The Watchman

The gate at the top looked locked.

I turned to go, when a man appeared above me and swung the gate up. He was in his sixties—thin but strong, with a wispy hair and piercing blue eyes.

“My name’s Keith,” he said. “I’ve been the fire watchman here since 1984. Do you have any questions?”

“I wouldn’t even know what to ask,” I replied.

~

He pointed north toward Mount Lassen. A line of snow still clinging to its volcanic peak.

To burn-scarred hills in the east.

Toward the Sacramento Valley in the west.

Distant ridges fading into blue haze.

“I know what it’s supposed to look like. If something changes—even just a little wisp of smoke—I notice. Even now. The campfire…”

I squinted, yet I saw nothing.

“Come inside,” he said, opening the door to the watchtower and stepping out of the way.

It was a single room, about ten feet square with windows all around. Binoculars, radios, and books lined the windowsills. Clothes hung from the rafters.

“Let me show you how it works.”

He pointed at the fire finder—a circular map mounted beneath a swiveling sight.

“Every half-inch is a mile. Everything you can see from the border of Lassen Park to the edge of the valley is under my watch.”

I glanced at the map, at the scale beside it.

“Twelve-hundred miles.” I said. “For how long?”

“Forty-two years.”

I looked at him.

“That’s long as I’ve been alive.”

He turned away from the map then and pointed around the room.

The radio.

The batteries.

The bed.

The tiny stove.

“This is home. Through lightning storms, heat waves, smoke, and blizzards. You know, the wind chill here can get below zero.”

“Blizzards? You’re here year round?”

“Just fire season,” he said. “May to October.”

Then he shrugged.

“Well, sometimes longer. I have a cabin in town, but I like it here. Or I did.”

He glanced at the radio tower rising next door, the solar farm powering it.

“What an eyesore,” he said. “They built it a few years ago. Now it just sits there, blocking my view, always reminding me of civilization.”

~

On the steel beams beneath the tower someone had painted repeating rows of dates.

1984

1985

1986

…

2024

Every year but the last two.

“I used to climb out underneath the tower,” he laughed.

He pointed to the missing years.

“Shoulder trouble.”

“Hip surgery.”

“I was here, only my name’s missing. I may fill them in next season.”

Then he looked toward the gate where I’d first found him.

“You know,” he said. “I met my wife right there—standing where you’re standing.”

He smiled.

“I never know who’s going to climb my watchtower.”