{"id":1788,"date":"2018-12-11T23:55:34","date_gmt":"2018-12-11T23:55:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2018\/12\/11\/how-film-class-led-to-wildfires-which-led-to-finding-home-which-led-to-a-cinematic-essay\/"},"modified":"2024-03-05T16:00:43","modified_gmt":"2024-03-05T16:00:43","slug":"how-film-class-led-to-wildfires-which-led-to-finding-home-which-led-to-a-cinematic-essay","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2018\/12\/11\/how-film-class-led-to-wildfires-which-led-to-finding-home-which-led-to-a-cinematic-essay\/","title":{"rendered":"How film class led to fighting wildfires which led to finding a home which led to a memoir"},"content":{"rendered":" \n
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\n I<\/span>n a full-circle illustration of the way life sometimes imitates art, screenwriting led Sarah Berns to smokejumping. Then smokejumping led to a cinematic memoir, written with a director\u2019s eye and the architecture of a screenplay.

\u201cWhen I went to college I fell in love with film, and I knew early on I wanted to make a senior film thesis,\u201d Berns says. \u201cAt the time, they were still shot on 16 mm film \u2013 which is expensive.\u201d

To finance and produce her film (a character drama), Berns searched for jobs that paid the most amount of money in the shortest amount of time. Wildland firefighting popped up. Berns had to work up the courage to explain her plan to her mentor, Jeanine Basinger, chair of the film studies department at Wesleyan University.

\u201cShe said, \u2018I think that\u2019s great. When you\u2019re done fighting fire, you\u2019ll actually have something to write about,\u2019\u201d Berns recalls.

A<\/span>nd so she did. After years of writing around the experience, and being written about<\/a>, Berns\u2019 searing first-person tale \u00a0\u201cFinding Home in the West \u2013 by Smokejumping\u201d<\/a> was published last month in Outside Online.

In the early days of her adventure, Berns had planned to spend a few years as a seasonal smokejumper with the U.S. Forest Service, then return to a career in film. But by the time she met her future husband on a fire, she had already fallen in love with the West. Berns stayed, and now manages a family ranch in a small valley town in Washington\u2019s North Cascades<\/a>. She continued writing screenplays, sorting out storylines and building characters in her mind while her hands were busy cutting firewood, driving a tractor or washing dishes.

\"\"<\/a>
Freelancer, ranch manager and former smokejumper Sarah Berns<\/figcaption><\/figure>

Berns has been a finalist for the Sundance Screenwriter\u2019s Lab<\/a> three times, but the \u201cFinding Home\u201d essay was her first time writing narrative nonfiction. After working on it, on and off, for two years, she wasn\u2019t satisfied. \u201cIt skimmed big questions, and there was no catharsis,\u201d Berns says. \u201cEvery time I finished reading the essay, I was left with more questions, rather than satisfying answers.\u201d

There were few resources in her remote mountain town: No master classes, no organized writing community. So Berns reached out to a friend-of-a-friend, Nieman fellow (and Storyboard contributor) Jennifer McDonald,<\/a> seeking editorial guidance. Through a long-distance email exchange, McDonald coached Berns through some tough questions; they went back and forth for months, probing for emotion, rearranging scenes and polishing.

\u201cShe said the smokejumping firefighting parts were alive with energy and drew her in,\u201d Berns says. \u201cBut the reflective parts were timid. I was not diving deep \u2013 just skimming the top. She had an excellent way of receiving what I did and pushing for more.\u201d

By the time Berns submitted the story to Outside, it was solid. \u201cI worked with her to whittle it down a bit, but it was in excellent shape when it got to me,\u201d says Erin Berger, a senior editor at Outside.<\/a> \u201cSo my role was mainly chopping stuff and asking some clarifying questions.\u201d

Ultimately, though, the success of this piece hinges on Berns\u2019 ability to translate her screenwriting skills to narrative nonfiction. Look closely at the architecture of the piece: like movies and plays, it has a three-act structure.

\u201cScreenwriting is incredibly structured, which is one of the reasons a lot of writers don\u2019t like it,\u201d says Berns, who recommends Blake Snyder\u2019s Save the Cat<\/a> as a good primer for anyone interested in learning about screenplay structure. \u201cIt was a road map,\u201d she says. \u201cAnd the only map that I had.\u201d

Storyboard spoke to Berns about the multi-year process of writing this piece, and how she drew on her study of screenplays to write her first nonfiction narrartive. We start with a few set-up questions, then dive into an annotation of the full piece.<\/em>

 

Y<\/span>ou hook us immediately with the cinematic scene of your first jump. \u00a0Then the story turns away from being about smokejumping to being about the search for acceptance. When and how was the decision made about the central theme of the story?<\/strong>

Over the last decade, I\u2019ve been learning the craft of screenwriting. I spend every free moment reading scripts, studying films, or writing screenplays. I tried to use what I\u2019ve learned about writing movies in this essay. The opening scene is an invitation to the reader. It\u2019s my way of extending a hand and asking, \u201cWould you like to come along on this ride with me?\u201d

The spine of the story always centered around being a girl in a guy\u2019s world. Then, during the revision process the piece took a hard turn and became an essay about something more.

