After he searched for smokes from Desolation Peak Lookout in Washington during one summer in the 1950s, Kerouac complained that his brain was “in rags.” He added, “I thought I’d die of boredom or jump off the mountain.”

I couldn’t disagree more. My wife Linda and I have worked for the last seven years at Benchmark Lookout on the San Juan National Forest, a fire tower in the southwest corner of Colorado, and we love being there. 

We’re on the job from mid-May until mid-September and mostly alone—except for the abundant wildlife, rare visitors and firefighters who get to see our side of the combined effort to thwart wildfires. The fire crews look forward to examining this huge swath of the West that’s their firefighting turf.

We start our trip in southern Colorado, leaving the town of Dolores and driving 30 miles on rough gravel up to the tower at 9,264 feet. We haul our own food for 10-day stretches, with four days off. Linda brings wool to spin, we both choose lots of books, and I spend the days scanning the land and the sky above.

We think we’re suited for the job, never finding the isolation a problem. Because once we climb our timber tower at season’s start, we become eyes-in-the sky for the vast Four Corners area, looking for what we don’t want out there—smoke indicating wildfire.

I usually spot smoke out of the corner of my eye, or when doing dishes or even while reading a book. Vigilance gets built in during a workday that usually lasts as long as there’s daylight. 

Everything stops while I plot the location of the smoke on the 80-year-old Osborne Fire Finder and on maps. Then I radio in my find to Durango Interagency Fire Dispatch. This is my 15 minutes of calculated frenzy in an otherwise quiet existence.  Dispatch uses the information I supply to send engine crews, helitack crews or aircraft to the fire.

Some days I spot two smokes, once five, more often none—though after a rain, mist rising out of canyons can mimic smokes and try to fool you.  We call them waterdogs.  What’s always entertaining is the weather itself. 

Out of thin air, clouds seem to materialize right above Benchmark Lookout, and with our 360-degree view, thunderstorms here are dramatic and loud. Once, a lightning bolt hit so close that the hair on our arms stood straight up.

We’re often asked why we staff a fire lookout. Our reasons aren’t easy to convey. Most of the time, our quick reply is “we like being alone” or “we enjoy being in a remote spot.” That’s too simple and doesn’t reflect how we and many other fire lookouts feel about their jobs.

For one thing, we know we’re still necessary, not yet outmoded by satellites and aircraft. Our job isn’t just fire detection. We provide critical weather and fire behavior observations to the fire crews on the line.  

Looking out, our view encompasses Mesa Verde National Park, Canyons of the Ancients, Bears Ears National Monument, Shiprock, the San Juan Range and much more—a four-state area where Arizona, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico meet.

Our view is ever-changing as the sun makes its arc and the weather makes its moves. And time seems to slows down when manmade distractions disappear. Our tower has been visited by horned lizards, elk, mountain lions and a mama bear with two cubs.  

Hummingbirds fly thick through masses of wildflowers beneath us, and we see flickers, swallows and turkey vultures. Sandhill cranes, white pelicans and the odd osprey also fly past. Quiet surrounds us as we have this magnificent view to ourselves. 

Winter is deepening now as I write this. We’re already dreaming of next year’s fire season atop our 42-foot-tower.

Rick Freimuth is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a former wildland firefighter and carpenter, now retired. He lives in Paonia in western Colorado.

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