Many years ago, I taught supervision and management courses for a community college. It was night school and few of my students were seeking degrees. They showed up because they were motivated by a central idea –that I would help them craft a role model for their own effectiveness.
At the time, I was acting on my belief that people aspiring to effective leadership needed positive role models as well as my knowledge that many working adults had come up under people who had been excellent technical performers who may not have been fully prepared for organizational leadership.
People aspiring to be effective leaders need positive role models but few of us will find a single person who meets all our leadership expectations.
These days, I can lean on some solid research around the power of positive role models. For example, a 2023 article in Forbes, by Tracy Bower, a PhD sociologist, cited a Gallup/ Amazon poll of 4,000 early to mid-career adults that found that people with positive role models were more likely to say their careers were fulfilling, that they felt established in their careers, and had careers that paid them enough. The poll also found that young people who had mentors were “more likely to have jobs with authority and autonomy and to experience more intrinsic rewards from their jobs.”
Role models are people we look up to so much that we consider them examples to be imitated. Finding people whose values and behavior inspire us to want to lead like them can accelerate a person’s development as a leader. However, leadership role models can be elusive. Leadership is complex. We want leaders to be credible, build trust, have vision, lead by example and with compassion, be authentic, act with transparency, value learning, communicate well, and inspire, motivate and direct us all while maintaining a positive environment. All those attributes can be hard to find in one person. If you have identified such a person, if you have said “I want to lead just like that,” by all means, please start emulating that person immediately, if you haven’t already.
“All leaders are incomplete leaders, works-in-progress. Stop looking for the flawless leader and build your own.”
But what if you do not have that role model, that person who meets all your leadership expectations? Build your own role model of leadership excellence. At some point in my career, I stopped looking for a single leader on whom to pattern my leadership. I’ve worked for a lot of people. Many had remarkable leadership strengths and were effective leaders but all were regular human beings with regular human-being shortcomings. None was that ideal leadership role model. I believe that is reality for most people. I have previously called attention to a classic Harvard Business Review article titled In Praise of the Incomplete Leader by Deborah Ancona, Thomas Malone, Wanda Orlikowski and Peter Senge in which the authors said “It’s time to end the myth of the complete leader: the flawless person at the top who’s got it all figured out. In fact, the sooner leaders stop trying to be all things to all people, the better off their organizations will be.”
I started noting who, in my experience, would be my benchmark for key leadership skills and attributes and building my concept of an ideal leader – a kind, compassionate human here, an excellent decision maker there, a person who had earned my trust and respect over here, an excellent communicator there. My experience inspired my college classes way back when, and later in training for fire personnel, and it has remained a big part of my leadership development philosophy.
Wildland fire is a great leadership crucible, and the sector has invested heavily in leadership development so, if we are paying attention, we can observe and draw from many good leaders, even if they are incomplete. I have also had to fill in gaps and I expect that anyone taking my approach would. I have pulled from my training and education when I had no role model for what I considered a leadership essential. There exists a mountain of academic research to draw from, against which we can benchmark our experiences. We can learn from historic figures. We can watch a good movie or TV show. Honestly, as a person who views darned near everything through a leadership lens, I consider the show Ted Lasso to be terrific leadership training. We can ask friends and trusted colleagues to tell us about their leadership role models.
I believe now, more than ever, that people aspiring to effective leadership need positive role models and having one will accelerate development as a leader at any level. But I suspect that few of us will find a single person who meets all our leadership expectations. I have embraced the idea that all leaders are incomplete leaders, worksin-progress if you will. I encourage anyone asking to stop looking for the flawless person at the top who’s got it all figured out. If you are not one of the lucky few who have found that single leadership role model, build your own; I believe you will be glad you did.
Mike DeGrosky is a student of leadership, lifelong learner, mentor and coach, sometimes writer, and recovering fire chief. He taught for the Department of Leadership Studies at Fort Hays State University for 10 years. Follow Mike via LinkedIn.
I love the phrase pivot and redirect; it applies perfectly to healing from traumatic stress and grief, especially after fire season.
