As educators, we may not have a whole lot of say about what we teach. But how we teach is absolutely unique — a culmination of our personalities, upbringings, and experiences; our beliefs and values; our relationships and commitments. In my case, surviving 1994’s South Canyon Fire on Storm King Mountain has profoundly influenced how I taught young people — and how I coach educators today.
I lost 9 friends on Storm King, fellow hotshot firefighters in one of the worst wildland firefighting tragedies in U.S. history. Mental health professionals might call my response to this experience “survivor’s guilt,” but I think about it as earning what I’ve been given. My life!
This year marked 30 years since the fire, and my wife, my son, and I flew out Colorado to be at the reunion. We walked the steep inclines of the dusty path up Storm King Mountain, which has permanent memorial markers where each of my friends was found. We shared dinner with the families of those who died and hotshots, both past and present.
Traditionally, survivors of the fire haven’t spoken at the reunions, but Leo Tolstoy’s story, “The Three Questions,” was pressing on my heart. I asked the supervisor of the current hotshots if I could share Tolstoy’s questions, which continue to guide me specifically as an educator and generally as a human being.
I’ve also been driven by a fourth question, which I am preparing to answer at the end of my own life.
Tolstoy’s Three Questions
As the hotshots stood attentively in front of me, Storm King Mountain stood behind them, right in my line of sight. I told them:
I have been trying to understand what happened and why, minutes after it happened, and all the years since. But I’ll never know why this fire happened. I’ll never know why my friends had to die. But what I do know is that I’m alive, and I have to be worthy of the life I’ve been given.
I’ve learned 2 things. The first is the importance of a moment. If I would have known that would be the last time I would see many of my friends, I may have appreciated the moment more deeply. But I was young; I thought I’d live forever. I don’t remember my last words to Doug, Scott, Rob, Tammy, or John.
Now I know it can all be taken from us in a moment, so we should enjoy and appreciate each other while we can.
And I learned that yes, life is hard. And we can do hard things — as long as we understand why. The people on your right and left are depending on you to be the best version of yourself and do what’s required, right now.
I then shared a summary of Leo Tolstoy’s story, “The Three Questions,” which has served as timeless wisdom for me. The story is a about a king who wanted answers to what he thought the three most important questions:
What is the most important time?
Who is the most important person?
What is the most important thing to do?
The king could not find any satisfying answers — until he disguises himself and encounters a simple peasant and a vengeful enemy.
The king discovers the answers:
The most important time is now.
The most important person is the one you are with.
The most important thing is to do good for the person in front of you.
Tolstoy's three questions have guided me; they’ve driven me to make the most of the life I was spared.
Let me take you back to that day, when everything changed in a moment.
July 6, 1994: I Lose My Friends and Keep My Life
On July 6, 1994, 20 of us (the Prineville, OR, hotshots) arrived at what seemed like a standard job in near Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Lightning strikes started multiple fires along the I-70 corridor. Many were threatening residential areas, so we were going to relieve the smoke jumpers who had initially contained them.
As we approached Storm King Mountain, the fire looked small and manageable. We were young, confident, and perhaps a bit naive. None of us could have imagined how quickly things would change.
Two helicopter loads went up first and the hotshots on board started working down the hill — something you should never do, but the fire seemed so small that we didn't think it was a big deal. Luck, God, or fate, I was in the third helicopter load. Going up later saved my life.
Around 4 o'clock, we prepared to head down for chainsaw support. The underbrush was dense gamble oak, probably over our heads, similar to Manzanita in its hardness. What we didn't realize was that the leaves, though green, had been preheating and drying out for three days.
I remember the moment vividly. We had just run into a drop off in elevation when suddenly a tree flared up. In seconds, the entire hillside was engulfed in flames. I looked up, and it was red and black as far as I could see. The fire weather had shifted dramatically, transforming a smoldering patch into an inferno.
As we ran for our lives, I could feel the intense heat melting the reflectors on my hard hat. Bill Baker, Brian Lee, and I ran down the steep hill down toward I-70 and the Colorado River. I poured my canteen of Medaglia (instant espresso) on smokejumper Eric Hipkey’s back as he lay face-down on the asphalt, his clothing on fire.
The events that followed — at the Bureau of Land Management office, then Two Rivers Park where the White River and Colorado River meet, watching the fire jump from ridge to ridge, and finally gathering in the Red Lion conference room to cry together — are seared into my memory.
The One End-of-Life Question I’m Preparing to Answer
11 of us survived, and nine of us died: Scott Blecha, Levi Brinkley, Doug Dunbar, Terri Hagen, Bonnie Holtby, Rob Johnson, Kathi Beck, Tami Bickett, and John Kelso.
I went to nine funerals. Then I went home.
Eventually I was able to break through my depression. Eventually I was able to sleep. I poured myself into my studies to restore myself. As a teacher and as an administrator, when people dismiss others’ mental health issues, I take it very personally. I know that it's real.
I believe it would be disgraceful if I didn’t continually work to be a better version of myself — as an educator, a husband, a father, and a human being.
I believe that when I die, God is not going to ask me, Jose, why weren't you a lawyer? Why weren't you a doctor? Why weren't you president?
I believe my God is going to ask me, Jose, why weren't you a better Jose?
I gave you two legs, and you stood for nothing. I gave you two hands, and you built nothing. I gave you two eyes, and you never saw the pain of the people around you. I gave you two ears, and you never listened to anybody.
Jose, why weren't you a better Jose?
This question motivates me daily as an educator. It pushes me to get up when I want to give up. I stand for restorative justice and trauma-informed practices in schools, building environments where students can thrive. I can't look away from the pain of students who need our guidance. My goal is to inspire educators to find their own "fourth question" — their driving force to be their best for students, schools, and each other.
Let’s talk about how we can honor the lives we've been given by showing up fully for our students, every day.
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