My years working in fire were transformative. While my peers were in graduate school or climbing corporate and creative ladders, I was covered in dirt. Year after year, I opted back in for another season, another crew, another challenge. And yet it wasn\u2019t until I was out of fire that I had enough perspective to dig back in and examine what I had experienced and why I craved those experiences. Looking back, I\u2019m grateful that I was pushed to my physical and emotional limits \u2013 but I continued to wonder why I chose that path.

 

Y<\/span>ou braided cinematic scenes with backstory\/summary in a way that deftly controlled the pacing of the narrative. What was your strategy for structuring the piece? <\/strong>

Confession: I love outlining.

I made a map of the entire essay before I started because I wanted to know where each scene turned before I wrote a single word. For my first draft, I laid out the 15 beats of a film on a piece of paper and tried to massage my Forest Service years into the beats. Half of that flew out the window during editing and revision, but I needed those anchor points to begin. I wanted the opening scene of the essay to grab the reader\u2019s attention, set the tone, and establish the stakes. I aimed to invite the reader on an action-packed ride and hoped that the dangling questions throughout would serve as a breadcrumb trail to keep the reader engaged.

I tried to make the reader care enough about my character to wonder if I jumped (part of the reason I broke that opening scene up) and to be curious about the question I originally pose: Is it possible to be one of the guys, when I\u2019m a girl? \u00a0<\/em>

The pacing choices were also made in an attempt to keep the reader in suspense about the lead while also providing some quiet, tender moments. I deliberately slowed down the scene where my grandmother takes me to the train station to leave for my first summer working in fire. I know from screenwriting that the audience needs moments to breathe. The only real movement in that scene is when I kiss her on the cheek. It\u2019s subtle and gentle, but it also stays on the spine of a story about an individual searching for acceptance, for a place she feels at home.

 

Y<\/span>ou reveal yourself in the piece as someone who is both bold and na\u00efve. How did you make decisions about how you were cast and might be perceived? <\/strong>

Interesting protagonists must be flawed and I have no shortage of weaknesses. It was important to show that I struggled and to describe myself as an outlier in this new world. There has to be change, metamorphosis, an arc \u2013 whatever you want to call it \u2013 for a story to be dramatic. I\u2019m not saying it was easy to describe myself as frail and weak, but it was honest and raw.

I think the more a writer can reveal about their own character flaws, the more the reader trusts them. I\u2019ve been surprised by the number of people who read my story and saw themselves. They\u2019ll start by saying something like, \u201cWell, I wasn\u2019t a smokejumper but I did \u2026 (this thing that scared them.)\u201d It\u2019s always the thing that pushed them out of their comfort zones that ultimately defined who they are now.

The through line in the essay is about my experience working for the Forest Service and smokejumping. But on a deeper level, the reader understands that I\u2019m trying to figure out my own ideas about femininity and figure out my motivations for wanting to be a smokejumper. I\u2019m examining the cultural expectations I pushed against. I\u2019m trying to figure out why proving myself to others and to myself is important. I believe that those themes are universal.

 

W<\/span>hat kind of response have you received to the story? <\/strong>

There\u2019s something in this story that readers connect to emotionally. I didn\u2019t necessarily anticipate that. I loved getting a positive email from a smokejumper who worked in the \u201860s who admitted he had a lot of respect for female jumpers. Another favorite response came from a military vet who told me he felt like he was back \u201cin the door\u201d during his read.

But I also got a teary-toned text from a father who explained that all he wants for his daughters is for them to find a place in this world where they feel like they truly belong. \u00a0Both women and men have reached out to tell me about their own journeys to find new homes for themselves.

Reckoning with the idea that home isn\u2019t always where you\u2019re born \u2013 that it\u2019s often a place you need to discover \u2013 resonates with lots of people.

 

The annotation:<\/strong>\u00a0Storyboard\u2019s questions are in red; Berns\u2019 responses in blue. To read the story without annotations, click the \u2018Hide all annotations\u2019 button, which you\u2019ll find just below the social media buttons in the top right-hand menu, or at the top of your mobile screen.<\/em>

 

FINDING HOME IN THE WEST \u2013 BY SMOKEJUMPING<\/a><\/strong>

By Sarah Berns<\/em>

Outside Online, November 2018<\/em>

 

\"\"<\/a>
Wildfire in the Mountain West<\/figcaption><\/figure>

F<\/span>irst, the smell: Inside the jump plane, it\u2019s Jet-A fuel mingled with stale sweat and fresh chewing tobacco.