As we all know, nothing ever stays the same, especially in wildland fire. Everything changes. The seasons change, the tides change, and wildland fire continues to change; yet we as humans, avoid change like the plague. Change can bring comfort but can also bring terror; change can bring good, but it can also bring chaos.
When dealing with traumatic stress and grief, especially once the fire season winds down, our thoughts and emotions tend to surface, partially due to our autonomic nervous system being overwhelmed from the stress of the fire season. We do everything we can to distract ourselves from this chaos by reverting to our comfort zones, which can include turning to maladaptive coping behaviors such as busyness, alcohol, substance abuse, or other addictions, because change becomes too hard.
When we pivot, we make sure one foot is planted in a stable safety zone while letting the other foot explore. As the traumatic stress and grief from this past fire season begins to unwind, it’s important to keep that one foot planted and grounded; this may include reaching out to your safe and trusted support systems – the people who help keep you grounded while providing safe space for you to talk about what’s on your mind. Finding healthy ways to engage in self-care of your choosing is also essential to grounding and helping to calm your nervous system after fire season. Wildland firefighters tend to live in a constant state of adrenaline addiction during the fire season and long after it’s over, the sympathetic nervous system on high alert 24/7 as stress hormones continue to circulate through the body. It takes time, patience, and intention to allow the nervous system time to calm down, unwind, and heal.
How do we focus on self-care, especially when we’re stuck in the remnants of the sympathetic survival mode of fight and / or flight? In this state we tend to be angry, impatient, judgmental, elusive, anxious, fearful, overworking, arguing, running away, and reverting to our addictions and distractions. Self-care modalities that are helpful in this state include breathwork, mindfulness, somatic movement (such as yoga or Tai Chi), and bodywork (such as massage, chiropractic, or cranio-sacral). Considering trauma-safe therapy with a professional you trust is helpful. Do whatever you can to go s-l-o-w down and find some stillness, even when it’s uncomfortable. You can then allow the other foot to move around, redirect, until it too finds stability and safety. As the saying goes in recovery and healing: One step forward and 20 steps back
What self-care techniques work best when you’re stuck in the parasympathetic dorsal vagal survival mode of shut down, freeze, and collapse? This is an especially hard place to be, because you have little or no motivation to do anything, especially pivot and redirect. This is where we tend to feel sad, depressed, lethargic, unworthy, unloved, unmotivated, hopeless, helpless and may experience suicidal ideations.
Self-care modalities to consider when stuck in this parasympathetic dorsal vagal mode include active movement such as walking, dancing or jumping jacks to get out of freeze mode, and splashing your face with cold water or holding cold soda cans can help jump-start your system back into a more sympathetic mode. Other helpful modalities include breathwork, somatic movement, and mindfulness if you’re able. Social engagement is also important when in this state, to activate the parasympathetic ventral vagal branch. Meeting with friends for coffee or a walk in the woods, participating in a support group, going to a safe event where you’ll be around other people, and especially participating in trauma-safe therapy can help re-engage the nervous system. It’s too easy to isolate ourselves when in this mode, which isn’t healthy.
This delicate dance to find calm is never linear, it’s all over the place, like a toddler scribbling with crayons. Yet, we must do our best to keep that one foot planted, grounded, and safe. If both feet are ungrounded, then we may have a hard time moving forward, leaving our nervous system in chaos.
As you learn to pivot and redirect this off-season, may you find strength and courage to prioritize your self-care needs. May you look back at the fire season, doing an after-action-review of yourself, your relationships, and your health. What worked well, and served you best? What didn’t work well, and didn’t serve you? And what can you do differently, to pivot and redirect, during this off-season, and make some changes to help you heal and prepare for wildfire season 2025?
Bequi Livingston was the first woman recruited by the New Mexico-based Smokey Bear Hotshots for its elite wildland firefighting crew. She was the Regional Fire Operations Health and Safety Specialty for the U.S. Forest Service in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
There has been a seismic shift in the goals of modern European fire fighting. The aim “is not to eliminate fire, because it is part of the natural dynamics of ecosystems, but to make fires less dangerous,” said Fernando Pulido, director of the Dehesa Research Institute at the University of Extremadura in Badajoz, Spain. “Even with many resources, you cannot do complete fire prevention.”
