Ive never seen a wall of fire like the one on the ridge in front of me, and泭our strike team of five brush trucks is driving right toward it. Im in the truck at the front of the line, and my lieutenant tells me to grab泭the nozzle from the hose reel and climb on top of our vehicle. I put泭water on the fire as we slowly drive forward, with just a wet bandana wrapped around my mouth to protect my lungs from the thick smoke.
Just over the fire line, I see another wall of fire barreling toward us. There isnt much time to react, so I climb down and rush to the roadside as the two fronts merge into one. A wave of fire crests over my head and around me on all sides. The wind howls and pushes the water back at me. I choke on the thick smoke and heat, my eyes burning with black tears. My hose stream cant compete; Im nearly engulfed by fire. Just as I feel it overcoming me, it burns its fuel of sagebrush and grass and dampens just enough for me to beat it into submission. We fight all night.
The next day we gather at a viewpoint above the Grand Coulee Dam, in central Washington on the Columbia River, just below the plateau where the fire had been the night before. The two other Seattle-based firefighters and I wait for the rest of our strike team, comprised of泭firefighters from all across Washington State. We laugh about how close to death we were last night, trying to shake off the stress. Youve got real grit, my officer says warmly, a stark change from his usual gruff demeanor. I want you to know that if anything comes up while were out here, weve got your back.
Hes referring to the fact that Im openly gay. My whole department knows back home, and Ive been wondering how this would come up while were out here. Yeah, we have your back, Lance, the other firefighter says. I assume hes referring to if theres a fight. When I was in the Navy in the late 2000s,泭this would happen occasionallysome random guy would take offense to my sexuality and threaten violence. Their spoken support is profound to me and makes me feel like Im part of a team out here. In places like this, you cant afford to be on your own.泭
The rest of the strike team makes it to the overlook. A brash young firefighter takes a serious turn to tell a story about how some locals near Colville, Washington, pulled automatic rifles on a group of firefighters and forced them off their land. The story reminds me of my own time near Colville.
Their spoken support is profound to me and makes me feel like Im part of a team out here. In places like this you cant afford to be on your own.
Deep in the Colville National Forest, not too far from the Washington-Canada border, my team and I fought the 泭in August 2016. Wed been covered in soot and dirt for days. Id been put in charge of the pump at the local creek, to fill up the water tenders as needed.泭As I sat by the creek and scribbled some poetry into my notebook, two local men stopped by to chat. They asked me where I was from, and when I told them Seattle, their tone became oppositional. Those damn liberals and their big government, one said.
It was clear: I had to tread carefully. I was alone, my crew miles away, and even though I had a radio and could call for help, it wouldnt have come for a long while. It felt like I was across enemy lines泭by myself. I looked for a point of connection, and when they brought up the topic of guns, I told them that I had been a gunner in the Navy. This appeased them; they shared their respect for our armed forces.
Back at the dam, the brash young guy says those men who pulled the rifles on the firefighters are now in prison. I wonder: If I had been open and honest about who I was to those two guys in Colville, would they have run me off with rifles? For some of us, a potential danger of the outdoors is simply泭being open about who we are.
Since I was a kid, Ive wanted to go off into the unknown and explore. And I wanted to find people to model myself after.泭But I couldnt泭find any openly gay guys I could look up to.泭Without someone charting the way, I began to think,泭Were the great outdoors a place for me? Would I be safe being a visibly out adventurer?泭
When I was in the Navy during Dont Ask, Dont Tell, the only stories I heard about other openly gay people were cautionary tales about the dangers of being open, the price泭of being truthful. When I began my firefighting career, it was much the same: the only stories泭I could find about openly gay people in this field were stories to beware of, inferring how being open could cost you your career. When I started backpacking and climbing, I was happy not to hear so much about the dangers of being gay, but I still couldnt find any openly gay climbers to learn from.
While Ive always wanted mentors and role models, Ive had to do without them. Ive had to be creative and hopeful in my adventuring, always on the lookout for others like me, always eager to share what Ive learned. Together were mapping out what泭adventurous lives like ours can look like.
Its a scorching 90 degrees, theres no wind, and the suns glare off the snow is intense. Its mid-July 2018 and Im with my friend in the , in a marmot kingdom, which turns out to be a hazard. They chew on gear that we dont keep an eye on. As we sit around the creek, filtering water for our midnight attempt of Glacier Peak, my tentmate makes a comment from out of nowhere: I cant believe you never told me that youre gay. There is real emotion in his voice, but I cant place if its anger or hurt.