<\/a>The piece starts with a scene in medias res, written in the present tense. You then switch to past tense for all other scenes, including the ending, in which your present-day self is reflecting back upon the journey. However, when you return to this scene in the middle of the story, you return to present tense. It’s an unexpected arrangement, but it works. Can you talk about why you chose to do it this way?<\/span>

The opening jump scene becomes a frame for the deeper investigation. The jump was always in the present tense in order to give the reader a visceral, first-person experience. I wanted the audience to come along on my ride \u2013 to feel as if they were standing in the door with me. In a movie, you need the audience to buy into the story, to invest and care about the lead as quickly as possible. It only seemed natural to write the opener as if I were shooting it from my own perspective. The details I share are what I see with my own eyes (the jumper crossing himself, the view out the door, the things I smelled, the way my body felt) but I didn\u2019t describe the way I looked in the plane. The reader isn\u2019t seeing me as part of the scene; they\u2019re seeing the scene through my point-of-view.<\/span>

Sometimes I think about story structure in colors. In this essay, I always saw the jump scene in color while the body of the essay shifted from black-and-white to various shades of blue or green depending on what was happening (action or reflection). The jump isn\u2019t a bookend to the essay because what happens at the end of the sequence is complicated. I do the thing I\u2019m afraid to do (goal: jump), gain the thing I\u2019m desperately seeking (stakes: acceptance) but I don\u2019t feel whole. The opening jump naturally felt like the perfect way to show the irony of my situation in an entertaining and engaging way.<\/span><\/span>

 

Then, the fire: 1,500 feet above the forest floor, cramped between Kevlar and parachutes, we jostle for a view of our wildfire. I lean toward the smokejumper on my right. \u201cAre we really gonna jump this?\u201d

\u201cLooks like the spot I broke my back last summer,\u201d he says. The smokejumper to my left eyes the ground below and crosses himself. His lips move silently.

\u201cCan you pray for me, too?\u201d I whisper.

\u201cAre you baptized?\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m Jewish.\u201d

<\/a>You allude throughout the piece to your Jewish faith. Why was it important for the reader to know this about you? Was it one more thing that set you apart from your colleagues?<\/span> I was raised in a reform Jewish family in suburban Massachusetts. I went to Hebrew School and became a bat mitzvah. This concise conversation tells a lot of information. I think it\u2019s a nutrient-dense moment which shows the stakes of the jump while simultaneously establishing where I came from and how different I was from the jumpers around me.<\/span><\/span>

 

He nods. \u201cGood enough for today.\u201d

I look down at the jump spot, a slender ridge filled with chiseled boulders and dead, brittle standing trees. Sweat gathers beneath my breasts, in the bends of my arms. Panicked questions pulse in my head: Will I miss the ridge? Crash through snags? Break my back? Or just a leg?<\/em>

The only thing I do know is that if I refuse to jump, I won\u2019t get another chance. Smokejumpers don\u2019t turn down fires because the jump scares them\u2014it always scares them, and they jump anyway.

I\u2019ve fought wildfires for years but completed smokejumper rookie training only months ago. I\u2019ve never spoken the words aloud: I am a smokejumper. Because when I look in the mirror, I don\u2019t see a smokejumper staring back. I see me, wondering if it\u2019s possible to be one of the guys when I\u2019m a girl.

 

B<\/span>rad Pitt introduced me to smokejumping. When he starred in A River Runs Through It<\/em>, about fly-fishing brothers Paul and Norman Maclean growing up in early 20th-century Montana, I was a Wayland High School sophomore living in the Boston suburbs. Initially, I was drawn to the film by the prospect of seeing Brad \u2013 the soft light reflecting off his high cheekbones, river water beading above his rakish grin. But after the movie, it was Robert Redford\u2019s narration that echoed in my head. The way he said \u201cMontana\u201d felt more spiritual than the way our rabbi chanted the blessing \u201cShalom Rav.\u201d

I left the movie theater on Route 9 in Framingham, Massachusetts, no longer smitten with Brad but with the permanent golden hour of the West. I didn\u2019t want to dance with a handsome Maclean brother. I wanted to be<\/em> a brother, to run through conifer forests and float down the deadly river myself<\/em>.

<\/a>Was this a subtle way of addressing a reader who might be wondering if you’re gay or straight? Or was it more about romanticizing the West?<\/span> I wasn\u2019t really interested in how the reader perceived my sexual orientation. Clearly I\u2019m interested in gender and gender non-conforming roles. But the description of going to see A River Runs Through It<\/em> was a candid, honest tale of being (literally) turned on \u2026 to the West by crushing on Mr. Pitt.<\/span><\/span>

 

I wanted to go to university out West, but my parents extinguished that dream, insisting that their only daughter stay closer to them. I relented and was proud to be admitted to a college back east with an essay that began, \u201cSometimes I wish I were a boy.\u201d

My freshman year, researching summer jobs that paid the most over the shortest period of time, I found myself drawn back to the West.

I was going to fight fires in a seasonal job with the U.S. Forest Service. When my parents asked about my summer plans, I lied and told them that I\u2019d gotten a job cleaning campgrounds in Washington.

\u201cDoesn\u2019t sound very appealing to me,\u201d my father said, without looking away from a Red Sox game on the television. My mother said she couldn\u2019t take me to the train station\u2014her way of showing she disapproved.

My grandmother ended up taking me to Boston\u2019s South Station. When we hugged goodbye, I clung to her cashmere sweater, inhaled her Chanel perfume.

