We neared the end of a mild hill where the trail leveled off as it crossed a brush field.
“You’re almost there,” he said in my ear. “You can’t see ’em yet, they’ll be kinda hidden. But you’re close. Start pickin’ up speed now, and when I say run, you run, okay? Run as hard as you fuckin’ can. Finish strong.”
“Run?” It was a hill.
“I’m not jokin’.”
“Okay,” I breathed shakily and dug in, speeding up marginally. As we left the timber and entered the open slope, I saw a few hard hats, somewhat obscured by bushes maybe forty yards out. Oh god. They were going to watch me coming. The last one. The slow one. The girl. It was a big, shamey show. What if—
“RUN!” Benjy bellowed.
And, not believing it was possible, sure I had nothing to give, I broke into a sprint—or as close as I could get under all that gear. Pack bouncing against my tailbone, quads pulling, calves cramping, my Dolmar thumping and shifting dangerously on my shoulders, I ran up the last stretch of hill between me and the crew. I ran like my life depended upon it. And who knows, maybe it did.
As I got close, the guys began to yell. To my surprise, it wasn’t insults or jeers. Instead, like a sports team, they were cheering for me.
“Yeah, Kelly!”
“Hell yeah!”
“You’re almost there. Push!”
“You got this, Kelly!”
Through the din I saw Van. “Just get to me,” he said. He was standing, arm extended, acting as a finish line. I sprinted the last ten yards, the boys screaming, “YEAH, KELLY,” and when I got to Van, I stopped short and low-fived his hand, letting the Dolmar slide to the ground. He was wearing a huge grin, one that lingered.
“Hell yeah,” he said.
The guys went back to talking, gathering their stuff for the hike down. I could barely stand. I was heaving, soaked in sweat, and thought I might vomit. I put my hands on my knees, willing the puke back down. I took off my hard hat and mopped my face with the sleeve of my yellow. Benjy, coming up behind me, cuffed me on the shoulder.
“Nice work.”
“Um, no,” I gasped. “But thanks. Thanks for sticking with me.”
“I’ve seen worse.” Benjy shrugged.
Van addressed all of us. “Alright, boys. Er—guys. Alright, everybody.” He laughed self-consciously. “Well, first hike, and that wasn’t too bad. Now you know what you’re up against. We definitely have room for improvement. Some people were gapping out, and our time at the front wasn’t great.”
Oh, fantastic, I thought. The front was too slow?
“Some of you,” Van said. “Seemed to be phoning it in. You looked like you were walking. That’s unacceptable. I don’t care if you’re first in the pack or dead last. I want to see you going as hard as you can. Look at Kelly.”
He pointed, and they looked. I froze in horror. I couldn’t see myself, but I could feel myself: a hot mess. My face turned beet red with even the mildest cardio, so I knew it was flaming.
“That’s what you should look like when you get up here. That’s the effort I want to see.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, like Oh, trust me—nobody wants this. I was humiliated. But how nice of Van to say that. It was really, really nice, and I never forgot it. I had learned something important: Effort meant a lot here. Trying might even be enough.
Adapted from Wildfire Days: A Woman, a Hotshot Crew, and the Burning American West by Kelly Ramsey. Copyright © 2025 by Kelly Ramsey. Excerpted with permission of Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