Wed become fast friends the year before, climbing the steep chimney of Mount泭Shuksan. We both had competing, hearty laughs. He was from the Midwest and didnt grow up with access to grand mountain vistas like those of my childhood in the Pacific Northwest. But our greatest connection came from our mutual wonder of the mountain ranges we traversed. We would sit together with mouths agape, singing their praises.
His jokes often crossed泭the line泭of political correctness; he got in trouble during our mountaineering course for a comment泭that equated female climbers with sewing circles. His political leanings seemed泭very different from mine, so I steered clear of any conversation involving them, including my personal life. Even though we had climbed a handful of mountains together, we hadnt had the talk. Over the winter, he had learned through social media that Im gay.
As we sit around the creek with a looming Glacier Peak behind us, I do my best to minimize the importance of his revelation, saying, Now you know. My laugh isnt the usual hearty heave, its泭more timid, but it gets the job done, and we change the subject. However,泭over the course of the next day, he brings it up again and again, dropping the topic into casual conversation and doing his best to get me to open up about it.
Here on this grand mountain, I realize that coming out to someone isnt just a process for myselfits a process for who I come out to as well.
Finally, I cant deflect anymore, so on the summit of Glacier Peak, in a sea of Cascade mountaintops, I tell him I had a terrible breakup last year and didnt want to talk about it. It wasnt that I was hiding anything from him. But youre my tent partner. I just thought that I should know the guy Im sleeping next to is gay, he says. I mean, youre my first gay friend. Actually, youre the first gay guy Ive ever met. I realize that coming out to someone isnt just a process for myselfits a process for who I come out to as well.
To manage the dangers of being openly gay in the outdoors, we look for signals from the people we adventure with. A gay slur or an off-color joke can be a sign that the ground isnt stable beneath our feet泭and that we should tread carefully in such a persons presence. While my tentmate泭proved to be open-minded and we became even closer after that conversation, I still look for those signs with new acquaintances.
There are other times where coming out isnt a conversation you have, its simply being outside with the one you love.
My boyfriend and I take our first backpacking trip together, at泭North Cascade National Parks Fourth of July Pass,泭on Fourth of July weekend 2018. On our hike, we run into a man who is openly carrying a holstered泭nine-millimeter泭gun泭on his right hip. I strike up a conversation, and his nervous energy is palpable as he explains hes from the East Coast and his weapon泭is to protect him from the bears and wolves hes heard roam these parts.
When we make it to the ridge, we find the most secluded site we can and set up camp. The bugs are in full force on this 84-degree day, so we take reprieve under the netted fortress of my tent. The northeast face of Johannesburg Mountain feels like its right next to us泭as we make out.
A man walks up to our campsite and appears shaken to have witnessed two men kissing. He stumbles over his words: Where is the stream? Is he angry? I cant see his face through the tent, but I can see his legs, and I feel a flush of concern as I remember the man with the gun. I quickly canvas his hips and feel relievedits not the same man, and he has no gun.
For openly gay people outside, theres always that unknown part of the equation. What happens when something rare is made visible?
Being openly gay in the great outdoors has at times made me feel more like a foreign tourist in our American wilderness than a citizen. And a few times its felt dangerous.
But it also makes me feel that spirit of adventure: I get the chance do something that might not have been done before泭or simply become one visible representation of natures vivid diversity. For so long I wanted to see an openly gay man who fights wildfires, stands on the泭top of mythic peaks, and treks through forests泭so that Id believe I could do the same. Now, Ive seen that manIve become him. And Ive learned that when we see the wild ranges of our earth as our own, we care more about them and desire to protect them.
And if I werent comfortable being openly gay in the great outdoors, then the most beautiful day of my life would never have happened. After a bluebird day snowboarding in the French Alps in December, my boyfriend told me there was something he wanted to show me. He took me down a steep trail and over a bridge with views of Mont Blanc, into a grove of larches, where a scene of lanterns and lighted泭letters泭spelled out the name our favorite song, This Is It, by Scotty McCreery. He asked me, Will you live a great story with me?
I joined him on one knee as photographers and families with laughing children at a nearby playground looked on. There, under an Alpine泭sunset, my fianc矇 and I kissed and shared the most incredible moment of our lives in the place we love the mostnature.