\u201cThis is a ridiculous notion,\u201d she said. \u201cGo get this wild scheme out of your system so you can\u2026\u201d Her commanding voice faltered. I kissed her on the cheek and finished her sentence in my head: So that you can come back east and marry a nice Jewish (doctor, financier, choose your own respectable profession).<\/em>

My first day as a USFS firefighter, I picked up a tool I didn\u2019t recognize that looked like an ax-hoe hybrid. \u201cThat\u2019s your Pulaski,\u201d said Steve, the crew boss. \u201cSharpen it. Oil it. Don\u2019t lose it.\u201d

I nodded, trying to convince myself: I can do this. <\/em>That summer, I hiked through the Okanogan National Forest clutching my Pulaski in one hand, spilling fire out of my drip torch with the other, for a prescribed burn. While the aluminum canister full of mixed fuel dropped fire on the ground, I chuckled to myself: I\u2019m lighting the forest on fire and getting paid more than everyone I know who\u2019s temping in Manhattan!<\/em>

It became clear that I was the lowliest grunt on my 20-person crew. The work required a virtual dictionary full of terms I\u2019d never heard before: direct line, hose line, face cut, Jesus clip, pack test, red pack, yellow pine, serotinous pine. I struggled to become fluent in this new language. I fought fire for 21-day stretches, sharpened my Pulaski, and ate MREs with an ash-stained smile.

<\/a>Such a telling image in seven hard-working words. What informs your curation of details? What’s your litmus test for what to put in, and what to leave out?<\/span> It\u2019s interesting\u2013 the phrase you highlighted \u2013 ate MREs with an ash-stained smile<\/em> \u2013 has been in the essay for years. Screenwriting is all about being concise. You have 110 pages to tell your story, so every word takes up precious real estate. When I look at a singular sentence I am always looking at it with an eye to make it leaner. My goal is always to try and figure out how much can I convey in the shortest amount of space. If I can relay pertinent information in only a few words and it still sounds good to my ears, then it can stay.<\/span>

I grew up in a home with a lot of books and was raised by a mother who cared about words, rhythm and sentences. In a draft of this essay I had a line that went like this: I took advantage of my mother\u2019s most liberal rule: If you can procure it, then you may read it. \u00a0<\/em>My mom has a Ph.D in comparative literature and dozens of memorized poems that she sifts through when she describes a certain feeling or mood. I\u2019ve never formally studied poetry or writing, but I like to think that my ear has been trained through osmosis.<\/span><\/span>

 

Driving up Washington\u2019s Methow Valley after a three-week tour on large fires in Oregon, I watched the topography outside the government truck wind and turn along the river. The terrain felt familiar by now. My cheeks flushed, and I smiled to see it. The only other time I\u2019d felt this way about a place was upon returning to my childhood home. For a moment, the feeling embarrassed me, as if I were betraying a first love, falling fast and hard for this beauty I\u2019d just met.

By the end of fire season, I had a bank account in the West full of fire money and was hell-bent on buying my first vehicle to drive back to school. Not just any vehicle: a truck. Owning a truck was like a badge of honor that said \u201cbehind this wheel sits a westerner.\u201d

On our day off, Steve, my crew boss, offered to take me to the Colville Indian Reservation to buy a truck from his friend. I nodded my head and mumbled aloud, \u201cReally?\u201d Why would my crew boss, who typically spoke to me only in orders, give up his sacred day off to help?

On the drive over Loup Loup Pass, he stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. Finally, he said, \u201cYou don\u2019t want to be broke down. By yourself and all.\u201d Then he pulled his baseball cap low over his eyes, and we continued on in silence.

In a 1984 burgundy Chevy pickup, I drove back east with Washington state plates. When I reached the Connecticut River, I began to cry. I downshifted, hoping that if I drove more slowly, I wouldn\u2019t ever make it back to school. That summer, for the first time in my life, I had felt what it was like to be part of a crew that chose to look out for one another.

<\/a>This was a really interesting moment in the story, because you could interpret his comment in two very different ways. Was this a nod of acceptance, his own gruff way of showing you that he cared? Or was he being slightly paternalistic, intimating that a woman might need a man’s protection. You leave it up to the reader to decide, at least for a few beats…then you answer the question. What made you set it up and play it out this way?<\/span>This moment mimics a lot of what I felt during my fire-fighting years. Countless times someone would say something or do something and I wasn\u2019t really sure where they were coming from \u2013 was this person being helpful or hurtful, constructive or condescending?\u00a0I like that the reader gets a taste of my own POV in this moment. But for me, while the drive was happening, I knew that Steve cared about my well-being and that it was a struggle for him to articulate that emotion. I had spent the season running chainsaws with him and firefighting by his side, so I never thought he perceived me as incapable. If anything, this moment was chosen to show another version of brotherly love. I adore my own brothers, but neither of them would have ever taken me to buy a car.<\/span><\/span>

 