It’s a consensus many experts in fires and forestry have been trying to disseminate for decades with varying results. They are unified in their prescription for a problem that is growing worse with every increasingly hot year: the only way to avoid destructive mega fires is through thoughtful land management and the controlled reintegration of fires into ecosystems.
A Fire Technician from Viera do Minho City Council, setting fire to gorse bushes during a prescribed burn in Serra da Cabreira, a mountain in Vieira do Minho district win northern Portugal, on January 24, 2024. Prescribed burning, also known as controlled burning, involves setting planned fires to maintain the health of a forest. These burns are scheduled for a time when the fire will not pose a threat to the public or to fire managers.
There is however no one golden bullet solution, rather the key to long-term mega fire prevention is the use of a mix of tools tailored to a territory’s needs. Across the Iberian Peninsula there are several international, national and local fire smart initiatives being implemented in public and private forests including the use of prescribed burns, extensive livestock grazing, agroforestry land mosaics and the extraction of trees and shrub litter for biomass energy resources. These solution projects break up continuous fuel loads acting as a barrier to stop or slow fire while reducing the flammability of landscapes surrounding vulnerable towns and, in many cases, boosting rural development.
FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE
Managing the land means allowing it to burn periodically to avoid untameable wildfires. This can be achieved in a controlled way, by prescribed fires, which reduce accumulated fuel loads, renew soils, increase water availability, create pastoral areas and importantly create firefighting pathways. In Portugal the tool has been used since the 1980s, being one of the first European countries to introduce a structured legal framework for the practice.
A group of sappers, guided by the Fire Technician from Viera do Minho City Council, Nelson Rodrigues, debriefing ahead of starting a prescribed burn in Serra da Cabreira, a mountain in Vieira do Minho district win northern Portugal, on January 24, 2024. Prescribed burning, also known as controlled burning, involves setting planned fires to maintain the health of a forest. These burns are scheduled for a time when the fire will not pose a threat to the public or to fire managers.
The Serra Cabreira mountain range, in the northern Portuguese region of Braga, is a shining example of authorities proactively using prescribed burning to keep vegetation undergrowth under control and extreme wildfires at bay. The aim is to avoid a disaster like the one that occurred in October 2017, near the municipality of Vieira do Minho, where 1600 hectares burned. At the time, the highly flammable carqueja shrub had grown to more than 1.5 meters high and enveloped much of the land. Because of the available fuel, fires raged from the valley to the mountaintop.
Prescribed fires can’t just be lit and left. Before any flame is sparked, fire technicians in Portugal must have a burn plan approved by the National Institute for Nature Conservation and Forests (ICNF). In Spain, prescribed burning is regulated according to the provisions of each autonomous community. After approval, technicians must wait for the ideal on-site weather conditions. The window for burning is typically open for 10 weeks a year between November and March and requires dry but not parched soil, substantial wind speeds, high relative humidity and low temperatures. The specially trained teams control the fire’s progression using drip torches, wind speed and direction, slope, vegetation density and hand-held mops to suppress spot fires.
Nelson Rodrigues, 49, is the Vieira do Minho municipal council’s head fire technician specializing in prescribed burns and fire analysis. In five-year cycles he and his team have been burning parcels of the Cabreira mountain range. He explains the difference between prescribed fires and wildfires is in the severity of the burn.
“A natural fire destroys the vegetation, destroys the soil and then in the next rains the [burned] soil is washed away and only the rocks remain. [With prescribed burns] we are now burning the top part of the vegetation, the plant doesn’t die, the roots don’t die, it remains fixed to the soil and in about a month it will start to grow again.”
Nelson is confident that due to the interventions a mega fire would not be able to develop in the area he controls; it’s a long-term achievement that fills him with pride. “Imagine that we [have] worked on a landscape for a few years and during the next few years there were never big fires. No habitat was destroyed, no type of forest or environment. And it was possible for us to all work together – shepherds, technicians, hunters and farmers.”
