A wild ride – my journey through fire, mountains and discovering balance

We have all come to wildfire with a different story. Here is an unprompted contribution from a reader, with a rich history in fire and life. As part of an occasional Wildfire Today series, and when we could do with a change of pace or a weekend read, here is the story of Ron Guy Jr, currently a wildland fire training coordinator at Tall Timbers.                      

The first time I fought fire, the world felt alive in a way I’d never experienced before—crackling flames, smoke curling against the spring sky, and the raw smell of scorched earth. Colorado, 21 years old, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, I’d just joined a volunteer fire department, still trying to make sense of the tools in my hands and the heavy bunker gear on my back. The call had come in about an agricultural burn gone sideways—out-of-control flames racing through dry grass and brush, threatening to jump fences into neighboring fields.

When they handed me the pulaski, it didn’t feel awkward or oversized—it felt like destiny. The weight of it in my hands hummed with purpose, as if it had been forged for this very moment. It wasn’t just a tool; it was an extension of me, a weapon against chaos, the hammer of Thor in a rookie’s grip.

Our crew moved quickly, scattered across a smoldering landscape littered with blackened cow patties. My job? Mop up. The seasoned guys smirked as they pointed me toward the smoking remnants of manure, a rookie’s rite of passage, but I didn’t flinch. Every swing of the pulaski, every shove of the shovel, felt like I was answering some ancient call—taming the fire, reclaiming the land.

The work was gritty, humbling, and unrelenting. Every step kicked up ash and dust, the heat biting at my face despite the cool spring air. But somewhere in that chaos, I found clarity. The fire had a rhythm, and so did we, moving in sync as we cut lines, doused embers, and worked to bring order back to the land.

That first fire wasn’t heroic or glamorous—it was dirty, exhausting, and full of cow patties—but it sparked something in me. I didn’t know it then, but those long hours in the smoke were the start of a journey, one that would carve into my soul a lifelong addiction to the wild, unpredictable beauty of fire and the camaraderie forged in its wake. And that was just the beginning.

Discovering the mountains

I was born and raised in Ohio, where the forests were my playground and the seasons marked the rhythm of life. Growing up in the ’90s, my brothers and I spent every free moment outside, running wild through the woods behind our house. We climbed trees like squirrels, built forts out of fallen branches, and turned creeks into battlegrounds for stick-sword wars. When the leaves fell and the air turned crisp, we swapped games for hunting—following in the footsteps of our father, uncles, and grandfather.

Those woods were where I learned to shoot a gun, track a whitetail, and sit still long enough to let the forest come alive around me. We’d tromp through the underbrush in borrowed camo, carrying shotguns that felt too big for us, chasing deer in the fall and ducks in the winter. It wasn’t just about the hunt; it was about being part of something older than ourselves—a tradition, a rite of passage, a bond forged in cold mornings and quiet moments in tree stands.

I never wanted to be indoors. The hum of fluorescent lights and the artificial glow of TV screens couldn’t compete with the smell of wet leaves, the crack of a twig underfoot, or the thrill of spotting a set of antlers moving through the brush. The woods were my classroom, the wild my teacher, and every scrape and bruise a badge of honor. Those early days shaped me, carving into my soul a deep-rooted need for adventure and the outdoors—a spark that’s never gone out.

By my teenage years, the woods of Ohio started to feel small. My body had grown, but so had my hunger for something bigger. I started trekking into the Appalachians, flipping through the pages of a storybook written in stone and sky. Rock climbing became my new drug of choice—the exhilaration of dangling hundreds of feet off a cliff edge with nothing but calloused fingers and a thin rope to keep me alive. Backpacking was my therapy, days and nights spent wandering the Appalachian Trail, lost in my thoughts and the rhythmic crunch of boots on dirt. One winter, I climbed Mount Washington in a full-on whiteout, a white hell of wind and snow so fierce it could strip the sanity from your soul. And I loved every second of it.

But the Appalachians, wild as they were, couldn’t hold me forever. At 21, I left Ohio in search of something grander. The Rocky Mountains called to me, their jagged peaks slicing into the clouds like the spine of some ancient beast. Colorado became my new playground. I climbed 14ers, those mythical mountains towering over 14,000 feet. I shredded powder on snowboards and skis at resorts like Vail, where the snow was champagne-soft, and the air was as thin as a razor’s edge. Mountain biking through wildflower-laden trails and scaling vertical rock faces became my daily rituals. Life was raw, thrilling, and utterly intoxicating.

