I never thought I’d end up a journalist, but what I’ve learned about reporting — from a hodgepodge of hands-on experience and mentorship — is that most of my work involves learning about other people’s work.
As someone who grew up watching shows like “How It’s Made” and “Dirty Jobs,” it’s pretty awesome. I get a crash course on topics from experts in their field, whether that’s whiskey making at Alpine Distilling, chocolatiering at Montage Deer Valley or even researching Utah’s cannabis program. I even recently got to observe a cadaver lab training day with Park City Fire District as part of an upcoming series on its emergency medical services program. Awesome.
Over my three short years at The Park Record, forestry and fire have been two recurring subjects, a key part of my makeshift beat.
In my first year, the Yellow Lake Fire blew up in the National Forest past Francis, and being the lone volunteer for a visit to the fire camp, I found myself headfirst in a whole new world.
Nomex, tents, portable handwash stations, fire maps, “swimming in acronym soup” — I felt like I was on the set of a movie, as close to a military deployment camp as I’ll probably ever get. Our escort out to the fire line was pretty generous, setting us up on a meadow with a full view of smoke plumes, aircraft dropping water on the flames as if putting on a show on an otherwise gorgeous fall day.
The next spring, our photographer and I got red cards, the nickname for an Incident Qualification Card issued by the National Wildfire Coordinating Group. It’s an entry-level wildland firefighting certification that acknowledges a person has completed the necessary training, experience and physical fitness tests to work on firelines.
There are about 40 hours of online coursework to go over fundamentals like the science of fire, fuel types, tools and their uses, firefighting hierarchy and the national systems for fighting fire. Then there’s the beloved pack test, a 3-mile hike with a 45-pound pack in under 45 minutes, followed by an in-person practice day — held by Alpine Forestry — with tasks like laying hose line, operating a water tender and a mock crew scenario to dig a scratch line, respond to a spot fire and deploy a fire shelter.
That one day left me sore and exhausted for a full week.
When we were re-certifying this Tuesday — another pack test followed by a classroom refresher led by a few guest speakers — I was reminded how much these crews give to the work. And they’re all so tough. A cold, rainy, muddy pack test at 7 a.m.? No big deal. And for the “old dogs” who came to lecture, stories ranged from summers spent deployed to remote fires, running on foot from gigantic flames and largely shrugging off traumatic experiences.
That attitude of recklessly risking life and limb for the cause has shifted over the years, they admitted. Nowadays, firefighters are prioritizing mental health, clearer communication among crewmates and a greater emphasis on safety.
Those values are something course attendees were told to remember going into the 2026 fire season.
With the worst snowpack on record in the Great Basin region and an expected El Niño developing way out in the Pacific Ocean, meteorologists predict the fire season could be long and devastating.
In these conditions, focusing on safety and taking one day at a time are essential to a successful season, the young firefighters were told.
As for me, I don’t plan to get out into the real action (though I wouldn’t say no if I could!). But when it comes to my job of relaying information to the community, these long, tiring days only make my reporting that much richer.
In a best-case scenario, having my red card may allow a public information officer on a future wildfire to escort me closer to a fire front or maybe even tie us in with a crew near the front lines. If not, just having one has helped me better translate a fire conversation into lay person speak. It’s also led to better relationships, where I can clearly show a firsthand respect for what these crews do.
Because while people enjoy the safety and comfort of their homes, these men and women head out into harm’s way as the first line of defense, and sometimes on the offense. The more our communities know about the work they do — the sacrifices and the physicality and the genius — the better we can appreciate them. That’s my hope anyway.