Dawn breaks over the valley as smoke still lingers—a silent reminder of the night’s storm and the tower’s watchful purpose, rekindled once more.
maining fire. We could only note the fire’s approximate location, and scribbled some notes on its location before locking up the tower and hiking out. Driving home, we flagged a pass - ing Forest Service crew and handed over our scribbled notes and coordi- nates of the fire. For a fleeting mo - ment, their thanks was like a badge of honor, an acknowledgment that more than 50 years after retire- ment, Arid Peak once again stood sentinel over the forests below, this time with us on patrol. It isn’t the tallest or grandest lookout we’d
luminating the surrounding wil- derness. We gasped as distant air-to-ground strikes ignited three separate fires, their flames flar - ing against the dark horizon. We felt a profound connection to the lookout’s original purpose in those thrilling moments. We became gen- uine fire lookouts for those adren - aline-fueled hours, the wilderness ours to protect. When we woke at dawn, we no- ticed smoke still lingered from one of the lightning strikes. We had es- caped the cell signal long ago and did not have a way to call in the re-
seen, but it offered us a rare gift: a chance to live its history. We’d come for escape; we left with a sto- ry etched in us that we would nev- er forget. N Cat House contributed to this ar- ticle. Billy Cooter and Cat House, founders of Idaho Fire Lookouts, share images and stories of Idaho’s fire lookout towers at www.idaho - firelookouts.com.
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