Here's a story from a little over a year ago, when I was fighting fire out of Elko Nevada.
The crew was spending the day in town, waiting for a call, to avoid another dull day at base, and I was walking to the library, where I could enjoy air conditioning, internet conectivity, and maybe a chapter of the samurai epic, Musashi.
On the way there, I was accosted by a drunken, Irish miner. I'm not making this up.
He insisted that I sit down and chat with him a spell. Seeings that this guy was about three times my size, with a tendency to sway, mutter and brag on his mighty warrior ancestors, I decided not to argue with him. You never know where you stand with drunk guys, and even swaying, this one moved like a veteran brawler.
So, I sat down on the curb and talked about the meaning of life with this guy for a spell. He seemed to be shocked that someone as young as me was serving on the fire line, but then admitted to having done a few seasons on the line himself. It's not a line of work I would actively wish on anyone, so I guess I can see his position.
Anyway, much to my relief, a fire engine shortly pulled up, to carry me away on a new assignment in Utah.
"Who was that guy?"
"Some drunk, Irish miner."
"You really shouldn't hang out with drunk Irish miners. They're pretty unpredictable."
"That's why I decided it was best to just go with it. I didn't want to upset him."
"So, how was the library?"
"Man, I never even got there."
