When I arrived at the TV station for work, the newsroom was
abuzz with activity. "You need to change into hiking clothes,"
my assignment editor told me. "The wildfire in the mountains is
threatening nearby homes."
Autumn is peak time for forest fires in the Southeast. For several
days in October 2000, I had checked on the various fires in the
Knoxville, Tennessee, area and written short updates for the newscasts.
I craved the excitement of a breaking story. I quickly changed
my clothes and met up with Paul, the photographer I would be working
with that night.
Paul and I drove to the foot of one of the mountains where the
forestry department and many local volunteer fire departments
were staging operations.
"Ah, you two are back," greeted our contact. "What do you plan
on doing tonight?"
"We're updating the fires, plan to go live from one of the nearby
homes at 11," I replied. "Any chance we can get some footage of
the firefighters actually working on the front lines?" Paul and
I finally convinced our contact that this would make an exciting
story for our viewers. We called our news desk and told them we'd
be back with a great lead story for the 11 p.m. newscast then
loaded our equipment into a forestry department vehicle.
The trip up the mountain was perilous. It was pitch black --
the smoke filling the air blocked the sun -- and several times
our Jeep would lean over steep precipices. In my life, I had never
been so scared. Finally, we got to the top.
As the firefighters worked to surround the flames and keep them
from spreading, Paul and I also set to work. We interviewed the
firefighters while they worked and soon found ourselves with more
than enough video to fill a four-minute slot in a newscast. We
crafted a line I could say as I walked out from the behind the
burning trees, then set to work on making the scene look as we
pictured in our minds. As I wrapped up my final take, I heard
the radios of the firefighters start crackling, softly at first,
then louder. The men began moving quickly.
"Hurry up! We need to move. Now!" our chaperone called out to
us.
The wind had shifted. The fire was now coming straight at us.
The crews were trying to come up with a way to contain it, but
their chances appeared slim. We all scurried up to a higher point
and watched as the flames approached. I was scared. I offered
to help -- could I dig a little bit? I was sure I could handle
the work, if only someone would let me try.
Paul and I soon realized we were not going to make our deadline.
At this point, we could not even set up a live shot for the 11
o'clock show since we had no way of getting down the mountain.
Paul attempted to call the newsroom, but cell service was nonexistent
up here. We hoped the forestry department officials would relay
a message that we were trapped but safe.
After some time, the front-line crews were forced to surrender
to nature's fiery attack. In defeat, we all walked just ahead
of the fire, down the dark smoke-filled path to where our vehicles
were waiting. We had to create a new trail for the trip down.
All of us followed caravan style as the first vehicle's driver
tried out any paths he could see -- or make. The forestry department
sent a steamroller up from the foot of the mountain to clear a
path for us to drive down. After many wrong turns and backtracking,
we could tell we were nearing the bottom of the mountain. Unfortunately,
this happened at the same time we found out the steamroller creating
a path for us had died and needed to be repaired. Paul and I got
out of the Jeep, grabbed our gear, and walked down the rest of
the mountain -- by the beam of a miner's light on one of the helmets
-- with a few of the men who were with us that night.
At the foot of the mountain, Paul and I both turned and faced
the fire through the smoke-filled air. We were thrilled to be
out of there -- even if we were too sleepy to talk about it.
Back at the station, I quickly wrote a script and voiced it
with my smoky, raspy voice. Paul edited the piece, then we sat
and watched as it ran just moments later on the early morning
newscast. The firefighters later told us we deserved honorary
titles for our bravery. The Tennessee Department of Forestry no
longer allows news crews at the front lines.
* * *
Rebecca Gerben is working on an MBA at the University of Chicago
Graduate School of Business.
