BIG SNOWY PRIZE
Recognizing Excellence by Young Writers

Ledger art uses reclaimed financial and legal documents to tell the stories
of Native Americans. In this case, a plea for Yellowstone grizzlies appears on the
1895 Treasurer’s Record of Taxes for Silverbow County, Montana.

“You can use art of any form to heal the hurt and pain.”

ALAINA BUFFALO SPIRIT