F<\/span>or the next six fire seasons, I tried to keep up and fit in. Can\u2019t hike as fast? Fine, I\u2019ll work longer. <\/em>Someone offered me a pinch of chew? Sure, I\u2019ll take it. <\/em>The harder the goal \u2013 helicopter rappeller to crew boss to smokejumper \u2013 the better. My first season rappelling out of helicopters, I was the only female crew member<\/a>. Sometimes I was the only woman for 100 square miles. We hopscotched from Washington to Oregon to Nevada, flew over open pit mines, slept in the dirt, dug hot fire line, and drank for free in dark casino lobbies. When my crew invited me to a whorehouse, I didn\u2019t hesitate. Hell, yeah.<\/em>

<\/a>You’re very specific about some locations in the piece, but vague about the location of the brothel. Is there a reason you chose to be vague here?<\/span>I like place names and use them frequently enough so that the reader knows roughly where we are. But this piece is also my version of a love letter to the West. And in order to address the West as a whole I didn\u2019t want to get too bogged down in geography. The choice to only highlight some specific locations is also consistent with the life of a wildland firefighter. We move around frequently \u2013 especially aerial delivered firefighters. In a day, you can bounce from forest to forest and cross state lines without ever realizing it. Here, the reader knows we\u2019re in Nevada (We hopscotched from Washington to Oregon to Nevada, flew over open pit mines, slept in the dirt, dug hot fire line, and drank for free in dark casino lobbies.<\/em>) I didn\u2019t think that telling exactly where was pertinent.<\/span><\/span>

 

A woman in her late fifties opened the door, wearing a practiced smile. She was thin, without makeup or style, a nearly invisible woman. She ushered my crew into the brothel. Behind her, women lined up in transparent nightgowns. \u201cCome in. Don\u2019t be shy,\u201d the madam repeated. Then she saw me. \u201cNot. You.\u201d

I froze.

\u201cNo women allowed. House rules.\u201d

A set of keys flew through the air and smacked my open palm. \u201cThere\u2019s a six-pack in the truck,\u201d our helicopter pilot told me. The madam escorted me out. The sun was setting, amber light washed over the cul de sac of brothels, but Brad Pitt was nowhere to be seen.

<\/a>This is so cinematic! What else have you learned from screenwriting that’s useful in narrative nonfiction?<\/span>Screenwriting has given me the tools to write a line of action that clearly directs the reader to see a movement exactly the way I want them to see it. You are literally designing where the camera goes while simultaneously telling a story. In this sentence, the camera tracks the keys as they move through the air \u2013\u00a0it\u2019s a moving close-up as opposed to a stagnant establishing shot. Using this style in narrative non-fiction seemed like an interesting way to direct the reader and to inform their vision.<\/span><\/span>

 

Soon, men who arrived at the parking lot started to ask me, \u201cAre you working?\u201d I had never thought until this moment that to the outside world, perhaps to everyone but me, I was female first. Being just one of the guys \u2013 being a brother \u2013seemed impossible.

<\/a>This is a major defining moment. Nothing has changed except your perception of the world \u2013 that is, how the world perceives you. It’s an echo of what your grandmother said to you at the train station. What were your thoughts on point of view as you saw yourself through the eyes of others?<\/span>Part of the challenge writing this piece was that while I struggled on many levels during my USFS career, I also had fantastic experiences. I\u2019m great friends with many of my fire-fighting colleagues. I married a smokejumper. These people are part of what makes me feel at home in the West. It took me some time to embrace the complexities of a multi-dimensional experience and believe that the reader would trust a character who was straddling two different perspectives. So here I circle back to the ideas that my grandmother left me with \u2013that I will always be (just) a woman in a man\u2019s world. To her this means belong to a man. To me, it means blazing my own way. Both points of view somehow coexist in this single moment.<\/span><\/span>

 

D<\/span>ays later, we rappelled a fire in Oregon\u2019s Strawberry Mountain Wilderness, four of us versus a wind-driven wildfire that grew from one acre to ten in half an hour. We dug direct line and called for retardant. An air tanker dropped a full load of red slurry. We tied our line into the anchor point, cheered, and slapped one another\u2019s shoulders. That\u2019s when I slipped on retardant and my Pulaski came to a stop\u2014in my leg.

I looked down at my now-red leather boot and wondered: retardant or blood?<\/em> I yanked the ax from my leather boot and felt an enormous volume of liquid rushing out: definitely blood<\/em>.

I hobbled off the fire and hiked to the nearest road (which wasn\u2019t near) to catch a ride into the town of John Day and argue with a nurse.

\u201cNo, you cannot cut off my boot.\u201d

I explained that it would take weeks to break in another boot. But what I was really thinking was: I\u2019m not going to let this accident take me out of my own competition.<\/em>

The nurse and I had reached a stalemate when the rappel base manager arrived. I was mortified to see him. I am not that weak, clumsy girl. Not me, not today.<\/em> I turned to him.