Fighting fire

I started out as a volunteer firefighter with a small-town Volunteer Fire Department, the kind of place where the firehouse doors were always open, and every call was answered by someone you knew. The pager on my hip became an extension of me, its shrill tone snapping me to attention at all hours. At first, it was a blur of training courses—swift water rescue, technical rope rescue, EMT-B. I learned to tie knots that could hold the weight of a truck and how to keep calm when someone’s life depended on it. We rappelled off bridges, waded chest-deep in icy rivers, and even practiced crevasse rescue, though I figured those skills were more suited to the Rockies than the Midwest. Every class felt like a new key unlocking a door to a world I’d barely begun to understand.

But for all the adrenaline and camaraderie, something was missing. Most of our calls were medical runs or the occasional car fire—not the roaring infernos I’d imagined when I first pulled on my turnout gear. One day, between drills, I sat down with my captain, a grizzled veteran who’d seen more fire than I could fathom. He’d spent years as a hotshot in California, battling blazes in places where the sky turned orange and the air itself felt combustible.

I asked him what it was like, and his eyes lit up as he described the rush of digging line, the roar of a crown fire racing uphill, and the unbreakable bonds forged on the fireline. “If you really want to fight fire,” he told me, “not just run medical calls, you’ve got to go west. You’ve got to be a wildland firefighter.”

Those words stuck with me. Fighting fire wasn’t just a job—it was a calling, a test of grit and endurance against something primal and unforgiving. I didn’t know it then, but that conversation was the spark. The next step was clear. If I wanted to trade medical bags for a pulaski and sirens for the roar of wildfire, I’d have to chase the flames to where they burned hottest.

When I decided to go west, I didn’t stop at the Pacific Coast—I went as far as I could go, all the way to Alaska. The land of endless summer daylight and fire seasons that stretched across millions of acres. I joined the Northstar Fire Crew, a feeder crew for the Midnight Suns and Chena Hotshots, the two elite Interagency Hotshot Crews in the state. The Northstars wasn’t just a fire crew—it was bootcamp and Survivor rolled into one. They weren’t just training firefighters; they were breeding hotshots, testing us in ways I never imagined, weeding out the weak and hardening the strong.

Every day was a grind. We worked long hours cutting line, hauling gear, and hiking through some of the most unforgiving terrain I’d ever seen. Alaska doesn’t care about your comfort—it’s a place that demands respect, where the fire is relentless, the mosquitoes are legendary, and the wilderness stretches farther than the eye can see. If the grueling pace wasn’t enough, we had weekly reviews out on the fireline. The leadership would call us together, go through each person’s performance, and then someone would be sent packing—flown out by helicopter from the middle of nowhere. It didn’t matter how remote we were or how hard they’d worked. If you didn’t meet hotshot standards, you were gone.

Those reviews kept us sharp. Every swing of the tool, every cut, every step—it all mattered. I pushed myself harder than I ever had, not just to stay, but to prove I belonged. By the end of that first wildfire season, I’d made it through. I wasn’t just surviving anymore; I was thriving. That fall, I earned my spot on the Midnight Suns, stepping into the ranks of some of the toughest firefighters in the nation.

That’s where I learned what it truly meant to be a hotshot, fighting fire in the most unforgiving conditions imaginable. Long hikes through tundra, carrying 50-pound packs across bogs that threatened to swallow you whole, and cutting line for hours under the midnight sun. Alaska wasn’t just a proving ground—it was a crucible, and it forged me into something stronger than I ever thought I could be.

I stayed on hand crews my entire career—ground pounder for life. After my time on the Midnight Suns, I shifted to a Wildland Fire Module, where we specialized in fire use and backcountry operations. It was a different pace, but the work still demanded grit and precision, lighting prescribed burns in remote areas or monitoring fires that were too rugged or dangerous for traditional suppression crews. From there, I moved to a prescribed fire crew, trading the chaos of wildfire for the controlled intensity of setting fires to restore landscapes. Every burn felt like a chess game against nature, balancing fire behavior, weather, and the land’s needs.