Nelson Rodrigues, a Fire Technician with Viera do Minho City Council, sets fire to gorse bushes during a prescribed burn in Serra da Cabreira, a mountain in Vieira do Minho district win northern Portugal, on January 24, 2024. Prescribed burning, also known as controlled burning, involves setting planned fires to maintain the health of a forest. These burns are scheduled for a time when the fire will not pose a threat to the public or to fire managers.
Lily Mayers is a cross-platform freelance journalist from Sydney, Australia, based in Madrid, Spain. Mayers’ career began in television and radio news for Australia’s national broadcaster, the ABC. Since moving to Spain in 2020, Mayers’ work has focused on the long-form coverage of world news and current affairs.
Paulo Nunes dos Santos is a freelance photojournalist and reporter covering armed conflict, humanitarian crises, political instability, and social issues worldwide. Nunes dos Santos is a frequent contributor to international publications including The New York Times and Jornal Expresso.
The days when men could be rallied from nearby towns to suppress wildfires for a few months during the year are long gone. Today, each of the five major U.S. federal land management agencies that have wildland fire suppression responsibilities – Bureau of Land Management, National Parks Service, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Bureau of Indian Affairs, and the U.S. Forest Service – maintain a permanent wildland fire workforce complemented by a significant temporary workforce.
In recent years, professional education has been discussed as an answer to combat the change in severity and complexity of wildfires and the issues the agencies face in suppressing them.
In many career fields of U.S. federal employment, a professional education is highly regarded and often required, but not in wildland fire. Proponents of institutionalizing an education system in the agencies argue that fire personnel who manage large budgets, cultivate trust of the public and politicians, supervise and lead people in dangerous situations, and collaborate with multiple government organizations should have more than a high school education. Opponents to implementing a more formal education argue that there is a well-functioning system in place that includes a governing body that sets standards, a digital system to track and document completed training, and a learning management system to create and deliver the training and educational content. With the increasing complexity of wildfires impacting communities and rising demands on firefighters to do more over the last several decades, the federal wildland fire agencies should invest in workforce education to better prepare their employees’ decision making and instill stakeholder trust.
If professional education is institutionalized, alongside training, in the federal wildland fire agencies, personnel and managers could better meet the modern demands of the job that were not as prolific or even existed 40 to 50 years ago.
Higher education could be the solution for many issues the U.S. federal wildland fire agencies are facing by incentivizing with earnings and advancement, equipping firefighters with knowledge and skills for the next position and increasing public confidence.
While the current training system for the federal wildland fire agencies is valuable and should not be replaced, the climate of wildland fire has evolved and requires a more resilient and progressive approach to workforce development. Institutionalizing a professional education system will prepare firefighters for the unprecedented severity and complexity of modern wildfires, better equip them as they advance in their careers to meet current challenges and increase stakeholder and public trust in the agencies and the workforces they employ. If the federal wildland fire agencies do not adapt, they will fail. Professionalized education must be integrated into the wildland fire workforce to ensure the nation’s disasters are not national tragedies.
This article is not meant to be prescriptive or detailed on how to institutionalize education but to provoke thoughts about how the agencies can better prepare their employees to meet the ever-changing demands of wildland fire.
The views and opinions are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the U.S. government. The author is writing in a personal capacity and does not represent any federal entity.
Jared Bandor works for the United States Forest Service, Region 6, at the Pacific Northwest Training Center, where he serves as training specialist. His main duties are serving as the training officer for regional employees, facilitating and instructing regional level courses, and supporting workforce development initiatives for Fire and Aviation Management (FAM) employees. Bandor has a diverse operational background on handcrews, engines, and helitak, as well as fuels, prevention, and training. He is completing a bachelor’s degree in organizational leadership, which he plans to use in future workforce development opportunities in the agency.
By Andrew Vanden Heuvel, Rigel Reynolds, Zachary Meyer, and Samuel Ntadom
Fortnite as a tool for wildfire education
The popular video game Fortnite contains a realistic fire mechanic, which simulates the spread of wildfire and the destruction of various materials.