\u201cWill you pull off my boot?\u201d

<\/a>Throughout the story you use internal and external dialogue, often contrasting the two to great effect. It creates tension and reflects the internal conflict within you. Any tips for when to use this narrative device? And when to avoid it? Can it be overdone?<\/span>Yes, it can be overdone. Erin Berger, my editor at Outside, did a great job of calling me out on using this device too frequently. I am constantly rehashing events and conversation in my own head, so writing this way feels totally natural to me. The internal dialogue is my true voice \u2013 it\u2019s the way I talk, negotiate and process with myself. My inner voice is often at odds with what I\u2019m doing physically or saying aloud. This is the way I navigate the world.<\/span><\/span>

 

He looked to the nurse, who clutched her scissors. The nurse shrugged. He placed his hands on my boot and counted to three. Then he gave a swift, violent tug.

The three of us stared through the slice in my blood-soaked tube socks, into the gaping ravine in my flesh. Blood splattered onto the white linoleum floor. \u201cI\u2019ll go get some folks to stitch you up,\u201d the nurse said. What pain I felt was numbed by the relief that I hadn\u2019t passed out. Or, god forbid, cried.

 

B<\/span>ack in the plane during my first jump season, we orbit our wildfire and eye that slender ridge. The spotter yells my last name over the prop wash.

<\/a>Switching back to the present tense here effectively brings us back to the opening scene. Was this a choice you made from the start, or later, during the editing and revision?<\/span>I always wanted to use the present tense for the opening and again when I circle back inside the jump plane. It was tricky to make the tense shift fluid, without jarring the reader, while simultaneously making it clear enough that the reader recognized the shift. I wanted readers back with me in the plane, seeing and hearing with me. And of course, I wanted to take them OUT the door with me. Standing in the open door of an airplane 1,500 feet above mountainous terrain, knowing that you must fly yourself to a tiny opening in the forest canopy \u2013 it\u2019s a very specific feeling. I wagered that if the reader came with me, then perhaps they\u2019d feel more invested in my journey.<\/span><\/span>

 

It\u2019s my seventh season in fire, but most days, I\u2019m still the slowest runner and hiker. I wear the labels: frailest and weakest. In my head, I keep a list of the people who doubt me. When my legs burn and my blisters bleed, I hear each one of them taunting me: I knew you\u2019d wash out.<\/em>

\"\"<\/a>
A US Forest Service smokejumper parachutes to work somewhere in the West<\/figcaption><\/figure>

In the jump plane, I move carefully under the oppressive weight of my gear. When I stand in front of the open airplane door, I know the spotter sees the fraud in me. He barks, \u201cDo you see the spot?\u201d

I don\u2019t dare glance down at the parachutes of the previous jumpers, now tangled in the snags. I look at the horizon. \u201cYes.\u201d

\u201cDo you have any questions?\u201d

I scream to myself: What the fuck are you doing?<\/em>

\u201cNo.\u201d I answer confidently.

\u201cGet in the door,\u201d he commands. Then he slaps my shoulder.

I throw my entire being into the void. The noise of the plane fades. Ground and sky blur. My static line tightens, the chute opens. Free of the plane, the world is absolutely quiet. My senses rack to focus. I toggle the parachute, making adjustments as the earth, and every hazard on it, rushes toward me.

I touch down in the middle of the jump spot, miss every rock, clear all the trees. I hear cheers before I unclip my parachute. Jumpers who have never looked me in the eye approach with arms in the air, palms open. High-fives all around. The sound of acceptance.

<\/a>Was this moment of acceptance a full-on illusion? Or was it more of a false summit, a brief and fleeting milestone on a much longer journey?<\/span> Back to screenwriting: This is my midpoint. It was roughly halfway through the essay (when I started) and it\u2019s where we see the \u201chero\u201d or lowly me as I truly am. In this essay, it\u2019s a beat that cements the idea that no matter how I act or how well I fit in, I may always feel like an outsider.\u00a0It\u2019s a false victory because I get everything I THINK I want. I\u2019m seen by my peer group. I momentarily try on a new identity (could I look in the mirror and call myself a jumper now?) For me the stakes are raised at this point since I don\u2019t back down and accept that I\u2019ll never really be one of the guys. I keep going. And then the obstacles keep escalating, they keep mounting up in my way. First, I cut my leg, then I break my pelvis. There are moments in between where it appears that I\u2019ve found what I\u2019m looking for, but they\u2019re fleeting.<\/span><\/span>

 

Then, as quick as it came, the moment\u2019s gone. The jumpers fade into the dark timber, searching for our wildfire. I\u2019m alone in the jump spot, apart from my crew. Wait, wasn\u2019t this supposed to be the grand finale? But I can\u2019t hear the music swell.

 

I<\/span> double down, commit to another season, jump more fires. I\u2019m so desperate to prove I belong that when a parachute oscillation slams me into a clearcut and forces my femur into my pelvis, I don\u2019t say a word. I lie still, eyes closed, until another jumper kicks my boot and says, \u201cYou dyin\u2019?\u201d

I laugh, trying to make light of my inaction. He\u2019s not amused. \u201cLet\u2019s head on up to the fire.\u201d It\u2019s not an invitation.

I manage, \u201cI\u2019m not sure. Something doesn\u2019t feel right.\u201d

\u201cFor fuck\u2019s sake, Berns. If you\u2019re the last one in the spot, carry all the parachute gear.\u201d

\u201cSure thing.\u201d Anything for a few seconds on the ground, unmoving.

