June 26, 1990 - A Day Forged in Fire
The air was thick and heavy, not just with the oppressive heat of June 1990, but with an unspoken dread. Payson was baking at 106°F, and up on the Mogollon Rim, where my hunting cabin nestled into the pines, the dry, drought-stricken forest felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark. This wasn't just any cabin. It was a legacy, built by my great-grandfather Reban Hedges and his son, my grandfather G.C. (George Clinton) Hedges, who was born on June 26, 1909. They constructed it around 1921,
the same year Zane Grey built his famous cabin nearby, while they were working on new road constructions in the area. It overlooked the very "Call of the Canyon" Zane Grey wrote about, and it had been their hunting base along the Mogollon Rim.
I grew up with that cabin. As a kid, my grandparents would take me on camping and hunting trips, introducing me to its quiet magic. After graduating high school on June 5, 1989, I made a bold move. I packed up and moved out there, away from everything and everyone, to be alone with my high school sweetheart. We made that cabin our own retreat, a sanctuary where our new life together began. It was more than wood and stone; it was generations of memories, whispered conversations, the scent of pine and adventure, and the very foundation of my adult life.
Then came the lightning. It was a dry storm, the kind that ignites rather than quenches, and by the afternoon of June 25th, smoke plumes were rising under the Rim. My heart sank. I watched from a distance as the fire grew with terrifying speed, an angry orange glow against the darkening sky. Sleep was impossible. By early morning on June 26th, the fire was a monstrous 1,900 acres, roaring towards Bonita Creek Estates, and, I knew, my cabin.
I packed what I could, what little mattered beyond my own skin, but I couldn't just leave. Not the cabin my family built, not this forest that held so many of my memories. I grabbed what meager tools I had – a shovel, a few buckets – a futile gesture against such a force, but a necessary one for my soul. The air was now a suffocating blend of smoke and ash, the heat radiating in waves, even at a distance. I fought, I really did. I tried to create a fire break, to beat back the encroaching flames, my lungs burning with every labored breath, my eyes streaming.
But the fire was an entity, not just a hazard. It moved with a terrifying intelligence, driven by the bizarre, collapsing thunderstorm it had created. Winds shifted erratically, downbursts sending walls of flame leaping across canyons, spotting fires miles ahead. I saw it consume trees in explosive bursts, the sound a horrific roar that swallowed all other noise. Wildlife, disoriented and terrified, ran blindly, some consumed by the inferno. The horror of witnessing that, of knowing what it meant for creatures who called this place home, is etched into my memory.
The moment came when I knew it was hopeless. The heat was unbearable, the smoke blinding. I was forced to retreat, the fire's roar a personal lament for all I was losing – a home, a legacy, a piece of my history. But I couldn't just leave. I had to do something. So I joined the burgeoning chaos of the fire crews, a civilian among professionals, driven by a primal need to fight back, to lend a hand, however small, against the destruction.
That day will forever live in infamy for me. I worked alongside the fire crews, a grim determination in my gut. I remember the sheer exhaustion, the grit of ash between my teeth, the taste of fear and adrenaline. I remember the faces of those brave firefighters, some young, some seasoned, all pushing beyond human limits. The communication was breaking down, the command structure shifting, adding another layer of terror to an already desperate situation. We were fighting a beast, and it was taking lives.
The news of the Perryville crew, lost in Walk Moore Canyon, tore through us like a fresh gust of the fire itself. They had arrived on the fireline around 7:30 PM on June 25th and were working on improving indirect firelines in Walk Moore Canyon by 2:30 AM on June 26th. Then, around 2:15 PM, the fire made a significant, deadly run. Eleven crewmembers were cut off; they deployed their fire shelters, but tragically, six of them perished: Sandra Bachman, Joseph Chacon, Alex Contreras, James Denney, James Ellis, and Curtis Springfield. Five others suffered burn injuries but survived. Their sacrifice later became a catalyst for the widespread adoption of LCES (Lookouts, Communications, Escape Routes, Safety Zones) principles in wildland firefighting, emphasizing that such a tragedy should never be repeated. It was a stark, brutal reminder of the stakes.
Here is a picture of June 26, 1990, the day the Mogollon Rim burned
The day I lost the cabin my great-grandfather and grandfather built, the place that became my first home as a married man, my sanctuary. The day I witnessed nature's raw, destructive power, and the profound, humbling courage of those who stand against it. A piece of me burned with that forest, a scar etched deep, a perpetual reminder of profound loss and the fierce, enduring spirit of survival.
Yours For Now Captain Hedges
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