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BLACKFEET "CHIEF MOUNTAIN HOTSHOTS "  L to R: Lyle St. Goddard, Rod Bullshoe, Willard Pepion, Eli Stillmoking, Doug Malatare, Joanne Cadotte, Josh Salway, Sheldon Brewer, Loren Young Running Crane, Tim Sure Chief, Allen Dale Vielle Bottom L to R: Steve Bullshoe, Earl Old Chief, Jovon Fisher, Dale Tatsey, Gordon North Piegan, Brenda McDougall, Clinton Dusty Bull 
"Here’s a Western trivia question: In what community is there one wildland
firefighter for every eight residents?
The answer: The Blackfeet Indian Reservation in Montana, where about 8,000
people live.
Last summer, more than 1,000 Blackfeet firefighters collectively brought
home $6.1 million in wages. In an area of astronomically high unemployment,
firefighting is a prized job.
But if Indians need firefighting jobs, it is also true that the federal
agencies responsible for fighting wildfire couldn’t get along without
Indians. Altogether, the Bureau of Indian Affairs sponsors up to 200 crews
of 20 people each, plus five “hotshot” crews. One fire manager describes
Native American crews as the “backbone of our labor pool for big fires.”
Blackfeet tradition
The tradition of Blackfeet firefighters reaches back almost 100 years, and
in 1914, the tribe signed an agreement with adjoining Glacier National Park
to fight fires there.
Though Indian crews fought fire throughout the 1930s, at some point the
government stopped paying them. When BIA officials tried to muster crews,
“some would go, and others would hide,” says John Murray, a long-time Indian
firefighter who is now an instructor and operations section-chief.
Firefighting slacked off during World War II, then picked up again in 1949.
That’s when Frank Still Smoking, then 17, was dispatched to his first fire.
“I didn’t know nothing about fighting fire,” he says, “but I picked it up.”
In those days the men were used for initial attack, but during the
late-1960s, when the BIA began officially organizing Indian crews, Indians
were relegated to what fire managers call “mop-up” work. Older Indian
firefighters still bristle at what they consider a demotion.
Crews shortchanged
Indians are still being shortchanged on the fireline. “Some Anglo managers
treat us as if we don’t really know very much,” Murray says. “People will
over explain things to us on the line. They talk really slowly and loudly to
us.”
Paul Chamberlin, an Anglo, has seen it happen. The fire safety officer for
the Northern Rockies told me, “You may have Indian firefighters with 20
years experience at a fire, yet an Anglo manager will look past them and not
even hear them.”
The official word from the BIA is that there are very few reports of racism
on the fireline. But how do you describe subtle scenarios like this in a
report?
There are other instances. “I noticed that a lot of Native American crews in
Montana working on rehab projects last summer ended up getting the terrible
assignments that the hotshots or engine crews didn’t want,” says Jacqueline
Hawley, BIA fire management officer for western Nevada.
Then there’s the dearth of promotions for capable Indian firefighters. Even
BIA officials agree that not enough Indians are climbing up the managerial
ladder — despite the great number of talented and experienced workers.
“They don’t want to leave the reservation” — is the frequently heard excuse
from non-Indian managers. But that’s hogwash, say Hawley and other Indians
who have moved up the ladder. “We’ve just never been given the opportunity,”
she says.
Hotshots story
And don’t think there’s a lack of work ethic or attitude among Indians. The
Chief Mountain Hotshots, stationed at the Blackfeet Reservation, stand as an
inspiration for all determined youth. In 1987, Murray wanted to get his hard
working crew organized as hotshots but couldn’t find an organization to
financially support them. The BIA told him there were too many hotshot crews
already, and the tribe didn’t have the funds.
Undaunted, the 20 young men pursued their shared dream. To earn money they
hired out as a unit to thin forests and cut poles and rails. They used the
money they made to buy their chainsaws and other equipment, and traveled in
an old bus that wouldn’t start unless they pushed it first. At the end of
one thinning job, the crew split the leftover money and ended up with $7
each.
The bonds grew so close between the crew members that Murray thought, “They
would actually die for one another.”
They called themselves the Dog brothers because nobody would claim them.
“We started out pretty glum, but now Chief Mountain is a nationally
recognized, fully-funded crew,” says Leon Vlielle, the crew’s first
superintendent. “That’s the fruit of our labor.”
Isn’t it about time more of these valuable workers didn’t have to work so
hard just for an opportunity to succeed?"
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