After carrying everyone\u2019s parachute gear through acres of logging slash, I pace up and down a game trail, hoping the pain in my hip will cease. I walk because I\u2019m terrified that if I stop moving, everything I\u2019ve sweated for, everything I\u2019ve yearned for, will also end. A broken pelvis proves that I\u2019m fragile. Feminine.<\/em>

Then it hits me\u2014right there on a burning mountainside in Montana. Maybe acceptance by the crew isn\u2019t the thing I\u2019m after. Acceptance is a finicky friend: One day, it\u2019s here (hey, have a chew, I\u2019ll help you buy a truck, high-fives, come rafting with us). The next, it\u2019s gone (you don\u2019t deserve to be here, this is always going to hurt, deal with the pain and shut the fuck up). What I\u2019ve been searching for, I now see, is something bigger than acceptance, bigger than smokejumping, bigger than proving I can be one of the guys.

<\/a>This is the defining moment of the story, an a-ha moment of clarity. It might seem almost too “pat” if it weren’t for the surprising twist that follows… Was this the original structure of the story, or did you end up moving things around?<\/span> From the end of the jump sequence up to my broken pelvis is like a running cave scene. It\u2019s an \u201call is lost\u201d moment, where I\u2019m as far away from my goal as possible. I\u2019ve hit rock bottom. In an early draft this was the end of the essay, and my final line was: I go to a doctor a few days later and he confirms what I already knew: that I was broken and being a smokejumper would never heal me. <\/em>A bit darker than the way the essay now ends. I realized I hadn\u2019t found satisfying resolution in the piece. I needed a third act in order to complete the journey.<\/span><\/span>

 

T<\/span>hat night at the brothel, after I\u2019d been abandoned, I didn\u2019t stay in the parking lot. I wandered around to the back of a different brothel and rang the doorbell on the gate. A woman with dark, soft curls appeared, cradling the day\u2019s mail in her arm.

<\/a>The night at the brothels might have been one scene, but you chose to split it into two scenes \u2013 separated by a brief diversion (a scene from the following day) \u2013 to great effect. The story really pivots here and delivers a delightful surprise scene, but also some poignant realizations. Talk about why you chose this structure.<\/span> The brothel scene is a perfect example of Jen McDonald\u2019s expertise<\/a>. Originally the scene ended with me in the parking lot, bathed in amber light looking for Brad Pitt. Jen asked hard questions: Why was I there? What did I need to prove? She wanted to know what happened after the parking lot. I added the rest of my evening in the brothel kitchen to the essay because of her prompting. Jen then suggested breaking this scene up. She was right. We circled back to the sequence when it takes an unexpected turn and used that to elevate the narrative.<\/span><\/span>

 

\u201cWhat can I do you for?\u201d she asked, without judgment or care.

I asked if she had any openings. Not a serious inquiry, of course. But I\u2019d say anything to get away from the leering men outside. Her doe eyes traveled expertly down my body, over my sweat-stained T-shirt and crumpled Levi\u2019s. I slipped my hands into my pockets, afraid she\u2019d see the ash etched into each crease of my skin, the dirt under my fingernails. She unlocked the gate, and I followed her into the kitchen. Around a huge wooden table sat a half-dozen women.

Doe Eyes placed her mail on the counter and introduced me by saying, \u201cShe wants a job.\u201d

Immediately, a chair was pulled out. The women shouted out their names. I smiled and introduced myself. The room was kinetic, women entering and leaving constantly. Some wore bathrobes; others were in jogging gear. Someone tossed an oven mitt into the air. \u201cYour turn!\u201d A woman tightened her ponytail and used the mitt to open the stove. Inside, baked potatoes cooked in orderly rows.

<\/a>There had to be so many interesting details you observed in the brothel. Why did you choose these?<\/span>I described the scene in the kitchen as I remembered it \u2013 friendly, full of warmth, nearly exchangeable with many of the times I\u2019ve sat around various tables sharing meals with dear friends. Outside\u00a0wanted total clarification on this scene. They wanted the reader to understand that I wasn\u2019t really<\/em> looking to change careers. It was equally important to me to show that I was grateful for what these women gave me \u2013 safety, protection, friendship. I truly appreciated these women and hope that the general tone of the essay communicates that feeling.<\/span><\/span>

 

\u201cMy sister\u2019s name is Sarah,\u201d said a woman with a brown crew cut. \u201cDo you have an H at the end?\u201d

I laughed, nodded that I did. Crew Cut asked if I wanted a potato, and my mouth immediately filled with saliva. A steaming-hot baker appeared in front of me, a full spread of fixings right behind. I piled on slabs of butter, fresh chives, and bacon (don\u2019t tell my rabbi). I took a deep breath and inhaled the aroma of the warm, welcoming kitchen.

The sex workers and I settled down to the table. Together, we ate and chatted. My formal interview consisted of a sideways question about my first trick. I finished chewing and pulled from every prostitute scene I\u2019d read and watched\u2014told them a fictitious five-minute story about giving a blow job in Central Park. Perhaps it was the details I tossed around (green paisley tie, creased leather shoes, Old Spice, and instant coffee) or the foreign locale, or maybe they believed me because\u2014well, why wouldn\u2019t they? These women welcomed me without pretense\u2014something for which I\u2019m eternally grateful\u2014and I told them a simple story they\u2019d heard a thousand times.

