Into the Inferno: Surviving the 1910 Big Burn

The Big Burn of 1910 remains one of the largest and most destructive wildfires in American history. The fire consumed over two million acres of northern Idaho and western Montana in just a few days, fueled by drought, high temperatures, and hurricane-force winds. Towns, logging camps, and entire forests vanished in the flames, leaving death and destruction in their wake. 

The fire reshaped the U.S. Forest Service, spurred new firefighting techniques, and cemented the reputation of men like Ed Pulaski, whose leadership and quick thinking saved forty-five lives. More than a century later, the story of that inferno endures, a reminder of both the raw power of nature and the courage of those who faced it head-on. Through grit, courage, and unwavering leadership, the firefighters on that ridge exemplified what it truly means to be MTNTOUGH.

The following is a fictional vignette derived from primary sources to put you in the moment, feel the heat, the stress, and the decision-making. We want you to learn from this situation to hone your mental toughness and sharpen your understanding of leadership.
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The sun hung high in the late-morning sky, its brutal rays baking the timbered crests of the Bitterroots. Needles and dry pine cones crunched underfoot, ready to catch fire. The slopes rose steep and uneven, carved with gullies and creek beds, the ground cracked and powdery from weeks without rain. Every step sent dust spiraling into the air.

Smoke from distant fires billowed through the trees, sharp and acrid, carrying the scent of scorched resin and blackened earth. The forest was restless. Dry grasses waved like warning flags. Fallen timber littered the ridges, brittle and dangerous. Streams ran thin and dark, carrying ash from fires upstream. The birds were gone, leaving only the occasional rustle of small animals fleeing the heat. 

Wind gusted in sudden bursts, rattling branches and sending sparks scattering like glowing seeds. Shadows shifted across uneven terrain, making the forest seem almost alive. The treetops shimmered with heat, and the roar of the main fire drifted over the valleys in the distance.

We had been clear-cutting brush for the past two weeks, swinging axes and digging trenches from dawn to dusk, trying to hold back a fire that seemed impossible to stop. The blaze stretched from the Clearwater Mountains to the Bitterroot Valley, consuming everything in its path. Every line we cleared felt temporary, a thin barrier against something far bigger and faster than any man could hope to control. 

I kept my eyes on the first line below. Sparks caught in needles and fallen timber, sending small tongues of flame racing along the slope. Huck and Red dragged branches and shoveled dirt, sweat running down their faces. Doc crouched in a trench nearby, keeping it clear of debris. One sudden gust of wind and the fire could leap the line and climb to us in minutes.

The smoke thickened, turningthe air gray and heavy. The wind rattled the trees, carrying heat and ash toward us. Every swing of the axe, every shove of dirt, mattered. We were holding one ridge at a time against a fire that moved faster than a man could run.

I heard the crunch of boots against dry needles before I saw him. Pulaski moved along the ridge with a calm I had not yet earned to match. His hat was pulled low, shadowing eyes that seemedto measure every tree, every slope, every flicker of smoke. He didn’t carry any tools, just a steady stride and a gaze that cut through the heat and haze like a knife. When he reached me, he nodded once, curtly.

“Mac,” he said, voice low but certain, “the wind is shifting.”

I followed his eyes to the distant treetops. The smoke had changed, curling in a different direction. The forest smelled hotter, drier, more urgent. Even from this distance, I could see flames leaping higher on the ridge across the valley, racing toward us faster than before.

Pulaski did not waste words. He gestured toward a narrower draw that led up to higher ground, where the old mine sat half-forgotten among the rocks and timber. “We have to move there. Now. Theridge won’t hold if that wind keeps.”

I looked back at the men below, still laboring, still trying to hold a line that no longer made sense. The first line was holding for the moment, but the fire’s new path meant it would climb and reach us in minutes. I could feel it in my chest. The urgency of our dire situation pressed against us.

Pulaski’s presence was steady, almost unnerving in contrast to the panic rising around us. He scanned the forest with the precision of a man who had faced danger before and lived. His hands rested lightly on his hips, but his mind was already plotting our escape. I realized that this moment would test every man on the ridge. Pulaski’s calm leadership could be the only thing keeping some of us alive.