Eventually, I found myself on a Type 2 IA crew—back to the grind of initial attack, where you live and die by your speed, teamwork, and ability to adapt. Helicopter bucket drops or sawyers ahead of us, boots on the ground, digging line and holding fire in some of the toughest conditions imaginable. I loved it. Whether it was holding the torch, swinging a pulaski, or scouting the next line, I was exactly where I was meant to be—on the ground, in the thick of it, shoulder to shoulder with my crew. A frontline leader. A squad boss. That was the heartbeat of my career, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. For 15 years, I chased flames across the country, from the deserts of Arizona to the tundra of Alaska. The life on a handcrew is not for the faint of heart—long days, short nights, and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that most people never experience. We slept under the stars more often than not, the ground our bed and the sky our blanket. But there’s something pure about that kind of life, something that strips away all the noise and leaves you with nothing but the essentials: grit, sweat, and a fierce love for the land you’re fighting to protect.

Eventually, I found my way to Tall Timbers Research Station in Florida, where I now serve as a training coordinator, sharing everything I’ve learned about fire with the next generation of practitioners. My focus has shifted from fighting fire to teaching about it—leading courses, mentoring future firefighters, and instructing practitioners on the art and science of prescribed burning.

Fire is a tool. When used with intention, it shapes ecosystems, restores balance, and breathes life into landscapes that depend on its renewal. It’s a delicate craft—a kind of alchemy that transforms destruction into growth—and it’s one I’ve come to respect deeply. Now, my role isn’t just to ignite the land but to ignite the minds of those who will carry this work forward, equipping them with the knowledge and skills to wield fire as a force for good.

Finding balance

When I stand in front of a class of future fire practitioners, I tell them that there are so many ways into fire—it doesn’t have to be the federal route, and it doesn’t have to mean boots on the ground. If they do choose the federal path, I remind them that they don’t need to chase the hotshot dream if it’s not what drives them. Yes, hotshots see the most intense fire activity, and yes, they do things most people can’t even imagine, but that life isn’t for everyone. Hotshots are built different. Hand crew personnel are built different. Wildland firefighters, as a whole, are built different than structure firefighters. The key is to find what fuels your fire—whether it’s running saws on a crew, lighting drip torches, flying drones, or coordinating behind the scenes.

Students tell me it’s hard to find work-life balance, and I’m honest with them—it is. On a crew, fire becomes your life. You eat, sleep, and breathe it for months on end. That’s the reality of this work, and it’s not for everyone. If you want a life outside of fire, you need to pick a role that allows for balance. There are so many ways to fight fire while carving out a career that won’t burn you out. The future of fire doesn’t just need people who can dig line and carry heavy packs—it needs thinkers, planners, and leaders who can sustain the mission for decades.

Stepping away from being a primary firefighter wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one. My daughters mean more to me than chasing spot fires outside the line ever could. Fire season is relentless—long days, weeks away, missing birthdays and milestones. I didn’t want to miss any more. Being present for my family became my priority, and I knew I had to find a way to balance what I love with who I love.

Now, as a training coordinator, I can still contribute to the fire community that shaped me. I can pass on the knowledge and experience I’ve gained to those stepping into the field, helping them navigate their own journeys. I still feel the pulse of fire in my veins, but I’ve found a way to honor it while keeping my family at the center of my life. I’ve traded the frontlines for a role that lets me guide, teach, and support—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.It’s been a journey of grit, growth, and purpose, marked by moments of intensity, camaraderie, and transformation. Fire has taught me patience, resilience, and humility—qualities I now pass on to those stepping into this world for the first time.

As I look back, I see the threads that tie it all together: the lessons learned in the woods with my brothers, the early calls with the VFD, the relentless grind of hotshot life, and the quieter, deliberate craft of prescribed fire. Each step prepared me for this role, where my job isn’t just to teach but to inspire, to show students the many paths they can take and help them find the one that fits their fire.

The future of fire lies in their hands now, and I see the spark in their eyes. They are eager, determined, and ready to carry the weight of this responsibility. I tell them that fire is more than a job—it’s a calling, a lifelong commitment to something bigger than yourself. And while the work is hard and often unforgiving, it’s also deeply rewarding. If they can find their place in it, whether on the ground or in the air, behind the wheel or behind a desk, they’ll discover what I did: fire doesn’t just consume—it transforms.

This isn’t the end of my story—it’s just a new chapter. And as I step back to guide others, I know that the flame will burn brighter and stronger in their hands, carrying forward the work that began long before me and will continue long after I’m gone.

By Ron Guy Jr, MS

Wildland Fire Training Coordinator