My cell phone rang and woke me up.

“Who died?”

Not hello. Not, “Hi, Mom.” Not, “Are you awake?”

Just that question.

If you have spent enough years in wildland fire, you understand why a call like that can start there. I have stood in briefings where we were told someone had died. I have heard the radio traffic that says, “We are missing two.” There is no way to brace yourself for it. Your chest tightens, your stomach turns, and the first thought is always the same: families are about to receive the worst news of their lives.

That kind of news never becomes normal. It should not.

Wildland firefighting was always dangerous, but when I started in 1983, it felt different. The fires were smaller, the seasons were shorter, and the work, while risky, seemed more contained. Today, fire seasons are longer, fuels are heavier, communities are closer to the wildland edge, and firefighters are asked to do more with less. The danger has grown, but the people on the ground still step forward.

They always have.

My first real experience with a firefighter death came in 1987 on the Pierce Fire in Sequoia National Forest. I was still fairly new to California fire, working with an engine strike team. We were told that Bruce Visser, an engine captain from our district, had been struck and killed by a motorcycle while working on another fire.

We stood in a circle, stunned. Some of the firefighters knew him well. One of them was devastated. We were told to say a prayer, be safe, and get back to work.

That was how things were handled then. You swallowed the grief because there was still fire to fight. The old mindset was simple: keep moving, do the job, deal with it later. But grief does not disappear because you ignore it. Shock does not leave because someone tells you to get back on the line. People get distracted. People get hurt. People carry those moments for years.

After South Canyon in 1994, things began to change. That fire killed fourteen wildland firefighters on Storm King Mountain, and it shook the Forest Service and the entire wildland fire community. Procedures changed. Fatality response changed. Counseling became more accepted. The need to care for crews, families, and survivors could no longer be pushed aside.

Still, every loss leaves marks.

One of the hardest duties anyone can carry is the knock on the door. I have been part of that process. You stand there in uniform, usually with law enforcement, and say words that will split a family’s life into before and after.

“Your loved one has died in the line of duty.”

Then you watch them crumble.

There are questions you cannot answer right away. How? Where? When? Why? The hardest is always why. Why my son? Why my daughter? Why my husband? Why my wife?

You do your best. You sit with them. You help them take the next step because that is why you are there. But you never forget their faces.

That is why remembrance matters.

Wildland Firefighter Remembrance Week and Wildland Firefighter Remembrance Day are not just dates on a calendar. They are not symbolic gestures. They are a promise. A promise that the men and women who died in service will not be reduced to a report, a number, or a brief news story. They had names. They had families. They had friends. They had futures.

Their coworkers remember the sound of their voices, the jokes at briefing, the long drives, the hard shifts, the meals eaten in dust and smoke. Their families remember birthdays, holidays, phone calls, and the empty space left behind.

We owe them more than silence.

That is one reason the Wildland Firefighter Foundation matters so much. When tragedy strikes, families need more than sympathy. They need help, guidance, support, and people who understand the world their loved one served in. Coworkers need support too. Firefighters are trained to be tough, but toughness does not mean being untouched.

I write about fire because I lived in that world. My books come from years of experience, but also from the grief, trauma, resilience, and humanity I have witnessed. Fire is never just fire. It is people. It is families. It is memory. It is sacrifice. It is the question of how we keep going after loss.

The fallen deserve to be remembered with honesty. Their families deserve to be supported. Their coworkers deserve help. And every firefighter still on the line deserves a culture that says, “You do not have to carry this alone.”

If you need help, ask for help.

No one is an island. Not in life, and certainly not on the fireline.