In the summer of 2024, we launched an ambitious project to turn the popular video game Fortnite into an innovative tool for wildfire education.
Using a video game to tackle a serious issue like wildfire preparedness might seem unusual, but many game developers see great potential for building player agency and raising environmental awareness through video games.
Fortnite is a free online multiplayer game, best known for its last-player-standing Battle Royale mode. However, Fortnite also contains a creative mode, in which players can design original games using a vast library of pre-built structures, vehicles, and devices. These custom games can be published and shared with Fortnite’s 250 million-plus active monthly users. In fact, more than half of all gameplay hours in Fortnite are spent in these user-generated creative islands.
Notably, Fortnite features realistic fire that spreads dynamically between objects, destroys different materials at different rates, and can be extinguished using various liquid items. In many ways, Fortnite can act as a rudimentary fire simulator.
Fortnite Creative offers a powerful platform to create engaging wildfire education experiences and share them with a global audience.
We used Fortnite Creative to develop an interactive wildfire video game and a series of educational videos.
This scene in the video game Fortnite shows a player extinguishing a hot spot with a chug splash.
WILDFIRE GAME
Our first objective was to create a video game centered around wildfire prevention. In our game, Wild Fire, two teams compete to protect their side of the island from wildfires by using techniques such as clearing debris, hardening structures, and managing vegetation through prescribed burns. As fires randomly ignite across the island, players must find and extinguish hot spots to prevent damage. Teams earn points based on how well they protect their structures.
This fast-paced game teaches wildfire preparedness strategies while reinforcing the idea that everyone can help contribute to the safety of their community.
The Wild Fire island in the Fortnite video game contains dense forests and multiple wooden structures, which players must protect against encroaching fire.
EDUCATIONAL VIDEOS
Our second approach was to create a series of educational videos in Fortnite based on CAL FIRE’s Ready, Set, Go! initiative. The goal was to demonstrate wildfire prevention and preparedness concepts such as creating defensible space, building emergency kits, and planning evacuations.
Fortnite has an integrated replay tool that allows users to capture everything that happens during a gameplay session. Afterward, players can navigate through the 3D environment using a virtual camera to view and record the action from any angle.
This feature turns Fortnite Creative into a virtual production studio, enabling players to act out scenes and then go back to film those scenes from any perspective they choose.
Video games offer a powerful way to deliver wildfire education by providing interactive, risk-free environments in which players can experiment with actions and see their consequences. While not hands-on in the traditional sense, these virtual experiences are immersive, which can build empathy, deepen understanding, and connect abstract concepts to the real world.
In Fortnite, players can experience the spread of fire, learn how to mitigate it, and understand how their actions reduce wildfire risk. These experiences bridge the gap between awareness and action, empowering players to believe they really can make a difference.
Educators and wildfire professionals can explore these resources and collaborate with us to enhance and expand their impact by visiting www.andrewvh.com/ wildfire-magazine to preview the resources.
Our thanks to Rushton Hurley at Next Vista for Learning, the authors of The Environmental Game Design Playbook and the Fortnite EDU & ArshtRock Climate Workshop facilitators for their inspiration and support.
[This article first appeared in Wildfire magazine]
Andrew Vanden Heuvel is a professor of physics and astronomy who experiments with innovative approaches to science education. This work was carried out with his three research students, Rigel Reynolds, Zachary Meyer, and Samuel Ntadom, physics students at Calvin University in Grand Rapids, MI, United States.
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.
Ron Guy Jr, Tall Timbers, on a burn in Colorado 2014
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.
Ron Guy Jr, Tall Timbers, bottom right, with saw team Midnight Suns Interagency Hotshot Crew in 2011.
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.
With a crew in California in 2015.
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.
Instructing in Alaska in 2019.
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.
Andrew Vanden Heuvel is a professor of physics and astronomy who experiments with innovative approaches to science education. This work was carried out with his three research students, Rigel Reynolds, Zachary Meyer, and Samuel Ntadom, physics students at Calvin University in Grand Rapids, MI, United States.
