The Silver Complex of forest fires in 1987 was a big one, by fire standards.

So when I got the call to head out to Oregon to work as a cook in fire camp, I jumped at the chance.

I was heading into my senior year of college, and had signed up to work for a Missoula-based company that provided most everything for the big fire camps — showers, food and commissary.

We boarded a school bus in Missoula and wobbled our way to Oregon. Now the only way to get paid for that long bus ride from Missoula to Salem was if you were a driver, so naturally I volunteered. I had never driven a school bus before, and I sweated nervously as I navigated that bus through six lanes of traffic in Oregon. We arrived unscathed at fire camp, and it was like entering (what I suppose to be) a war zone. Helicopters flew in and out of the big camp. Hundreds of people moved about with purpose, setting up this sprawling little town that would in a few days service over 5,000 people.

Hundreds of firefighters lived in pup tents or set up their bivouac under a drooping tree.

My job was in a kitchen.

For four weeks I worked almost around the clock, feeding hundreds of firefighters every day. It was hard work, but probably not near as hard as the jobs of the firefighters who walked through the chow line in the morning and at the end of a long day on the fire line. Their faces were blackened, and their eyes were the only place charcoal hadn’t touched. In the evening the firefighters were quiet and subdued — and hungry. In the mornings, they were fairly chipper, bantering among themselves about the day ahead.

After the morning rush, the fire camp quieted down, and we cooks settled into our preparations for dinner.

We worked out of big semi-trailers that were outfitted with commercial kitchens, complete with grills, ovens, walk-in coolers and fryers. We had a few other semi trailers that functioned as showers. All in all, fire camp work was pretty plush; we had fresh food, showers, and heck, we even got two hours’ sleep at night.

I had to leave the fire camp in early September as classes at the University of Montana were about to start up. The catering company managment paid me in cash, and I made my way back to Montana. My buddies and I hitchhiked from southern Oregon up to Salem. We figured a freight train would be just the ticket to complete the journey, so we jumped aboard a freight train bound for Missoula — or so we thought. We didn’t know, we just knew it was pointed east.

My two buddies and I climbed aboard the freight train on the outskirts of Spokane, since we’d heard of the yard bulls in Spokane didn’t take kindly to people riding in box cars.

The train winded through the open farmland east of Spokane, taking me home to my last year of college, and a future that spread out before me. We must have thought we were part of a James Bond thriller, so we climbed atop the moving train and ran along the top of the cars. The train crawled to a stop, and we climbed down to a flatbed. A Burlington Northern truck pulled up alongside the train, and a kind gentleman told us that while he didn’t mind us riding the rails, he wouldn’t tolerate us running on top of the train.

I don’t think we’d get away with that today.

The train crept back up to speed, and we rode through beautiful mountain scenery to Sandpoint, Idaho, eating our lunches of fresh food out of our North Face backpacks, while some of the hobos riding along with us eyed the three college boys with suspicion.

We opened our backpacks and spread the wealth to some of the other inhabitants of the boxcar, but I was still a little nervous at the situation.

Then the train stopped.

We idled for hours on a sidetrack while other trains sped past us. We were on the milk run.

Highway 200 was just a few hundred yards away, and one by one, my buddies left the train for greener pastures … or a faster ride. I was the last to abdicate from the train. I found a pizza box along the train tracks and made a sign that said “Missoula. Cash for gas.” I stuck out my thumb on the highway, and the first car that stopped took me all the way to the Garden City.

I made it back in time for my birthday dinner at my girlfriend’s house, a wad of cash in my backpack, and some fond memories of fire camp life.

David Reese is the editor of the Bigfork Eagle.