He turned toward the draw without another word. I followed, motioning to the crew. Huck and Red caught on immediately, abandoning the last of their trench work to follow. Doc hesitated, his eyes wide, soot streaking his face. He followed after a moment. The ridge behind us seemed suddenly smaller, exposed. The fire below was moving with a new hunger, fed by the shifting wind, and there was no time to linger.

We moved fast, picking our way over the scorched ridges and loose rocks. The air was thick with smoke now, making it hard to breath. Sparks swirled ahead of us, carried by gusts that rattled the branches and whipped at our clothes. The sound of the blaze grew louder, a low, constant roar that seemed to follow our steps.

Pulaski stayed ahead, moving with the same calm precision, scanning the land ahead of us. He pointed to a narrow path through a stand of dead pines that led upward to the mine.

“This way,” he said, and we followed, leaving the last of the cleared ridge behind. Every step was uphill, every branch we pushed aside a potential trap. The ridge we had fought so hard to hold was already disappearing in the haze, flames licking closer with every gust.

Huck stumbled over a loose log, his face streaked with sweat and ash. Red caught his arm and shoved him forward, cursing under his breath. I glanced back. Doc had been struck by a falling tree. He lay still among the scorched timber, smoke curling around him, and my chest tightened. I stopped and pulled off my hat, a silent gesture of respect.

Pulaski’s voice cut through the roar, sharp and unyielding. “He’s gone, Mac. Keep moving.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my eyes back to the ridge. The fire was climbing faster now, spreading along the slopes below in a sheet of orange and red, the roar swallowing the sound of our boots. Every step forward felt heavier, knowing Doc would not rise again. Huck and Red pressed on, their movements frantic, their faces pale under the ash. I followed, hat in hand, letting Pulaski’s steady presence pull us forward even as grief and fear clawed at my chest.

“Keep moving,” Pulaski repeated, scanning the slopes ahead. “The mine is close, but the fire will be on us soon.”

We reached a bend in the path where the slope opened to the rocky outcropping above the treeline. The mine came into view, half-hidden among timber and boulders. Sparks rained down around us as the wind carried fire through the dead brush on the slope below. I felt the heat on my neck and heard the crackle of burning pine needles snapping under the blaze. We made it to the mine with no time to spare.

Pulaski leaned against a rock, scanning the ridge and the valley below. “This is temporary,” he said. “The wind’s shifting again. We stay here until it passes, then we find the next line.

The fire was everywhere at once. The flames climbed the slopes below us, and the wind pushed the blaze toward the mine with a roar that shook the ground. Smoke stung my eyes and filled my lungs, thick and choking, making every breath a battle. I could see the first line we had left behind swallowed by orange tongues of flame. There was no time, no options.

The wind swept the mountains in circles, carrying sparks and flames across every ridge. Smoke choked the valleys, darkening the sun, and the heat pressed down on us from every direction. The fire below had joined with others across the slopes, racing along dry brush and timber. It felt like the whole world in those mountains was aflame.

Pulaski’s voice cut through the roar. “Mac! Get the men together! Now!”

I turned and saw him moving along the ridge, his horse picking carefully through scorched ground. 

Sparks hissed around his boots. “Pulaski!” I shouted back. “The wind’s shifting fast!”

“I know,” he called. “We have to move.”

I rounded up Huck and Red, dragging the others toward Pulaski’s position. The men were panicked, many unfamiliar with the trails. One stumbled over a fallen log, coughing through the smoke. 

“Keep moving! Don’t stop!” I yelled, grabbing his arm and pulling him along.

Pulaski stopped in a small clearing and pointed toward the old mine tunnel. “Red! Grab as many blankets as you can from the camp. Go as fast as you can!” His voice was low but commanding, carrying over the roar of the wind and fire.

“Blankets?” Red shouted, disbelief in his voice. “Against this heat?”

Pulaski didn’t answer. He ran a hand over a log, motioning us toward the mine. “Goddammit man, just do it or we are all dead. Trust me.” 

Red spurred his horse and raced toward the camp, the hooves kicking up dust and sparks behind him. The rest of us followed Pulaski’s lead, moving over scorched ground and loose rocks, every step measured against the fire racing up the ridges behind us. Sparks hissed and popped in the air. The wind drove smoke into our faces, burning lungs and stinging eyes, but Pulaski moved ahead as if he owned the path, calm and decisive, pulling us forward when our fear threatened to stop us.