<\/a>Did you struggle over whether to admit this? Did you worry that readers would judge you for telling them a fictitious story, or that one of the women would read this and find out the truth?<\/span>I struggled up until the last moment with this line. I wrote and deleted emails to Erin Berger, my editor at Outside<\/a>, about taking this line out. And with good reason. My own mother told me that reading the essay was horribly painful \u2013 and it took her three weeks to say that.<\/span>

Ultimately, I felt like I told a white lie in order to stay with these women \u2013 which felt a whole lot safer than out in the parking lot. The way the scene reads it seems like I had a brief snack with them, but in reality I spent the entire night in the house. We talked at great length and they invited me on a private tour of the house. There was only mutual respect and kindness between us. There was no malice in what I told them.<\/span>

Readers seem to appreciate the fact that I admit I made mistakes and questionable decisions in my 20s. We\u2019ve all made bad choices at some point, and the decision to air my own were not made lightly. But I also feel like this experience was uniquely mine. The turns that took me inside this brothel were my own,\u00a0and they not only show who I was at that time, but also shaped who I am today. All of life\u2019s tiny, gorgeous and grueling moments make us individuals, and if we only share the beautiful beats, then we\u2019re not being honest. We\u2019re not being human.<\/span><\/span>

 

In return, they told me about their \u201creal\u201d jobs (paralegal, mom), their dreams (a PhD, home ownership), their relationships (boyfriends, husbands). I talked with the women until my friend burst into the room. The ladies shouted at him to leave, but he searched the gathered faces, panicked, until he saw me.

\u201cBerns! I\u2019ve been looking everywhere for you!\u201d

I stammered, \u201cThis is my\u2026brother.\u201d

He backed me up. \u201cYup, she\u2019s my sister.\u201d

<\/a>I missed this on the first read, but on the second it stood out as a subtle but profound moment: in the midst of the awkwardness and confusion, you call him “brother” and he responds in kind. How does this moment of acceptance compare on the spectrum of authenticity to the moment you just had with the women?<\/span>My buddy who came looking for me that night is a dear friend. We rookied together on our helicopter rappel crew. I\u2019ve stayed with his parents. I went to his wedding. I know his wife and his children. Of all the guys I worked with he feels the most like a brother to me, a true friend. This beat where I introduce him was so spontaneous that it wasn\u2019t until writing the essay that I became fully aware of the beautiful irony of our exchange. I sent him a draft of this essay and openly asked for his feedback. It was very important to me that he was onboard with being a character in the story.<\/span><\/span>

 

My buddy, for the record, is Latino. I\u2019m not. And I don\u2019t know anyone who calls their sibling by their last name. <\/a>(If you want a moment of humor I could add that the only edit my buddy suggested was that instead of being labeled Latino, he wanted to be described as a \u201cbarrel chested Chilean God of Thunder.)<\/span><\/span>

 

We ran out of the brothel kitchen laughing, fought fire together the next day, and never again talked about that night. But I think about it sometimes. In the company of those women, I\u2019d had my own adventure\u2014a much more interesting one than any of my crewmates had that night and one I never would have had on the East Coast, where I supposedly belonged.

 

M<\/span>y life has been forever changed by the friendships I made fighting fire for more than a decade. I drove through a deadly ice storm to attend a jumper\u2019s wedding. I won a saloon arm-wrestling match, shot my first deer, preg-checked cows, hitchhiked, and swathed hay. I tore open a newborn\u2019s amniotic sac in the front seat of my fire friends\u2019 truck along a western highway.

I sold my own truck to buy land and bought a chainsaw to heat my cabin. I met my husband on a wildfire and babysat children who have cared, in turn, for my own daughters. Today, my family and I all live out West, in the same valley where I first picked up a Pulaski.

\"\"<\/a>I understand now that taking nearly a decade to achieve my supposed goal\u2014becoming a smokejumper\u2014was a gift. Because in the end, being<\/em> a smokejumper\u2014one of the guys\u2014wasn\u2019t the real achievement. It was becoming<\/em> a part of something grand: the West. It was belonging<\/em> to this wild land\u2014building a life, a home, in the one place in the world where I feel whole.

<\/a>When and how did you know how to end the story? What made you choose a declaration rather than a scene?<\/span>This was a tricky essay to conclude. I\u2019m spanning years of my life and highlighting incongruous details (Hello, chainsaws and amniotic sac!) in a scene-heavy piece. I knew I had to wrap up all of these experiences with a clear realization. Searching for a single scene that showed me in my \u201cnew world,\u201d I made a simple list of possible scene stories, and when I saw the list as a whole I wondered if instead I could touch down into each scene for a second instead of launching into another tale. My hope was that this new-world montage followed by a succinct and heartfelt insight would be a satisfying way to conclude the third act.<\/span><\/span>

 

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