Tag: lodd

 

Tim Hart, a smokejumper, died June 2, 2021 after being critically injured during a hard landing while parachuting into the Eicks Fire in New Mexico. One of his friends and co-workers has written a tribute to Tim.

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By Patrick McGunagle

One intuits the magnitude of Tim Hart’s line of duty death immediately: Smokejumper passes away after fire jump in New Mexico. It’s something that shouldn’t have been, a system error; there must be some mistake. This isn’t how one of us should go, somehow not the same as the tragedies we wildland fire folk take so much care to avoid: crushed by snags, rolling rocks, burnover. There’s a randomness here that we don’t yet understand. As Pam Hart stated so eloquently in her eulogy for her son:

“For Tim, on May 24th, 2021, it was a normal day. Their base was called for a fire, and Tim and his smokejumping comrades went out to do the job they did so well. This jump was to be totally different. My son died but not in vain and not for nothing, He died doing a job he truly loved to do. As his mom, I am sad that I will not see or hear my son again. But I am so very proud of the man who was doing a job he loved. Tim David Hart, you will always be with me, in my heart and in my thoughts, as well as in the hearts and thoughts of family and friends and very brave and loved wildland firefighters and jumpers. You will never be gone because you live in all of us who loved and know you. Thank you for your service, Tim, you are a true hero.“

Life friend Matt Werner said: “It is true… he was a firefighter, a smokejumper, madly in love with Michelle and the South Fork (in that order)…. Perpetually in motion, doing what he loved.”

Finally, Michelle, Tim’s incredible wife, challenged the stadium: “Enjoy silence, embrace mystery. Be the first to action, live at the tip of the spear. Do not let anyone alter or quiet your voice. This is how Tim lived.”

Tim has been celebrated, cheered, and sent off by his fellow smokejumpers over two weeks all of us will never forget, yet would trade for anything if we could only have him back. Fire season is here and many of us are back on the line, cracking chutes over God’s country (well, some God-forsaken places, too). For many smokejumpers of the younger cohort, Tim’s passing was the first major death they’ve experienced, and that it happened by jumping took away a lot of the sanctimonious veil of this high-speed lifestyle. I’m worried for many of them this upcoming offseason when the adrenaline and excitement of jumps and fires can’t dilute the necessary grief and processing we will all need.

I didn’t have the privilege of being Tim’s best friend or even his rookie bro (RB); the testimonials to his life given by these people are recorded on Tim’s celebration ceremony, along with his processional, at the Custer Gallatin NF Facebook page. These speeches are evidence of sacred and brotherly bond and I do not contend to hold better words to honor Tim.

However, Tim was a fellow smokejumper and a friend of mine. For some reason, the way the List worked out, I ended up jumping more fires with him than any other jumper out of West Yellowstone during my two years there. I was on the load with him when he finally got his dream home forest jump in fall 2019 on the Shoshone outside of Cody. Last summer I had a fantastic jump in the Wind Rivers with him. Many good chats with that guy around the campfire and sipping his homemade whiskey. For some reason, when a love of mine passed away last fall (she was also in fire), it was just Tim and a very sad version of myself at the base in West for a few weeks, so we had lots of barbecues and pondered this thing called life.

I won’t give all my memories of Tim away. But another tragedy is that what I get to hold isn’t much beyond Tim’s “you go on now and get yourself right, always here for an ear if you need it.” Maybe if I’d called him once in the offseason, to talk about our elk hunts, new rye whiskeys, and interstellar phenomena. Too many maybes already, too soon.

I had jumped a fire in Nevada a week before Tim met Fate and as the situation developed, I knew there was one place on Earth I needed to be. It was all of a sudden very real when Tim arrived in Cody, WY, on the Sherpa, to be received by his jumpers and community. The procession event was very well done: there were engines and fire folk standing for Tim at every point of the day, even in Grand Junction, CO, when the Sherpa refueled. In Cody, West Yellowstone Smokejumpers were able to carry Tim from the Honor Guard aboard the Sherpa and bring him to the waiting hearse, a very moving experience for us all (the Honor Guard very rarely releases control of the person to any other personnel). Hundreds of ordinary folk lined the roads to the funeral home, paying respects to a man they barely knew.

Watching over Tim’s casket for the week before the funeral is the highest honor of my fire career. True to the character of the smokejumper program, Tim was never out of smokejumper sight or presence since his jump; he always had a jump partner. For line of duty deaths, the USFS provides a joint BLM/NPS/USFS Honor Guard to respect the fallen, nonstop, until internment. This fantastic group volunteers time from their normal jobs to honor fallen peers they’ve never met. These folks were blown away by the smokejumper resilience and dedication to staying with Tim, 24/7, for the week in El Paso and then the week in Cody. However, as fresh Honor Guard rotated through, I don’t think they were quite sure what to make of us jumpers: we never left, the mood alternated from somber to general smokejumper carousing with some increasingly finer rye whiskeys (his favorites), beers, strong coffee, and increasingly exaggerated smokejumper tales. We got too caffeinated in the morning to sit still in grief. Instead of soft, somber background music, we had folk music and bluegrass playing too loudly for a funeral home, as Tim would have liked. Tim loved playing his banjo and had many stories to add to the night as well.

Standing watch for Tim in the deepest hours of the night captivated us all in different ways. Long hours thinking about what it all means, our place in the world, against/with nature, among friends, and to our loves.

Tim’s wife, Michelle, is an unbelievably strong individual. She spent many hours with us and Tim (we gave her the room when she requested) and outperformed us all in practically navigating the logistics of the next several days. I personally learned a lot about life, love, and fine whiskeys from Tim, via Michelle, that week.

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