Red met us at the mine, his horse covered with blankets. Pulaski grabbed a blanket and ordered, “Lie face down. Cover yourselves with the blankets. Stay low. Watch the fire!”

I pressed into the dirt, heat searing my back. Huck and Red did the same, coughing, sweat and ash streaking their faces. Flames raced along the trail we had run, the wind pushing them like a living thing. Pulaski stayed calm in the center, checking each man, moving among us with a steady hand.

“Can we hold it here?” I asked, voice hoarse.

“For now,” he said. “Just long enough to live. Once the wind shifts again, we move. Understand?”

“Yes,” I said, staring at the blaze that seemed to reach the sky. For a moment, the mine tunnel, the blankets, and Pulaski’s steady command were all that separated us from the fire that had swallowed everything else.

The fire had closed in completely, chasing us to the mine. Flames licked the timbers at the entrance, sparks flying like a storm of fire. Pulaski moved through the chaos with a steady authority, shouting orders to the panicked men.

“Everyone down!” he barked. “Keep the blankets over yourselves. Stay low!”

Men collapsed to the dirt, coughing and gagging on the thick smoke. Some tried to bolt for the opening, but Pulaski’s voice cut through the roar. “The first man who leaves this tunnel, I will shoot. You will die if you run!”

He worked tirelessly at the mine entrance, hanging wet blankets over the timbers and dousing flames with water from the barrels. Sparks hissed and popped around him. The men were in a state of terror. Some whispered prayers, others wept. A few had already lost consciousness from the heat and smoke. Pulaski moved among them, checking each man, replacing the blankets that caught fire, and keeping a calm voice even as the fire roared outside.

I stayed on the edge of the tunnel, watching, my heart hammering. “How long do you think we can hold it here?” I asked.

“Long enough,” he said without looking at me. “Follow my instructions. Don’t move until I say and for God’s sake don’t panic.”

We lay pressed against the dirt for what felt like hours. Pulaski never wavered. He moved among us doing everything he could to keep the flames at bay. I could see his hands were blackened from the smoke, but his eyes were steady, scanning the ridge to anticipate the fire’s next move.

When the smoke thinned slightly, he called out. “You can start moving. Slowly. Stay together.”

We followed him outside, dragging our exhausted bodies toward the creek. The water was warm and filled with ash, but it was enough to moisten our lips and wash some of the soot from our faces. I counted the men. Some were missing. We knew immediately the fire outside had overtaken them. The loss hung over us like the smoke, heavy and suffocating.

Pulaski never complained or faltered. I could only watch in awe, knowing that without him, the fire would have claimed every one of us.

We moved slowly down the mountain. The ground was littered with burning logs and smoking debris.. My lungs burned, my eyes stung, and my hands were raw from gripping rocks and roots to keep from sliding into the smoldering flames.

Pulaski stayed at the center, guiding the men, urging them onward without a word of complaint. “Keep moving,” he said, voice steady. “Lean on each other. Don’t stop.”

Some of the men were too weak to continue. Pulaski paused, dragging them when they could not walk. Others moaned, scorched and coughing. He kept track of every man, counting them repeatedly, making sure no one was left behind.

By midmorning, the smoke began to lift. The air cleared enough for us to see the river below. We dragged ourselves toward it, desperate for water. When we reached the stream, our hopes sank. The water was warm and choked with ash. It barely eased our parched throats, but it was something. We drank sparingly, coughing, and kept moving.

Five men were missing. We tried to search among the burned timbers and fallen trees, but it was hopeless. Pulaski simply shook his head and pressed on. 

Pulaski finally allowed himself to rest when we arrived at Wallace. Watching him, I understood something I had not before. Survival in those mountains was not just about fighting fire. It was about calm in the chaos, knowledge of the land, and a willingness to lead when everything else had failed. Pulaski had given all of us a chance to live. For that, I would never forget him.

If you’d like to explore Ed Pulaski’s story and the epic drama of that fire season in depth, start with The Big Burn: Teddy Roosevelt and the Fire That Saved America by Timothy Egan. His gripping narrative weaves Pulaski’s heroism into the larger tale of a wildfire that ravaged millions of acres and reshaped the U.S. Forest Service. You can purchase it here.

Article Author: Byron Owen - Ibex Journal Editor, MTNTOUGH Military SME

Byron Owen is a former Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He also had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com